Teammates sward him at the corner flag, grabbing him around the shoulders, around the neck, shouting into his ears, pushing him, pulling him, celebrating with the kind of joy that only cos in finals when a player produces sothing unforgettable. He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling, eyes burning with adrenaline as he shouted again into the noise, every bit of the emotion from the night bursting out of him.
And around him, San Mamés was no longer just loud.
It was shaking.
* * *
The goal didn’t end the ga—it ignited it.
Tottenham restarted with urgency bordering on desperation, the structure that had defined their play earlier now dissolving into sothing far more chaotic. Bentancur imdiately took control of the tempo, demanding the ball deeper and driving it forward at every opportunity, while Son drifted constantly across the front line, looking for any space that Frankfurt’s backline might leave open. The substitutions had changed everything — more attackers, fewer restraints — and now Spurs were playing with a kind of reckless intent that made every possession feel dangerous.
"Tottenham have thrown everything at this now," Fletcher said, his voice rising with the tempo of the match. "They know ti is running out, and they’re going for it."
Frankfurt, for their part, didn’t retreat completely. They held their shape, but you could feel the tension in every clearance, every challenge, every second ball. The ga had stretched into sothing wild—end-to-end, unpredictable, balanced on a knife’s edge.
The chances began to co.
In the 88th minute, Son found a yard of space on the left and whipped in a vicious cross toward the center of the box, the kind of delivery that demanded to be finished. Solanke attacked it perfectly, rising above his marker and eting it with a powerful header from close range. It looked destined for the net, Trapp already beaten — but the ball drifted just enough to the side, clipping the outside of the post as it went wide.
A collective gasp rippled through the stadium.
"That is inches away," Bale said, almost in disbelief. "That’s the equaliser right there if it’s on target."
Solanke stayed down for a mont, hands on the ground, before pushing himself back up, frustration etched across his face. But there was no ti to dwell, because Tottenham ca again almost imdiately.
From the next phase, Bentancur picked up a loose clearance just outside the box and struck it first ti, catching it cleanly as it flew through a crowd of bodies. The shot rose and dipped violently, smashing against the crossbar with a deafening crack before bouncing back into play.
"OFF THE BAR!" Fletcher roared. "Tottenham are throwing everything at it now!"
The rebound fell loose, but Frankfurt reacted first. Skhiri didn’t try to control it, didn’t try to build—he just launched it long, high into the air, sending it upfield toward Lukas near the halfway line.
Roro was already there.
Both players tracked the dropping ball, positioning themselves for the aerial challenge. Roro jumped first, trying to dominate the space, but Lukas held his ground, leaning just enough into him to disrupt his balance. The defender mistid it, the ball dropping behind him—and Lukas brought it under control with a stunning first touch, cushioning it forward into open space.
For a split second, it looked like he was through.
But the whistle cut through everything.
Foul.
Lukas threw his arms out instantly, frustration clear. "I didn’t touch him! We both went for it!" But the decision stood, and Tottenham were given the free kick. The mont was gone.
"That’s very, very soft," Bale muttered. "He’s done nothing wrong there."
The clock ticked on.
Frankfurt had their own chance soon after, breaking quickly through the middle. Larsson released Ekitike into space, and the striker drove into the box with purpose, shaping to finish across goal. But Vicario stood tall, reading it well, getting down quickly to make the save and keep Tottenham alive.
And then—
90 minutes.
Five added.
Everything left to play for.
Tottenham pushed one final ti, every player now committed forward. The structure was gone completely—this was pure desperation football, driven by urgency and belief. The ball was worked to Son at the edge of the box, and he struck it through traffic, but Uzun—who had co on late—threw himself into the path of the shot, blocking it bravely as it deflected out for a corner.
The last chance.
Postecoglou didn’t hesitate. He turned imdiately and gestured forward.
Vicario sprinted up.
"All or nothing now," Fletcher said, almost breathless. "Even the goalkeeper is in the box!"
Son placed the ball and delivered it high into the area. Bodies collided, arms raised, players jumping in every direction as the cross dropped into the chaos. Vicario managed to get sothing on it—a faint touch that redirected the ball toward goal.
For a mont, it looked like it might drop in.
Trapp was beaten.
But Koch was there.
Right on the line.
He rose and powered the header away with everything he had, sending the ball flying out of the danger zone.
"OFF THE LINE AGAIN! UNBELIEVABLE!" Fletcher shouted.
And then—
it fell to Lukas.
Just outside the area.
One touch.
Perfect control.
He turned instantly, and suddenly the entire pitch opened in front of him.
Van de Ven was the only one close.
And Lukas took off.
Full sprint.
Driving forward into the empty half, pushing the ball ahead of him as the crowd roared louder with every step. Van de Ven chased with everything he had, the sa defender who had beaten him in a footrace earlier now throwing himself forward again, trying to close the gap.
But this ti—
Lukas didn’t slow.
He pushed the ball once more and kept going, crossing the halfway line with the goal completely exposed in front of him. Van de Ven lunged from behind in a last-ditch attempt, sliding in as Lukas struck the ball early with all the power he had.
The shot lifted.
Travelled.
And as contact took Lukas down to the turf, his eyes stayed locked on it.
The ball bounced once near the edge of the box, rolling toward the empty goal. Solanke sprinted back desperately, trying to reach it in ti, but he arrived a fraction too late. He cleared it—
but the referee had already seen it.
The ball had crossed the line.
Goal.
"IT’S IN! HE’S DONE IT AGAIN! LUJAS BRANDT HAS WON EINTRACHT FRANKFURT THE EUROPA LEAGUE TITLE! THAT’S IT! THAT’S THE FINAL!" Fletcher scread.
Lukas pushed himself up, adrenaline masking the pain for a mont as he tried to run, but his stride faltered, turning into a limp before he collapsed onto his back near the touchline, staring up into the lights as everything crashed over him at once.
Around him, the stadium erupted.
Teammates sprinted toward him, the bench emptying again, the Frankfurt fans in absolute chaos as the reality set in.
"A hat-trick to win the Europa League!" Bale said, his voice filled with disbelief. "What a performance. What a night."
The referee checked his watch one last ti.
Then blew.
Full ti.
Eintracht Frankfurt were Champions of Europe.
Lukas had a bright grin flashing on his face as the cara zood in on him barely catching him from the piles of bodies around him.
A/N: Shout-out Midnight87 for sponsoring this Chapter with a Dragon gift. You can head to Midnight87 for more details on how to get a DRAGON (That’s a joke tho, idk if that website exists)
Love y’all.
-Writ
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