Become A Football Legend Chapter 292: Final VI

Novel: Become A Football Legend Author: Writ Updated: Jun 03, 2026

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Now reading: Chapter 292: Final VI from Become A Football Legend, a Sports novel by Writ.

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Again in the 52nd minute, he picked the ball up near the touchline, squared up against Porro, and feinted twice — body shifting one way, then the other — before dragging the ball sharply inside. Porro recovered well this ti, staying with him, forcing Lukas to release it backward.

"Better from Tottenham there," Bale noted. "They can’t let him isolate defenders like that too often."

But even as Frankfurt threatened in flashes, Tottenham kept coming.

Relentless.

In the 55th minute, the pressure finally told.

Bentancur picked up the ball centrally and moved it quickly to the right, where Porro had pushed high again. Porro took a touch and slipped it inside to Richarlison, who had drifted into space just outside the box.

Richarlison didn’t hesitate.

He set himself—

and struck.

Low.

Powerful.

Through bodies.

"Richarlison—!"

The shot skipped toward the corner, but Trapp reacted quickly, dropping low and pushing it wide with a strong hand.

"Good save again from Trapp!" Fletcher called. "But Tottenham keep knocking on the door!"

The ball rolled out for a corner.

Porro jogged over to take it.

Players gathered in the box; Roro near the front, van de Ven just behind him, Solanke hovering centrally, and Johnson peeling toward the back post, unnoticed for a split second.

Porro raised his arm.

Then delivered.

A sharp, curling ball into the near-post area.

Roro attacked it.

He got there first.

A flick.

Just enough.

The ball skimd across the six-yard box, changing direction suddenly as it looped toward the far side.

"Flicked on—!"

At the back post—

Johnson had made the run.

He had slipped away from Skhiri, just half a step quicker, just enough separation.

The ball dropped.

And he was there.

A simple touch.

A tap.

Into the net.

1–1.

"GOAL!" Fletcher roared. "Tottenham are level!"

San Mamés erupted again — this ti in white.

Johnson wheeled away, arms outstretched, sprinting toward the corner as his teammates chased after him, the Tottenham bench already on its feet.

Bale’s voice cut through the noise. "And that’s what pressure does. They’ve been building and building — and finally, they get their reward."

On the pitch, Skhiri turned, frustration clear on his face, knowing he had lost his man at the crucial mont.

And just like that—

the final was level again.

1– 1

The equaliser didn’t slow the ga down—

it tore it open.

From the mont Johnson’s goal hit the net, the rhythm of the match changed completely. The caution that had lingered earlier in the second half disappeared, replaced by sothing far more dangerous — both teams now playing with the clear intent to win it inside ninety minutes.

No one wanted extra ti.

Not here.

Not in a final like this.

"Ga on now," Fletcher said, almost leaning into the mont. "You can feel it, both sides going for it."

"And that’s when gas like this beco unpredictable," Bale added. "Because the structure starts to stretch."

Tottenham pushed forward again, buoyed by the goal, their confidence visibly rising. Bentancur began taking more risks with his passing, Sarr drove forward with more intent, and the introduction of Son added another layer of threat to their attack.

The Korean forward ca on to a loud reaction, imdiately drifting into dangerous pockets, looking to exploit the spaces that were beginning to appear between Frankfurt’s lines.

And in the 66th minute, he nearly did.

Bentancur slipped a precise pass through the middle, splitting Skhiri and Koch just enough for Son to latch onto it. He broke into the box, the angle narrowing slightly as Koch tracked him across, staying tight, not diving in.

"Son’s in here—!" Fletcher called.

But Koch didn’t panic.

He stayed with him.

Matched him.

Guided him.

And when Son finally pulled the trigger, the shot lacked its usual venom — low, controlled, but ta enough.

Trapp read it easily.

Down low.

Collected.

"Good defending from Koch," Bale noted. "He doesn’t let him get the clean strike off. And you can see — Son just doesn’t quite have that extra burst anymore."

Tottenham had their chance.

But Frankfurt responded.

Because on the other end—

there was Lukas.

In the 70th minute, he received the ball wide on the left and imdiately squared up against Udogie. A quick feint, a shift of the hips, then another—before he spun him completely, dragging the ball down the byline with sharp control.

"He’s got past him—!" Fletcher shouted.

Lukas drove toward the byline, head up, before lifting a delicate ball toward the back post, perfectly weighted.

Ekitike attacked it.

Rose high.

Connected cleanly.

"Ekitike—!"

But the header went straight down the middle.

Vicario was there.

Hands up.

Saved.

Pushed away.

"That’s a big chance," Bale said. "He has to do better with that—he’s got to direct it away from the keeper."

The ga was breathing now.

Back and forth.

End to end.

No control.

No safety.

Just monts.

And in the 75th minute, Lukas nearly produced sothing unforgettable.

He picked up the ball again—this ti on the right flank—and began to drive inward, carrying it across the face of the Tottenham midfield. Porro tracked him tightly, trying to shepherd him toward the line, but Lukas had other ideas.

He shaped his body as if he was going to burst down the outside.

Porro committed.

Stepped across.

And in that instant—

Lukas cut inside.

Sharp.

Explosive.

Leaving Porro half a step behind.

"He’s inside again—watch this!" Fletcher called.

Now at the edge of the box, just outside the penalty area, Lukas opened his body and curled the shot toward the far corner.

It looked perfect.

It looked destined.

The ball arced beautifully through the air—

then—

CLANG.

Off the crossbar.

It rattled violently, bouncing high and away from goal as the stadium gasped in unison.

"OH MY WORD!" Fletcher roared. "So close to a sensational goal!"

Bale shook his head. "That’s inches. Absolute inches. Vicario wasn’t getting near that."

Lukas stood there for a second, hands dropping to his sides, almost in disbelief.

It could have been the mont.

But it wasn’t.

And that only added to the tension.

Because now—

Tottenham knew.

They knew exactly where the danger was coming from.

From that point on, every ti Lukas touched the ball, there were two—sotis three—white shirts closing him down. Bissouma stayed tighter, Sarr began drifting across more often, and even the wide players started collapsing inward to deny him space.

They weren’t taking chances anymore.

But pressure—

pressure creates mistakes.

And in the 79th minute, it ca.

Frankfurt worked the ball forward again, this ti through Knauff, who had drifted slightly inside. With one touch, he slid a pass into Lukas just ahead of the final third.

The mont the ball reached him—

Lukas turned.

One touch.

Sharp.

Clean.

He spun across Bissouma effortlessly, using the first touch to roll the ball away from him and pivot into space.

"Too easy!" Fletcher shouted. "He’s turned him again!"

Bissouma was caught.

Flat.

And Lukas was already driving forward, accelerating toward the back line, the space opening up in front of him once more.

Roro stepped back.

Van de Ven shifted across.