Become A Football Legend-Chapter 207: First Half (2)

Lukas heard it, split second, and squared it across.

Perfect weight. Perfect roll.

Ekitike met it first time just inside the penalty box.

No settling touch. No hesitation.

BANG.

Keeper beaten. Stadium rising—

THUD.

Crossbar. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

It came down violently and bounced outward.

Andres Cordero:

"WHAT a counterattack — WHAT a miss!"

Ekitike immediately crouched, hands gripping his head.

Toppmöller threw his arms down on the edge of the technical area, pacing away in disbelief.

Lukas simply turned and sprinted back toward the ball, emotionless — eyes hard.

João whistled under his breath.

"You can’t miss those," he muttered.

That moment — the Ekitike miss — shifted the psychology of the half. Bilbao were shaken; Frankfurt smelled vulnerability. For a while, possession became stretched end-to-end, with neither side truly trusting a turnover. Valverde gestured repeatedly for calm, palms down, encouraging slower buildup. Koch barked instructions, urging his side not to lose shape just because chances were appearing.

Then came long spells of controlled pressure from Frankfurt — thirty seconds of passing, a sudden penetration, then a reset. The stadium energy fluctuated, falling quiet when Bilbao held the ball, erupting whenever Frankfurt crossed halfway. It felt like the match was holding its breath.

Joanna squeezed João’s wrist at one point, whispering something only he heard, while João just shook his head laughing at how crazy the night already was.

The game was still goalless when the fourth official signaled three minutes of added time.

Eintracht were controlling momentum, building wave after wave of technically sharpened pressure. Lukas had just cut inside from a half-space and curled another left-footed attempt that skimmed over the crossbar.

The stadium responded with a low, collective hum — the sound of 50,000 people believing something was coming. He jogged back into shape, chest rising and falling, while Bilbao retreated into their banks of four. It felt like Frankfurt were tightening the screws with every minute.

But Agirrezabala didn’t wait even a heartbeat. He placed the ball for the goalkick and launched it deep toward the right flank, not a hopeful clearance but a targeted pass. Kristensen backed into Nico Williams, intent on winning the duel — he had measured the ball’s arc, lifted himself slightly to contest it, body positioned correctly.

And then came the subtle difference.

Nico didn’t shove. He didn’t push. He simply leaned at the perfect moment — just enough to break balance, just enough to disrupt timing without provoking a whistle. Kristensen mistimed his leap by half a second, and that was fatal. The ball bounced behind him, perfectly into Nico’s stride, and suddenly the entire shape of the pitch inverted.

Andres Cordero’s voice cut like a cinematic sweep across the broadcast:

"Uh-oh... uh-oh... Nico Williams is through and Frankfurt are WIDE open!"

A hush fell — not out of resignation, but instinctive fear.

Nico devoured the grass in front of him with frightening acceleration. Kristensen twisted into recovery, but the angle was gone; the Spaniard had daylight and conviction and the rhythm of a sprinter with no obstacle in sight. Nico reached the byline and lifted his head — everything slowed, everything paused.

Kaua stepped forward, trying to claim the moment. Too early. Too committed.

The cross sailed over his fingertips in a perfect parabola toward the far post, and there was still silence, the kind that precedes disaster.

Then the hammer arrived.

Iñaki Williams soared in, unmarked, unchallenged — an explosion of power — his forehead connecting with the ball like steel meeting iron. The net rippled violently. The away section detonated behind that goal in Basque flags and red-white euphoria.

A dagger.

A roar.

A wound that sliced cleanly through Frankfurt’s momentum.

Chris Wittyngham delivered the line with theatrical devastation:

"He’s broken Eintracht hearts RIGHT at the stroke of halftime! And Athletic Club now stand on the threshold of the semi-finals—one foot THROUGH the door!"

The camera panned across stunned faces.

People stood motionless.

Hands covered mouths.

Seats dropped backward as supporters folded into disbelief.

