Become A Football Legend-Chapter 244: Missing

João was already settled long before kick-off.

Not in the stadium yet—he was higher up, tucked into his seat with his hoodie pulled halfway up, phone balanced carefully in both hands, one earbud in, the other dangling loose. The United Stand stream loaded, the familiar red-and-black overlay popping onto the screen just as a face filled the frame.

"Hello everyone and welcome to The United Stand," Mark Goldbridge said, leaning forward toward the camera, voice already carrying that familiar edge of excitement and tension. "I’m Mark Goldbridge, this is your Manchester United versus Eintracht Frankfurt Europa League semi-final watch-along, second leg, at Old Trafford."

João smiled faintly.

Goldbridge was already in full flow. Talking about the occasion. Talking about the noise outside. Talking about how nights like this were why Old Trafford was called what it was called. He leaned back, rubbed his hands together, then glanced down at his notes.

"Right—lineups. Let’s get into it."

On the pitch below, the players were still warming up. Passing patterns, light sprints, goalkeepers launching themselves across empty nets. The stadium hummed—anticipatory, restless.

Goldbridge started with the home side.

"Manchester United—Onana in goal. Back three: Lindelöf, Maguire, Yoro. Wingbacks: Mazraoui on the right, Dorgu on the left. Midfield—Casemiro, Ugarte. In the tens—Garnacho and Bruno Fernandes. And up top—Rasmus Højlund."

João nodded along unconsciously. He knew it already. Everyone did.

Goldbridge exhaled loudly. "Strong. Proper strong. Two-goal cushion. Don’t bottle it."

Then his tone shifted.

"And Eintracht Frankfurt..."

The camera panned across the away end as Goldbridge read.

"Trapp in goal. Back three—Theate, Koch, Collins. Wingbacks—Brown and Kristensen. Midfield—Skhiri, Larsson. And the two tens..."

He paused for half a second.

"...Chaïbi and Lukas Brandt."

João’s thumb tightened around the phone.

Goldbridge let out a dry laugh. "Of course. Of course it’s him. Brandt starts. Ekitike up top."

Down on the pitch, Lukas was mid-warmup, exchanging one-touch passes near the touchline. The jumbotron suddenly cut to him—and the reaction was instant.

A wave of boos rolled through Old Trafford. Loud. Sharp. Unmistakable.

Lukas looked up.

He smiled.

Then—calmly, almost casually—he lifted his arm and waved toward the stands.

João felt his chest tighten.

The camera followed the gesture, panning upward, catching a small cluster of red-and-black shirts in a sea of United colours. Joanna. João himself. Javi. Anne. All unmistakably Frankfurt.

Goldbridge’s voice jumped immediately.

"Ohhh they don’t like that," he said, half-laughing, half-grimacing. "They do not like that at all. Look at him waving. Look at him. This kid—this kid is public enemy number one tonight. Sixteen years old, waving to the away end at Old Trafford. You’ve gotta admire the confidence, but please—not tonight."

Jane’s voice cut in beside João.

"Why are they booing him like that?" she asked, clearly unhappy. "He’s just a kid."

Lexi didn’t take her eyes off the pitch. "Because they know," she said simply. "They know he can hurt us. They’re trying to get into his head before the whistle even goes."

Jane frowned, arms folded tighter.

Goldbridge was still talking. "This is what pressure looks like, lads. This is Old Trafford on a European night. If you can’t handle this, you shouldn’t be here."

The players jogged back toward the tunnel. Warm-ups done. Business approaching.

João glanced down at his phone again as Goldbridge leaned forward, voice lowering.

"Right. Here we go. Big night. Massive night. No messing about."

The teams re-emerged moments later, tunnel lights glowing red, the roar returning like a wave crashing into concrete.

João locked his screen.

The watch-along had begun.

* * *

The noise hit first.

