Become A Football Legend-Chapter 219: Thursday Night

He paused, letting it land.

"They say we’re lucky to be here. They say a 15th-place United and a 17th-place Tottenham are running through this competition because English football is just better. Stronger. Faster. Smarter." His voice sharpened. "They’re using this tournament to laugh at German clubs."

A murmur rippled through the room. Not anger yet. Something tighter.

Toppmöller took a step forward.

"So tomorrow, you have a choice. You can go out there and play careful. You can play not to lose. And then you’ll open the papers on Friday and read exactly what they want to write about you."

He shook his head.

"Or you can knock them down a peg. In our stadium. In front of our fans."

He pointed toward the seating rows, not singling anyone out, but somehow everyone felt it.

"They think because one kid isn’t playing, you’ll shrink. That you’ll hide." His voice rose slightly now. "Don’t embarrass yourselves like that. Don’t give them ammunition."

He turned his head briefly toward Lukas, then back to the group.

"This club didn’t get here by waiting for one player to save us. We got here because every one of you stood up when it mattered. Tomorrow is about showing that again."

A beat.

"They press high. They leave spaces. They panic when they don’t control the noise." He smiled thinly. "And tomorrow, the noise is ours."

No grand gestures. No screaming.

Just certainty.

He straightened, clapped his hands once, sharp and loud.

"Go home. Sleep. Tomorrow, we remind them where they are."

Chairs scraped back. Players stood, quiet but wired, eyes sharper than when they had walked in.

Lukas remained seated for a second longer, jaw set, before standing with the rest.

Thursday was coming.

* * *

The hospitality area of the Waldstadion was already alive, even though kick-off was still half an hour away. The air hummed with voices, clinking glasses, the low thud of bass from somewhere beneath the stands. Lukas had just come back from the dressing room below, where he had spent a few quiet minutes with the team, offering encouragement, exchanging handshakes, a few words here and there. It felt strange, being so close to the pitch and yet knowing he would not step onto it tonight.

As he entered the hospitality corridor, he spotted familiar faces immediately. João was leaning against the railing, animated as ever, while Javi and Anne stood beside him, taking in the scene. Joanna was there too, her eyes lighting up the moment she saw Lukas. He dapped João up first, a quick clasp and pull, then turned and wrapped Joanna in a warm hug. There were eyes on them, plenty of them, but neither of them flinched. Their relationship was no longer a secret, no longer something whispered about. It was out in the open now, and Lukas wore that reality with quiet confidence.

They were all dressed the same. Eintracht Frankfurt red and black, Brandt 49 printed boldly on the back of every shirt. It felt surreal seeing his own name repeated across his family and friends like that. They grabbed a few snacks, drinks, nothing extravagant, and made their way toward the box reserved for them. As they stepped out into the open seating area, the camera found them instantly.

Lukas knew it before he even heard it. The roar told him. His face appeared on the giant screen above the opposite stand, and the noise rolled across the stadium in waves. Cheers, whistles, chants. Supporters nearby turned, waving, holding phones aloft, recording, shouting his name. Lukas raised a hand, a small smile forming, half grateful, half apologetic that he could not be down there with them tonight.

The commentators’ voices cut through the atmosphere.

"And there he is," one of them said. "The star player who will be watching from the stands tonight. Suspended for this first leg."

His co-commentator followed immediately. "Probably the most in-form player in Europe at the moment. The man of the moment. Frankfurt will miss him dearly this evening, no question about that."

They continued, almost clinically. "For Eintracht, the key will be survival tonight. Even a narrow loss, even a draw, would be something they can work with. Because next week, when Lukas Brandt is back, this tie looks very different."

João laughed under his breath and reached into the small backpack slung over his shoulder. He pulled out his iPad, flicked it on, and opened YouTube almost instinctively. The first thing on his homepage was already live. The thumbnail was impossible to miss. Bright orange background. Ekitike on one side. Bruno Fernandes on the other. And between them, a familiar blonde-haired, middle-aged man pulling an exaggerated expression.

João tapped the screen. Three unskippable twenty-second ads rolled in succession. Lukas watched over his shoulder, amused despite himself, as the seconds dragged on. Finally, the video cut to a red-lit room, the man leaning forward toward the camera.

"Hello everybody, good evening. Welcome to the United Stand. I’m Mark Goldbridge and this is your Eintracht Frankfurt vs Manchester United watch-along.

When last we met in the Europa League, against Lyon, we witnessed pure ecstasy. Can we do it again? Maybe tonight, maybe next week — but it starts again.

It’s the semi-finals of the Europa League. It’s Frankfurt, Eintracht Frankfurt, against Manchester United.

And we’ve got to be on this. It’s our last redemption. It’s all we’ve got left. There’s no European football next season if we don’t win this tournament.

There’s a lot at stake. United cannot afford to make a mistake. We have got to be on this. I’m excited. I hope you’re excited as well.

I’ve witnessed probably more European nights than most, and I’ve loved most of them. Let’s hope, this is one of those nights we all end up loving."

Lukas shook his head slightly and smiled. "I didn’t know you were a United fan," he said to João.

João snorted. "I’m not," he replied. "I just watch this guy sometimes. He’s hilarious. You don’t get this on Sky."

Lukas chuckled, then turned his attention back to the pitch.

Down below, the players were warming up now, red shirts and white shirts weaving around each other in tight passing drills. On the United side, Mason Mount slowed to a jog and tilted his head toward the stands, eyes narrowing slightly as another wave of noise rolled down from above.

Mount shook his head and muttered, "Bloody hell... listen to that."

Garnacho followed his gaze, watching the far end of the stadium ripple and bounce as scarves went up again. "They’re not even kicking off yet," he said. "Why’s it so loud?"

Mount glanced toward the giant screen just as it cut to Lukas sitting in the hospitality section. The roar doubled instantly, raw and aggressive, like someone had thrown petrol on a fire.

"Ah," Mount said quietly. "That kid."

Garnacho let out a short laugh, half impressed, half uneasy. "He’s not even playing and they’re doing that?"

Mount exhaled through his nose. "Imagine if he was."

Another chant broke out, drums pounding underneath it, the sound pressing down onto the pitch. Garnacho bounced on his toes, rolling his shoulders.

"Old Trafford’s bigger," he said, almost defensively. "But this..."

Up in the hospitality area, Lukas folded his arms loosely and kept his eyes on the grass. He could feel the noise in his chest, felt it every time the camera found him and the stadium answered back.

He wasn’t on the pitch tonight.

But he was everywhere.