And the commentary deepened:

"Frankfurt have dominated the football... but the only number that matters just tilted away from them. They now stare at a mountain — icy, vertical, unforgiving — and at its summit sits Bilbao, smiling."

The referee pointed toward midfield.

Players trudged back.

The whistle came not long after... halftime.

Lukas stared at the scoreboard as it glared ruthlessly:

Frankfurt 0–1 Bilbao

(aggregate 2–4)

There was 45 minutes to go. 45 minutes to create something. 45 minutes to push his team to the penultimate stage.

And as he walked down the tunnel, he knew he had to produce something magical or he would have to eat his words of getting to Bilbao for the final.

The dressing room door slammed shut behind them and the sound reverberated through the walls like a drumline. No one spoke. No one looked up. The air inside that room wasn’t tense — it was suffocating. Damp socks, heavy breaths, boots unstrapped halfway, and faces staring downward at tiled floor patterns.

Then Toppmöller stormed in.

His voice didn’t start—

it erupted.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?"

He pointed straight at Lukas, not easing into the fire, not picking smaller targets first.

"You had space. SPACE. You were on your stronger foot, goal side of their defender, and you RELEASED IT. Why!? Why!?"

Lukas sat frozen. He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t blink. If anything — his chest rose and fell quicker, and he held his lips together tighter.

"And Hugo," Toppmöller turned sharply to Ekitike,

"how do you get a pass SERVED TO YOU like that and balloon it onto the crossbar? Why are we finishing like amateurs? Why!?"

Ekitike lowered his eyes.

"You two could have killed that attack, killed their spirit, killed their rhythm — but instead we helped them breathe."

He walked, fast-paced, back and forth.

"And look at the rest of you! Nico Williams wins a header duel because ONE of you cannot judge a flight of a ball, and the rest of you move like statues! How many times did he beat Rasmus? Four? Five?"

Kristensen blinked hard.

"And you — Tuta — why attempt a risky line pass on minute 44? Why not clear? Why not reset?"

His voice ricocheted around them like shrapnel. No one could escape it.

For five minutes, for five full minutes, he unloaded.

A pure, unfiltered wave of disappointment and fury.

His words weren’t hateful—

just painfully accurate.

Players shifted uncomfortably, shoulders hunched, a room of grown athletes feeling about six inches tall.

Then...

A long breath.

A hand on the whiteboard.

Silence.

Toppmöller’s tone shifted — not soft, but sharpened, focused.

"You listen now."

Pause.

"You listen clearly."

He pointed to Lukas again, but now with intent — not anger.

"When you get the ball next half, turn. Run. Shoot. Lose the ball? I do not care."

His finger tapped the tactic board.

"These people — fifty thousand of them — are behind you. Every mistake you make, they will roar through it."

He looked at the full squad.

"You press. Hard, coordinated, intelligent. They cannot leave the semicircle of their half for ten minutes.

You suffocate them."

Then he jabbed at Kristensen and Koch.

"And defenders... put a tackle in. Win a duel. If it’s outside the box, I don’t care if it’s risky, win authority back."

He turned and circled the score on the board.

"We need two goals. Not eventually—before the hour mark.

Score early, and this stadium will take you the rest of the way."

No shouting now. No chaos.

Just clarity.

Just belief.

Assistants moved among players, whispering tactical cues, adjusting shoulder angles, reminding them of set-piece positioning.

Someone tied a lace tighter.

Someone slapped another’s leg like — wake up now.

Lukas sat still and straightened his shoulders.

This was the first time someone had truly unleashed on him, man-to-man, stripping away his aura, his status, his heroics.

Oddly—

It awakened something primal.

Something competitive.

Something sharp.

His heartbeat quickened, but not from fear.

From anticipation.

He rose with the others when the door opened and stepped into the tunnel, not as the kid who salvaged the first leg...

...but as the one expected to reverse the entire tie.

Bilbao’s players were already lining up opposite them.

And for the first time since kickoff, Lukas looked like he was about to tear through someone.