Become A Football Legend-Chapter 224: Dagger (Midnight87)

Straight into the path of Knauff, arriving like the second wave of a storm.

Knauff didn’t think. He didn’t dress it up. He just met the ball and guided it into the net from point-blank range.

For a split second the stadium went quiet, as if it needed confirmation.

Then it exploded.

Cordero cracked into joy. "Frankfurt are level! Frankfurt are alive! The Waldstadion is shaking!"

And up in the stands, Lukas was on his feet instantly, both arms thrown up, not celebrating like a fan but like someone releasing a breath he’d been holding since kickoff. Joanna grabbed his sleeve as she shouted, and João leapt up too, fists pumping, the box around them turning into its own little eruption. Lukas’s eyes tracked the pitch, looking for the players, and when Knauff ran toward the corner with his arms wide, Lukas clapped hard, fast, like he was trying to push energy through the air.

It was 2–2 on the night.

And the tie, for one dizzy moment, felt like it had tilted back into Frankfurt’s hands.

United didn’t let them touch it.

The equaliser had barely finished echoing when United restarted with a cruel simplicity, the kind that kills celebrations. Kick-off. One touch back. Another touch back. And instead of building, they went direct. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

Onana took two steps and launched a long ball upfield, a booming punt that dropped into the space just beyond midfield like a challenge thrown from the sky.

Højlund went up for it, unbothered, strong, and the worst part wasn’t even that he won it. It was that Frankfurt didn’t really challenge him. Not properly. Not with the desperation the moment demanded. He flicked it on with a neat glance, just enough to turn a long punt into a pass.

And Bruno Fernandes was already running.

He had slipped past Koch’s shoulder as if he’d been invisible, and suddenly he was through the middle, one-on-one, the ball tumbling into his path like fate.

The commentators’ tone flipped from celebration to alarm in a single syllable. "This is danger. This is huge danger."

Bruno didn’t panic. He didn’t smash it. He waited until Trapp set himself and then slid it low into the bottom corner with the kind of finish that looks easy only because it’s perfect.

Goal.

A knife.

The away end detonated. Bruno turned and punched the air, face twisted in that fierce satisfaction he always wore when he hurt a crowd. United’s players swarmed him. Højlund pointed at him, laughing, like he’d just delivered a present.

And on the Frankfurt touchline, Toppmöller looked like he’d been struck.

He threw his arms out wide in disbelief, shouting toward the pitch, then toward the assistant, then back at the pitch again as if yelling could rewind time. The camera caught him mouthing words that were definitely not for television.

On replay, the commentators were relentless, like prosecutors. "Look at this. There’s no pressure on the long ball. There’s no body on Højlund. And no one tracks Bruno’s run. No one. Frankfurt are still living inside their own celebration, and at this level, that’s suicide."

It was 3–2 United on the night, 4–? on the tie, and the stadium, for the first time in the second half, sounded wounded.

In the hospitality box, Lukas didn’t sit. He stayed standing, hands on hips now, jaw tight, eyes fixed forward. Joanna’s voice came again, softer, like she didn’t want to disturb his concentration.

He didn’t answer. Not yet.

Because the match changed again after that goal. United, having stolen the momentum back with one punch, did what big teams do when they feel the game is slipping. They shut it down. They dropped into a deep, stubborn shape. They let Frankfurt have the ball in safe areas and refused to bleed anywhere dangerous.

Frankfurt threw themselves at it anyway.

Crosses came in. Cutbacks came in. Shots from distance. A Larsson strike that Onana watched carefully, stepping and catching. A Bahoya effort that took a deflection and spun wide. A Skhiri header that floated just over. Every time Frankfurt built, United swarmed the final pass, blocked the shooting lane, cleared the second ball. It became a siege, and United looked comfortable being the castle.

On the commentary feed, the frustration grew into almost admiration. "Frankfurt are racking up attempts here, but United are defending like a team that knows exactly what they need."

Somewhere in the box, João’s iPad stayed open, volume low, Mark Goldbridge’s face appearing between phases. He was in his element now, laughing at every Frankfurt miss, shouting "Sit down!" at the camera like the camera could hear him. After United’s third, he had gone fully unbearable, doing those exaggerated hand gestures and barking, "Frankfurt can have that, and that, and that," as if he was handing out scraps, then he had thrown up a string of signs that included a very clear middle finger aimed straight at his audience.

Joanna’s head snapped toward the screen. "João."

"It’s funny," João protested, already guilty.

"Turn it off," she said, not asking.

João hesitated for half a second, like a man choosing between entertainment and survival. Then he sighed and turned it off, muttering, "Fine, fine," as if he hadn’t just been saved from a glare that could end careers.

The clock crawled. Frankfurt kept pressing. United kept surviving. And when it became obvious that the tie was slipping away, Toppmöller started throwing dice.

Batshuayi came on. Götze came on. Wahi came on. More attackers, more bodies, more chaos. Frankfurt shifted shape, pushed more men high, took more risks, the kind of risks you only take when you have to.

And still the ball wouldn’t go in.

By the 89th minute, the crowd had reached that desperate volume where every touch feels like it could be the one, where every shot is met with a scream even before it leaves the boot. The stadium was willing a miracle into existence.

Then the board went up.

Five minutes.

Five minutes added time.

Five minutes to change a story.

Frankfurt threw one last wave at United, and for a heartbeat it almost worked. A Götze cross arced in, soft and accurate, dropping into the danger zone. Ekitike rose and met it with his forehead.

The header thundered off the bar.

The sound was sickening, a metallic slap that sucked the air out of the stands. The ball dropped into the chaos in front of goal, and Wahi was ready to pounce.

Casemiro didn’t let him.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t try to be clever. He simply thumped it away with everything he had, clearing it into space, a clearance that was also a signal.

Run.

And United ran.

Amad had come on for Garnacho not long before, fresh legs and fresh hunger, and he chased the clearing ball like it had stolen something from him. Theate was backtracking too, lungs burning, trying to cut off the angle before the danger could form.

The ball bounced awkwardly near the sideline. Theate came across, readied to swipe it clear, to send it anywhere, to reset. He swung.

He missed.

Just air.

And Amad got there a fraction before anyone else, heading the ball down and forward into the open grass like he’d been waiting for that mistake his whole life. Suddenly the pitch in front of him opened up, wide and green and empty, because Frankfurt had poured everyone forward.

"OH MY WORD! WHAT A BLUNDER FROM THEATE, AMAD DIALLO CAN GO ONE ON ONE NOW!"

The away end rose before he even entered the final third. They could see it. They could smell it.

A/N: Sponsored by the #1, the GOAT, the prime baller, Midnight87. I wish I was a sculptor, I’d build you a stature rn! Thank you for the Dragon, I really appreciate.