Become A Football Legend-Chapter 235: To Win

A sustained spell of possession pinned Frankfurt back. The ball was worked down the right, pulled back into the half-space, then slipped wide again before the cross came in. This time, the delivery was early and sharp. Burkardt timed his movement perfectly, darting between the center backs before anyone could step across him. He met the ball with a clean, powerful header that flew past Trapp and into the net.

The stadium erupted.

Fists punched the air. Flags waved. Burkardt wheeled away, roaring toward the corner, relief and defiance written all over his face. On the Frankfurt bench, there was no panic, only irritation. Toppmöller clapped his hands sharply, shouting for calm, for shape, for discipline. The message was clear: one goal changed nothing.

From there, Frankfurt shut the game down.

They slowed every restart. Drew fouls in harmless areas. Took corners to the flag. Uzun and Larsson worked tirelessly, chasing shadows, closing lanes, making sure Mainz never found the same rhythm again. When the final whistle came, it felt inevitable rather than dramatic. Three goals, control for long stretches, and enough resilience to see out the last push.

3–1 to Eintracht Frankfurt.

As the players gathered near the away end to applaud the traveling supporters, the stadium announcer’s voice cut through the noise.

"Man of the Match... Lukas Brandt."

A mixture of boos and applause followed, but Lukas simply rose from the bench, gave a small wave to the away fans, and shared a quiet smile with his teammates. He hadn’t been on the pitch at the end. He hadn’t been there for the closing minutes. But the match had already been decided in his image long before that.

Lukas stepped into the interview frame with a relaxed smile, the Man of the Match trophy resting against his hip as the noise of the stadium hummed behind them. The presenter turned toward him, clearly enjoying the moment.

"Lukas, congratulations," she said. "Man of the Match in a derby, away from home. How special does this one feel?"

"It feels really good," Lukas replied. "Derby games are always intense, especially here. The atmosphere was tough, they started very strong, and we had to suffer a bit early on. I think the team showed a lot of character to stay calm and take our chances when they came."

She nodded, then shifted slightly, glancing at her notes before looking back up at him.

"There was a moment late in the game where everyone held their breath," she said. "That heavy challenge near the touchline. Are you okay?"

"I’m okay," Lukas answered immediately. "Honestly, it’s nothing serious. It looks bad because of how fast everything happens, but these things are part of football. They were aggressive, they wanted to make it physical, and that’s normal in a match like this."

The interviewer smiled, then let the next question linger for a moment, knowing what was coming.

"Thursday night," she said. "Europa League semifinal, second leg. After tonight, what can the fans expect from Eintracht Frankfurt?"

Lukas didn’t hesitate.

"We’re going there to win," he said. "We know it won’t be easy, but we believe in ourselves. This team has shown many times that we can respond, that we don’t give up. The tie is still open, and we’ll go there with confidence."

She thanked him, congratulated him once more, and as the camera pulled away, Lukas gave a final nod before stepping aside, already turning back toward his teammates as the cheers continued to roll around the stadium.

* * *

Monday morning light filtered through the tall windows of Txiki’s office in Manchester, pale and muted against the glass towers outside. The room was quiet in that deliberate, insulated way executive offices always were. Txiki sat behind his desk with a tablet in his hands, glasses low on his nose, reading slowly, carefully.

"The wonderkid isn’t stopping!" the headline read.

Below it, the numbers were laid out again, almost absurd in their simplicity. 42 goal contributions in 18 games. Goals, assists, decisive moments stacked one on top of another as if they belonged to a video game, not a sixteen-year-old playing senior football in Germany. Txiki exhaled through his nose and scrolled.

"That output doesn’t make sense," the head of the data analysis team said from across the table, half shaking his head. "We’ve run the models again. Even if you regress everything aggressively, he still lands in the top percentile of elite attackers in Europe. At sixteen."

The president’s secretary, seated slightly to the side with a notebook open, added quietly, "It’s everywhere now. German media, Spanish media, even the English outlets that usually ignore the Bundesliga. Every match adds fuel."

Txiki set the tablet down and leaned back in his chair. "Fuel, yes. But also resistance."

He tapped the desk once with his finger.

"He doesn’t want to come to England," he said flatly. "Not now. And Frankfurt... they’re not budging."

The analyst nodded. "Their stance makes sense. He’s the centre of everything for them. Sporting value, commercial value, identity. They know exactly what they have."

"We could throw money at it," the secretary said cautiously. "We have the relationship. We’ve done business with them before."

Txiki gave a small, humourless smile. "And spend one hundred million euros on a player who, by law, can only sign a three-year contract until he turns eighteen?"

He shook his head.

"That’s not leverage. That’s risk."

The analyst leaned forward. "Especially when you factor in Madrid. If he keeps this level for two more seasons, they will come. And when they come, it’s usually over."

"And leaving him in Frankfurt until eighteen doesn’t solve anything either," Txiki continued. "They won’t let him walk. They’ll extend him, renegotiate, restructure, move heaven and earth to maximise the fee. This won’t get cheaper with time."

Silence settled for a moment as all three sat with the problem.

Then Txiki straightened, decision crystallising behind his eyes.

"We adjust," he said. "Eighty million base. Ten in add-ons. We test the water again."

The secretary looked up. "And Lukas himself?"

Txiki paused, considering.

"We still have the greatest manager on the planet," he said finally. "That is not nothing. For a player like him, that matters. I’ll have Pep call him at the end of the season, I’m sure that will count for something."

The analyst hesitated, then spoke. "But how long will Pep be here? If we spend this amount and Pep leaves in a couple of seasons, and the boy decides not to renew... it could be a very expensive mistake."

Txiki didn’t flinch.

"We don’t lack money," he said simply.

The room went quiet again, the weight of the decision settling in. Outside, Manchester moved on as usual. Inside, plans were already shifting.

As the meeting ended and the two employees left the room, Txiki pressed a button on the telephone on his table, and a few seconds later, a male assistant walked into the room.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get me tickets to United’s next match."

"The Europa League match against Eintracht Frankfurt?"

"Yes."

"Okay, sir," the assistant replied as he closed the door and stepped out.

"Brandt... Show me that you deserve such an agreesive pursuit," Txiki thought before smiling and scrolling past the article he was just reading.