The final whistle hadn’t just ended the match—it had unleashed sothing.
For a few seconds after it blew, the pitch was pure chaos. Frankfurt players were everywhere—running, shouting, falling over each other, arms thrown around shoulders, bodies colliding in celebration. Staff rushed in from the sidelines, substitutes sprinted across the grass, and even the usually composed figures in suits near the technical area had lost all restraint.
Lukas was still on the ground when the first wave reached him.
Hands grabbed him, pulled him up, voices shouting into his ears, laughter mixing with disbelief. Ekitike was the first to wrap an arm around his neck, yelling sothing incoherent, Larsson right behind him, shaking him by the shoulders like he needed to confirm he was real. Knauff ca flying in next, jumping onto the pile as they all crashed together again, the weight of the mont finally hitting them all at once.
Around them, the Frankfurt end had dissolved into a sea of movent—flags waving, scarves spinning, people hugging strangers like family. Up in the stands, Joanna had both hands over her face again, shaking her head as she laughed, while Javi clapped again and again, turning to everyone around him like he needed witnesses to what he had just seen. Anne had tears in her eyes now, smiling through them, while Marco stood a little back, nodding slowly, taking it all in.
On the other side of the pitch, Tottenham players stood scattered, so hands on hips, others staring at the ground. Postecoglou remained near his touchline, still, watching the celebrations unfold with a look that carried both frustration and acceptance.
But the night belonged to Frankfurt.
* * *
It took ti to restore order.
Players were eventually guided away from the pitch for a mont, ushered toward the tunnel before being called back out again for the ceremony. The stadium had transford again now—music blaring, lights shifting, a stage being assembled at the center of the pitch with the Europa League trophy gleaming under the floodlights.
When Frankfurt re-erged, the noise doubled.
They ca out together this ti, slower, soaking it in. So clapped toward the fans, others pointed to the stands, a few still laughing among themselves like it hadn’t quite sunk in yet.
Lukas walked among them, quieter now, his eyes moving across the stadium, taking in everything—the lights, the noise, the scale of it all. The adrenaline had started to settle, replaced by sothing deeper.
Sothing heavier.
Sothing real.
"Look at this," Fletcher said over the broadcast. "These are the monts players dream about. European nights... finals... and now, champions."
The dals were ready.
One by one, the players stepped forward onto the stage, greeted by officials, hands extended, smiles offered, congratulations delivered in different languages. Each player received their dal, the ribbon placed around their neck, a symbol that would stay long after the night was over.
When it was Lukas’ turn, the noise rose again.
He stepped forward, calm, composed, though there was still a trace of that earlier fire in his eyes. He shook hands first with Krösche, who leaned in slightly, saying sothing brief but firm, his grip strong, his expression proud.
Then the UEFA president.
Another handshake.
Another nod.
Then the representative from the Spanish federation.
The man smiled warmly as Lukas approached, leaning in just slightly as he spoke in English.
"We hope to see your talent in La Liga soon," he said, almost casually. "It would be a pleasure."
Lukas paused for half a second, then gave a small smile, nodding respectfully. He dipped his head slightly in acknowledgnt, not committing, not reacting beyond that simple gesture, and moved on without a word.
The dal settled against his chest.
Cold.
Real.
He stepped aside as the rest of the team followed.
And then—
the trophy.
Trapp stepped forward as captain, the final man to receive his dal before turning toward the gleaming silver cup placed at the center of the stage. His teammates gathered around him instantly, forming a tight circle, arms already reaching out, hands ready.
He looked once at them.
Then lifted.
The trophy rose into the air—
and the stadium exploded.
Fireworks erupted from the sides, confetti cannons firing, silver and white pieces raining down as Frankfurt’s players jumped, shouted, and roared beneath the lights.
"We are witnessing history here!" Fletcher shouted. "Eintracht Frankfurt—Europa League champions!"
They passed the trophy around, each player lifting it, shouting, celebrating, the mont stretching out as long as they could make it.
At one point, the cup found its way into Lukas’ hands.
He held it for a second, just looking at it, before raising it himself, the roar from the Frankfurt fans swelling again as he turned toward them.
And then—
more.
One by one, the individual awards were brought out.
"Man of the Match."
Lukas stepped forward again.
Applause.
Cheers.
"Player of the Season."
Another step.
Another handshake.
Another round of noise.
"Top goalscorer with 13 goals."
He was also the joint top assist provide, tied with Cherki at 8 assists, but there was no official trophy for that.
Each ti, he accepted them with the sa composed expression, though the teammates behind him were starting to lose it completely.
Larsson was the first to break.
"Bro, how many are you going to take?!" he shouted, laughing as Lukas returned with another trophy in hand. "Leave sothing for us!"
Knauff shook his head dramatically. "At this point, just give him the whole tournant!"
Ekitike clapped him on the back hard. "Next ti, you let score so, yeah?"
Lukas just laughed, shaking his head as he held the collection—one, two, three trophies stacked awkwardly in his arms.
"Careful, don’t drop them!" soone shouted.
"Or sell them!" another voice added.
They were relentless.
And he couldn’t stop smiling.
* * *
The celebrations didn’t end when the dals were handed out or when the trophy was lifted.
They only softened.
The chaos on the pitch gradually shifted into sothing warr, more personal. The floodlights still blazed over San Mamés, the stands still alive with noise and movent, but now the barriers had opened. Families began to make their way down from the stands, stepping carefully onto the pitch, guided by staff, security, and the quiet understanding that this mont belonged to more than just the players.
Lukas was near the touchline when he saw them.
Joanna first.
She was already smiling before she even reached him, walking quickly across the grass, weaving through small clusters of players and staff. Behind her ca the rest—Javi, Anne, Carlos, Sofia, João, and Ruben, all moving together, all looking around in awe, taking in the stadium from a perspective they had never experienced before.
For a second, Lukas just stood there.
Then he moved.
He closed the distance in a few strides, pulling Joanna into a hug first, lifting her slightly off the ground as she laughed, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. When he set her down, Javi was already there, grabbing him into a tight embrace, thumping him on the back with a kind of pride that didn’t need words.
Anne followed, holding him a little longer, her hand brushing the back of his head before she stepped away, still smiling through eyes that had clearly seen too much in the last few hours to stay dry. Carlos shook his hand firmly, then pulled him in closer, saying sothing quietly with a nod, while Sofia cupped his face briefly, like she needed to make sure he was real.
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