A brief pause.
"You can do the sa."
Silence returned for a mont.
Then Nagelsmann added, more simply now, "And if you ever need to talk—you can co to ."
Lukas nodded.
"Thank you."
He ant it.
But sothing else had already started forming in his mind.
"Yeah..."
The thought ca quietly.
Then clearer.
"If I want to change it... then I should just change it."
The words settled.
Locked in.
Even if nothing was certain.
Even if he didn’t know whether things would play out the sa way.
Even if the ripple effects of everything he had already done had shifted the future in ways he couldn’t see—
It didn’t matter.
Because if it hadn’t changed...
Then he would.
He had been doing that from the very beginning.
Changing things.
Shifting outcos.
Writing sothing different.
He wasn’t going to stop now.
Not here.
Not when it mattered.
He lifted his head slightly.
Focused again.
Present again.
Nagelsmann watched him for a second, noticing the shift—not dramatic, but there.
Enough.
Then he nodded once.
"Good," he said. "Because I need you fully there tomorrow."
No explanation needed.
No elaboration.
Just that.
Lukas nodded again.
"I will be."
And this ti—
there was no hesitation in it.
* * *
The lights of the Allianz Arena burned bright against the evening sky, the entire stadium wrapped in a sea of colour and noise. Every seat was filled, every section alive, flags waving, chants rolling from one stand to another in waves that never seed to settle. This wasn’t just a semi-final—it felt heavier than that. Germany at ho. Portugal on the other side. A place in the final on the line.
The players began to erge from the tunnel.
First the officials.
Then Portugal.
Then Germany.
The roar that greeted them was imdiate and deafening.
Up in the comntary box, Lothar Matthäus leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying that familiar authority as the caras swept across the pitch.
"Good evening from Munich," he began. "A full house at the Allianz Arena for what promises to be a fantastic semi-final between Germany and Portugal. Two nations with history, with quality, and tonight—only one moves on."
Beside him sat Ricardo Quaresma, his tone lighter but just as sharp.
"You can feel it," Quaresma said. "Even before kickoff. This is the kind of ga where one mont changes everything. Portugal know they will have to suffer at tis tonight—but they also know they have players who can decide it in an instant."
The cara cut to the players lining up.
Matthäus continued.
"Let’s take a look at the starting elevens, beginning with Portugal."
"Portugal line up in a 4-2-3-1," Matthäus said as the graphic appeared. "In goal, Diogo Costa. A back four of Nuno ndes, Gonçalo Inácio, Rúben Dias, and João Neves. In midfield, Vitinha and Bruno Fernandes, with Bernardo Silva just ahead. Pedro Neto on one flank, Trincão on the other—and of course, Cristiano Ronaldo leading the line."
Quaresma nodded. "Balanced team. Experience and energy. And with Ronaldo there, you always have a reference point. Even if he only gets one chance, you know what he can do."
The graphic switched.
"Now Germany," Matthäus said, his tone shifting slightly.
"Germany line up in a 3-4-2-1. Ter Stegen in goal. A back three of Tah, Koch, and Anton. In midfield, Kimmich and Pavlović centrally, with Goretzka and Mittelstädt providing the width. Ahead of them, Florian Wirtz and Leroy Sané supporting Woltemade up front."
There was a brief pause.
Quaresma glanced at the list again.
"No Lucas Brandt," he said.
Matthäus exhaled slightly. "Yes... and that is a surprise. I think many people expected him to start tonight, especially after his recent performances."
Quaresma leaned back slightly. "What do you make of it?"
Matthäus shook his head slowly. "Honestly, I thought he would start. He is probably the most in-form player in the squad right now. A hat-trick in the Europa League final, confidence high, physically fresh... everything points toward him starting."
He paused briefly.
"But maybe Nagelsmann is thinking differently. Maybe he wants to control the ga first. Maybe he sees this as a mont where experience and structure co first. But I would be very surprised if we do not see Lucas later in the ga."
The cara cut again.
To the bench.
Lukas sat there, bib over his shoulders, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees. His gaze was fixed on the pitch, calm, unreadable. Beside him, Adeyemi said sothing quietly, but Lukas only gave a small nod in response.
The mont lingered for a second.
Then the broadcast moved on.
An hour earlier, when the lineup had dropped online, the reaction had been imdiate.
Questions.
Debates.
Confusion.
Why was he not starting?
How could you leave out the most in-form player in the squad?
Others defended it.
It’s only his second call-up.
He’s not guaranteed anything.
Let the ga settle first.
Bring him on later, when the tempo drops, when the defenders are tired.
Let him co in sharp.
Dangerous.
Decisive.
Now, though—
none of that mattered.
The whistle blew.
Germany started fast.
Aggressive.
Dominant.
The ball moved quickly through the midfield, Kimmich dictating the tempo, Pavlović and Goretzka supporting him with constant movent. Mittelstädt pushed high on the left, stretching Portugal’s shape, while Sané tried to find space on the right.
Portugal dropped.
Deeper.
More compact.
Waiting.
Germany kept the ball.
Circulating it from side to side, probing for openings, pushing Portugal further and further back. The pressure built steadily, the crowd responding with every forward movent.
And in the middle of it all—
Florian Wirtz.
He was everywhere.
Finding pockets of space, receiving under pressure, turning, driving forward.
In the 20th minute, it ca together.
Wirtz received the ball just outside the box, his back slightly turned. João Neves stepped in, trying to close him down, but Wirtz took the ball on the half-turn—one smooth swivel that took him completely out of the challenge.
He accelerated forward imdiately.
Bernardo Silva lunged in from the side, but Wirtz rode the tackle, stumbling for half a second before regaining his balance and continuing his run.
He lifted his head.
Saw the movent.
Clipped the ball out wide to Mittelstädt.
Mittelstädt didn’t hesitate.
One touch.
Then down the line to Sané.
Sané whipped the cross in early.
Woltemade rose for it—but Rúben Dias got there first, eting the ball with a firm header. It didn’t clear fully, though. It dropped just outside the box.
Right to Wirtz.
He shaped to shoot.
Vitinha threw himself into the line.
Wirtz cut it.
Shifted the ball to the side.
Created the angle.
Then struck.
Clean.
Powerful.
From the edge of the box.
Diogo Costa reacted instantly, diving full stretch to his right, fingertips reaching just enough to push the ball wide.
The stadium gasped.
Then roared.
"That’s the best mont so far!" Matthäus exclaid. "Fantastic from Wirtz!"
Quaresma nodded. "That’s the quality Germany have. One player, one movent—and suddenly everything opens."
Portugal responded in monts.
Not with possession.
But with threat.
Nuno ndes was relentless down the left, driving forward whenever space opened, forcing Mittelstädt back again and again. His pace, his control — it was a constant problem.
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