Become A Football Legend-Chapter 225: Dagger 2

Toppmöller’s hands went to his head immediately, the universal signal of a coach watching the worst possible outcome unfold in slow motion. Amorim, on the other side, threw both hands into the air, urging Amad on like he could push him faster.

Trapp came out, charging, trying to make himself big, trying to turn a one-on-one into an act of intimidation.

Amad didn’t blink.

He took it around him.

"AMADDDDD—"

One touch, calm, cruel, and suddenly Trapp was behind the play, spinning, helpless, and Amad was rolling the ball into an empty net.

4–2.

The stadium didn’t roar this time. It didn’t even boo properly. It simply fell into shock, the kind of stunned quiet that makes you hear your own breathing. The away end was the only sound, shrieking, limbs flying, bodies bouncing.

On the pitch, Frankfurt players stood with hands on hips and hands on heads, some shaking their heads like they couldn’t accept what had just happened. Trapp shouted in anger, arms flung wide, not even sure who he was shouting at. Theate lifted his hands in apology, frozen in regret, his mistake now stamped into the last page of the night.

Up in the stands, Joanna couldn’t watch the celebration. She turned away instinctively, one hand over her mouth. João sat back with a slow exhale, head shaking, like he’d just witnessed a car crash he couldn’t prevent. Anne’s eyes were wide, hurt on her face, and Javi stared straight ahead, expression locked, as if moving would make it real.

Lukas didn’t move.

He lowered himself back into his seat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands on his jaw, eyes never leaving the pitch. His gaze didn’t change when United celebrated. It didn’t flare, it didn’t break, it didn’t plead. It just watched, recording, storing.

Joanna slid her hands around his arm, holding him as if she could anchor him to something steady. Lukas finally looked at her, just once, and his voice was quiet, controlled.

"It’s alright," he said. "This game is over, but the tie isn’t."

A moment later, the referee blew the final whistle, and it sounded like a closing door.

The commentators didn’t gloat. They didn’t even sound certain. They sounded like people describing a storm that had passed but left another one visible on the horizon.

"Manchester United have come to Frankfurt and they’ve won it," one of them said, voice almost reverent at the scale of it. "They have taken a two-goal advantage back to Old Trafford, and Frankfurt will have to climb a mountain."

His partner paused, letting the crowd noise, now muted and bruised, filter through the microphones. "But if there is one thing this Europa League has taught us," he added, "it’s that Eintracht Frankfurt do not die quietly. And they will have their talisman back next week. They will have Lukas Brandt back."

A softer, almost poetic conclusion followed, like a prayer more than analysis. "It’s uphill now. It’s heavy now. It’s the kind of deficit that breaks most teams. But with him, with that boy, with that impossible belief he drags into matches like a weapon... who knows what can happen."

And the camera lingered on Lukas, still, composed, eyes fixed on the pitch as if he was already playing the second leg in his head.

* * *

The final whistle shrieked through the television speakers and Roger Jackson was already on his feet, fist pumping the air as if he were in the Stretford End instead of his own living room.

"Get in!" he shouted, turning toward Lexi with a grin that had been waiting all night. "That’s how you do it."

Lexi jumped up too, clapping once before exhaling hard, the tension finally leaving her shoulders.

"I can’t lie," she admitted, "I was nervous going into this. Frankfurt at home, Europa League semis... it felt like one of those nights where things go wrong."

Roger waved it off, already reaching for the remote to turn the volume down slightly as the pundits began their post-match analysis.

"Scared for nothing," he said confidently. "I told you. United were always going to pummel them. Now it’s simple. Finish the job at Old Trafford next week."

Lexi didn’t look fully convinced. She dropped back onto the couch, tucking one leg under the other, eyes still on the screen where replays of Amad’s late goal looped again.

"Maybe," she said slowly. "But Lukas didn’t play tonight. They’re a completely different team when he does. You can tell, even from the highlights. I don’t really follow the Bundesliga, but every clip I’ve seen... it’s like everything goes through him."

Roger scoffed softly.

"Highlights," he said. "That’s all hype. One player doesn’t change a tie like that."

Jane, who had been quiet through the celebrations, spoke up from her spot on the armchair, phone resting face-down in her lap.

"He kind of does," she said calmly. "He dragged them to the semi-finals against Bilbao almost by himself."

Roger turned, eyebrows raised.

"Did he?" he asked. "I didn’t even watch that game. I was at Old Trafford for the Lyon match, remember? Absolute madness." He paused, studying her face. "How do you know about Frankfurt versus Bilbao? That’s not exactly one of your teams. And you were working that night."

Jane didn’t miss a beat. She smiled and shook her head lightly.

"No, no," she said. "One of my doctorate students is from the Basque region. Big Bilbao supporter. He wouldn’t stop talking about how they got knocked out by a... what did he call him?" She lifted her hands and made exaggerated air quotes. "A ’German kid with green eyes.’"

Roger laughed, satisfied with the explanation, already half-turned back toward the television.

"Well," he said a moment later, chuckling again as if the thought had just occurred to him, "you both have green eyes. That’s a funny coincidence."

Jane nodded a little too quickly.

"Yeah," she said. "Surprising, isn’t it?"

Her voice stayed steady, but there was a brief stiffness in her shoulders that Lexi caught out of the corner of her eye. Lexi watched her mother for a second longer than usual, noting the way she shifted in her seat, the way her fingers tapped once against her phone before going still again. Then Lexi shrugged it off, turning her attention back to the screen as the analysts began talking about Old Trafford and second legs and pressure nights.

Jane leaned back into her chair, eyes forward, expression carefully neutral, and let the moment pass.

* * *

The dressing room was heavy with silence when Lukas walked in.

Shin pads lay discarded near benches. Shirts hung limp from hooks, darkened with sweat. A few players sat with towels over their heads, others stared at nothing at all. The noise of the stadium outside felt impossibly far away now, as if the walls had sealed them off from the world they had just left.

Lukas spotted Theate immediately.

He was leaning against his locker, forehead resting lightly on the metal, hands on his hips, eyes fixed on the floor. He had not taken his boots off yet.

Lukas crossed the room and stopped beside him. He reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.

Theate lifted his head slowly.

Lukas did not say anything at first. He pulled him into a quick dap, then wrapped him in a brief hug, firm and grounding.

"It’s not your fault," Lukas said quietly, close enough that only Theate could hear. "Not even close."

Theate swallowed and nodded once, eyes still down.

Lukas kept a hand on his shoulder. "It’s not over," he added. "We’ll get them in the second leg."

Another nod. This one a fraction stronger.

Lukas gave his shoulder a final squeeze, then moved on.

A/N: Well well well. The absolute gigachad Quads1 has gifted a Dragon. This guy is now in the GOAT debate with Midnight and Daniel. The big 3 for real.

Thank you so much.

The bonus Chapters will come.

-Writ