Become A Football Legend-Chapter 216: Two games

Toppmöller paced his technical area, clapping rhythmically, calling for calm. There was no need to chase a second goal at the cost of control.

Augsburg offered little in response. When they did break, it was cautious and short-lived, a hopeful ball down the channel that Koch or Pacho dealt with comfortably. Kauã remained largely untroubled, organizing, shouting, pointing, his presence almost symbolic in the final stretch.

Frankfurt were content to squeeze the life out of the contest, to let the clock become their ally.

As the minutes ticked into the final five, the decision was made. The fourth official raised the board, and moments later Lukas’s number was called. He jogged toward the touchline in the 86th minute, chest rising and falling steadily, sweat clinging to his hair.

The away end rose as one. More than four thousand Frankfurt supporters stood, applauding, whistling, singing his name. It was not the roar of a goal, but something warmer, more sustained. Recognition.

Lukas raised a hand briefly, almost shyly, and stepped off the pitch. Götze came on in his place, offering experience and composure for the closing seconds. As Lukas took his seat on the bench, Larsson leaned over and squeezed his shoulder. No words were needed.

The final whistle arrived without drama. Augsburg accepted the defeat with handshakes and nods, satisfied that they had not been broken. Frankfurt gathered near the center circle, exchanging embraces, exhaustion written across their faces.

The scoreboard read 0–1. Ekitike was announced as Player of the Match, and he accepted the applause with a grin, pointing toward Lukas on the bench as he walked past.

Everyone knew the truth.

This had been the kind of game that ends goalless nine times out of ten. The kind of match Bayern are handed titles with. But one moment of invention, one refusal to accept the wall in front of him, had changed the night. Frankfurt boarded the bus with three points, Bayern left to win their title on their own, Champions League qualification guaranteed, and now, all of their efforts turned to the Europa League semi final.

* * *

6 days later.

"Fweeee!"

The referee’s whistle cut clean through the night air at the Waldstadion, sharp and final, and the roar that followed felt almost cathartic. Frankfurt players threw their arms up, some collapsing to the turf, others jogging toward the Südtribüne with fists raised. On the scoreboard behind them, the numbers glowed unmistakably.

Eintracht Frankfurt 4. RB Leipzig 0.

The Bundesliga commentary team barely waited for the noise to die down.

"And that," the lead commentator said, voice still buzzing with adrenaline, "is a statement. Frankfurt dismantle Leipzig here in the Waldstadion, four goals, no reply, and they look more than ready for what’s coming next on Thursday night."

His co-commentator leaned in immediately.

"Absolutely. This was dominant from start to finish. Leipzig never recovered from the first half, and what’s fascinating is the context. Everyone’s talking about United coming to town, everyone’s talking about Lukas Brandt missing that first leg... and Frankfurt respond like this."

The camera panned across the pitch as Knauff was embraced by teammates, sweat-soaked and grinning, before cutting to Lukas further back, hands on hips, breathing deeply, a small smile on his face as he watched it all unfold.

"And here’s the angle people will latch onto," the analyst continued. "This is the first time Lukas Brandt has started two matches in a row without a goal or an assist. Against Augsburg, nothing on the scoresheet. Tonight, same story."

There was a pause, deliberate.

"But don’t let that fool you."

The replay rolled as he spoke. Lukas receiving between the lines, dragging defenders with him. Lukas slipping passes through impossible angles. Lukas gliding past one, then two red shirts, forcing Leipzig to retreat.

"Look at the underlying numbers," the commentator went on. "Most dribbles completed in the match. Most chances created. Second-most shots, just behind Knauff. The finishing just didn’t quite fall for him tonight, and sometimes that happens, even to players in outrageous form."

The analyst nodded.

"He put Ekitike clean through in the fifteenth minute. That’s a one-on-one any striker expects to score. Missed. Later on, that same movement and awareness leads to Frankfurt’s third. That’s influence, even if it doesn’t show up as a goal or assist."

The broadcast cut back to the highlights. Knauff’s opener, a sharp near-post finish. His second, arriving late into the box and smashing it home. Leipzig scrambling, chasing shadows. Then Ekitike’s goal, finally rewarded for his runs, before the final nail: Koch rising highest after Bahoya’s delivery, the ball thudding into the net after Sesko could only half-clear Lukas’s corner.

"Knauff rightly takes man of the match," the commentator concluded, "two goals, relentless running, decisive when it mattered. But the bigger picture tonight is this: Frankfurt have just shown they can score freely, dominate top opposition, and control a game even when their talisman’s finishing isn’t clicking."

The analyst smiled.

"And that should worry Manchester United. Because if this Frankfurt side can put four past Leipzig without Brandt scoring or assisting... imagine what happens when he’s firing again."

As the players applauded the crowd and the Waldstadion sang deep into the night, one thing felt unmistakably clear. Frankfurt were not just surviving without Lukas’ goals for a moment.

They were evolving.

And Thursday was coming fast.

* * *

The Jacksons’ living room in Manchester was still humming with noise from the television when the final whistle went. Lexi jumped up from the sofa in her shorts and oversized United jersey, arms raised as the replay of Rasmus Højlund’s late equaliser looped across the screen. It was more relief than joy, the kind of celebration that came from a season where scraps had started to feel like meals.

"Yes!" she said, laughing as she dropped back onto the cushions. "Honestly, it’s been such a horrible season. If we don’t win the Europa League, what was all of this even for?"

Roger Jackson leaned back in his chair, hands folded on his stomach, eyes still on the television as the pundits dissected the goal. "Salvage operation," he said calmly. "Europa League’s the only thing that makes this season respectable."

Lexi nodded, then reached for her phone on the coffee table. Almost instinctively, she opened FotMob and scrolled to the Bundesliga results. Her thumb paused, then she smirked slightly. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

"Huh," she said. "Frankfurt won again. Four–nil against Leipzig."

Jane, sitting beside Roger, glanced up briefly before looking back down at her own phone.

Lexi kept reading, eyebrows lifting. "Lukas Brandt. No goal, no assist again. That’s two games now." She tilted the phone so her father could see. "Still an 8.0 rating though. That’s ridiculous."

She shook her head, half impressed, half relieved. "Thank God he’ll miss the first leg."

Roger waved it off dismissively. "Doesn’t matter whether he plays or not. United are still the better team. Over two legs, we should beat them. What do you think, dear?" he asked as he turned to face Jane sitting beside him.

Jane didn’t respond.

She was sitting very still, her phone held in both hands. Her screen glowed with Instagram, a text box open and empty, then filled, then erased again. Her fingers hovered, typed a few words, deleted them. Typed again. Deleted again.

"Mom?"

Jane flinched slightly, then looked up. "Sorry. What?"

Lexi frowned. "You okay?"