A wall of sound crashing down, shaking the stadium to its core as Lukas turned and tore off his shirt, sprinting toward the stands, screaming, everything spilling out in that mont.
His teammates chased after him, arms raised, voices lost in the roar.
He leapt over the advertising boards.
Into the crowd.
Fans surged forward, grabbing him, pulling him in as stewards rushed to separate them, but for those few seconds it didn’t matter—he was swallowed by red, black, and white.
Behind him, the German players celebrated wildly, piling together, shouting, jumping, unable to contain it.
Lukas climbed back up, standing on the advertising board, arms raised high, chest heaving, soaking it in as the stadium chanted his na.
The whistle blew.
Full ti.
Germany had won.
On the other side, Spanish players stood frozen.
Hands on heads.
Staring.
Yamal dropped to the turf, sitting where he was, watching as the celebrations unfolded in front of him.
"A mont we will rember for years," Matthäus said, voice almost lost in the noise.
From 2–2.
To this.
Lukas had done it.
Again.
The noise didn’t fade.
It didn’t dip.
It didn’t settle.
It just kept rising.
Lukas stood there for a mont after the final whistle, chest heaving, ears ringing, the entire stadium shaking around him. His teammates had already sward him once, twice, dragged him into a pile, pulled him back up again — but now, just for a second, he stood still.
And felt it.
Not the noise.
Not the caras.
Not even the trophy yet.
The feeling.
It hit differently.
He had won before.
Just weeks ago, he had lifted the Europa League with Eintracht Frankfurt. He rembered the lights, the celebrations, the chaos, the pride. He rembered how big that mont had felt.
But this...
This was sothing else.
This wasn’t just a club.
This was his country.
He looked around.
At the stands — thousands of flags waving, red, black, and gold blending into one living thing. At the fans screaming his na, not because of a badge on his chest, but because of where he ca from. At his teammates—so veterans, so new faces—who had all bought into sothing bigger than themselves.
And he felt it.
That quiet realization settling in his chest.
This ans more.
Kimmich grabbed him again, pulling him into another embrace, shouting sothing into his ear that Lukas couldn’t even fully hear over the noise. Goretzka ca in from the side, laughing, yelling. Adeyemi jumped onto his back again, nearly knocking him forward.
"Bro! Bro! What was that?!" Adeyemi shouted.
Lukas just laughed.
He didn’t even have words.
Across the pitch, Spain were still processing it.
So standing still.
So crouched down.
And there, near the edge of the box, Lamine Yamal sat on the grass, elbows on his knees, staring out at the celebrations.
A different kind of mont.
A different kind of silence.
But the night belonged to Germany.
The ceremony began.
Slowly at first.
Organized chaos turning into structure.
Officials setting up the stage, dals being arranged, the trophy placed on its pedestal under the bright floodlights. The players gathered, so still bouncing, still shouting, still riding the adrenaline.
Lukas stood among them, quieter now, but smiling — still smiling.
They were called forward one by one.
dals.
Handshakes.
Monts.
When Lukas stepped up, there was a noticeable swell in the crowd. The applause grew louder, sharper, almost personal. He walked forward, still slightly dazed, and received his dal, the weight of it settling around his neck.
But it didn’t stop there.
A UEFA official stepped forward again.
Another announcent.
"Player of the Tournant..."
There was a pause.
Then—
"Lukas Brandt."
The stadium erupted again.
He blinked.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then Kimmich shoved him lightly from behind.
"Go!" he laughed.
Lukas stepped forward again, this ti alone.
Player of the Tournant.
After only debuting in the quarterfinals.
"Unbelievable story," ca the voice from the comntary booth. "He changed everything the mont he stepped into this team."
He accepted the award, holding it for a second, looking down at it as if confirming it was real. Then he lifted it slightly toward the crowd, a small gesture, almost instinctive.
The roar answered him.
Then ca the mont.
The one every player waits for.
The captain.
Kimmich.
He stepped forward.
Hands on the trophy.
Teammates gathering around him.
Arms draped over shoulders.
Lukas pulled into the front line, whether he liked it or not.
"Ready?" Kimmich shouted.
The answer ca as a roar.
And then—
they lifted it.
The UEFA Nations League trophy rose into the air.
Lights flashing.
Confetti bursting.
The stadium exploding all over again as Germany were crowned champions.
Lukas scread.
Not words.
Just emotion.
Pure, unfiltered.
They passed the trophy around.
Each player taking their mont.
When it reached Lukas, he held it differently. Not just up. Not just for the caras.
He held it close for a second.
Then lifted it high.
And the noise—
ca again.
Later, the dressing room was chaos.
Controlled chaos.
Music blasting.
Water bottles flying.
Soone had already brought in drinks.
The door burst open.
And in walked Jamal Musiala.
"Champions!" he shouted imdiately, arms wide.
"Finally you made it!" soone yelled back.
He made his way straight to Lukas, laughing as he grabbed him.
"You actually did it," Musiala said, shaking his head. "You actually did it."
Lukas smirked. "You said do your celebration, right?"
Musiala laughed. "Yeah... I didn’t an win the whole thing with it."
The room erupted again.
Music turned louder.
Soone started chanting.
Others joined.
Shirts ca off.
Boots were thrown sowhere in the corner.
Kimmich stood on a bench, shouting sothing that nobody fully understood but everyone cheered anyway.
Lukas sat down for a mont in the middle of it.
Just for a second.
Trophy beside him.
dal around his neck.
Award resting against his leg.
And he looked around.
At the madness.
At the joy.
At the people.
And he smiled.
Because this one—
this one felt different.
Not bigger.
Not louder.
Just...
deeper.
* * *
A few hours later.
The corridors beneath the Allianz Arena were still alive.
Not loud like the pitch had been, not thunder and chaos—but alive in a different way. Echoes of celebration carried through the concrete halls. Staff moving quickly, security trying to keep order, players drifting in and out of restricted areas with dals still hanging around their necks. Every few seconds, another cheer would rise from sowhere above, bleeding through the structure like a reminder that the night wasn’t over.
Lukas walked through it all slowly.
Boots in hand now, socks half-rolled down, hair still damp from sweat, the dal resting against his chest with every step. He hadn’t bothered to change yet. It still didn’t feel like sothing you stepped out of so quickly.
Then he saw them.
Standing just beyond one of the inner access barriers, waiting.
Javi.
Joanna.
João.
Ruben.
He didn’t slow down.
"Dad—"
Javi stepped forward at the sa ti, and they t halfway, pulling each other into a tight embrace. It wasn’t the kind you break quickly. It held. It stayed.
And when Lukas pulled back just slightly, he saw it.
The eyes.
Red.
Glossy.
Lukas tilted his head, a small grin creeping onto his face. "You’ve been crying?"
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