Not through João’s phone, not through tinny speakers or a compressed stream—but directly, physically, like pressure against the chest. Old Trafford was already at full voice, a wall of sound that rose and fell in heavy waves as Bruno Fernandes stood over the ball at the center circle.

João had one AirPod in his right ear, the other dangling loose, forgotten. On his phone screen, Mark Goldbridge leaned toward his mic.

"And it’s kick-off," Goldbridge said as the referee’s whistle blew, voice already sharp with energy. "Manchester United versus Eintracht Frankfurt. Europa League semi-final. Old Trafford. Let’s have it."

Joanna leaned toward him instinctively, wincing slightly as the roar swelled again when Bruno nudged the ball forward to start the match.

"João," she said, raising her voice over the crowd. "Can you turn that off? You can literally hear everything."

João didn’t even look away from the pitch. "I can’t watch without commentary," he replied, tapping the AirPod. "One ear Goldbridge, one ear stadium. Perfect balance."

She sighed, shaking her head, but said nothing more as United immediately pushed forward.

Bruno spun away from the kick-off, Højlund dropping the ball back into midfield where Casemiro was already stepping into space. United’s shape unfolded quickly—Mazraoui and Dorgu pushing high, Garnacho tucking in, Fernandes hovering between the lines.

Frankfurt did the opposite.

They sank. Deep. Compact.

Five at the back almost instantly, wingbacks collapsing inside, Larsson and Skhiri forming a tight shield just ahead of Koch and Collins. It was clear within seconds what the plan was.

Goldbridge scoffed in João’s ear. "Yep. There it is. Ten men behind the ball already. Absolute low block. This is what we said."

United began to circulate possession, patiently at first. Maguire to Lindelöf. Lindelöf into Casemiro. Out to Mazraoui. Back inside again. Each completed pass drew a reaction from the crowd—approval, anticipation, a sense that something was building.

"Move it quicker," Goldbridge muttered. "Don’t let them settle."

The first effort came early. Garnacho drifted inside from the left, opened his body, and fired low toward the far corner. Collins threw himself across the shot, blocking it cleanly. The clearance barely escaped the box before Ugarte snapped it back up, immediately restarting the attack.

"Good pressure," Goldbridge said. "Keep it on them."

Another wave followed. Bruno clipped a ball toward the edge of the area—Koch stretched to intercept. It broke loose. Casemiro struck from distance, the ball slamming into a cluster of red shirts. Skhiri hacked it away, but only as far as Yoro, who calmly reset things once more.

Eight minutes in, it was relentless.

Frankfurt had barely crossed the halfway line.

And Lukas Brandt was almost invisible.

João noticed it because he was looking for him. Constantly. Every time United recycled possession, his eyes dropped instinctively toward the space just outside Frankfurt’s defensive third, searching for that familiar upright figure, the subtle bounce in his stride, the way he usually demanded the ball even under pressure.

Nothing.

Goldbridge noticed too—though with less warmth.

"Where is he?" he said suddenly. "This kid everyone’s been banging on about. Where is he? He’s not even touching it!"

The stats backed it up. Lukas had touched the ball once.

Five minutes earlier.

It hadn’t been anything spectacular. Yoro, under minimal pressure, had tried to slide a pass out to Dorgu on the left. Lukas had read it early, stepped across the lane, intercepted cleanly—and with the crowd already roaring, simply poked it out for a throw-in.

The applause that followed hadn’t been mocking. It was approving. Respectful.

Since then... nothing.

Joanna noticed him scanning the pitch and followed his gaze, her eyes settling on Lukas, positioned deep, almost level with Larsson, just inside Frankfurt’s final third. He wasn’t calling for the ball. Wasn’t drifting wide. Wasn’t doing anything that drew attention.

United continued to dominate possession.

Maguire stepped forward now, unopposed. He glanced up, saw the movement ahead of him, and tried to clip a pass between the lines toward Højlund.

For the first time, something broke.

A/N: My eyes MUST be deceiving me cause WTF! (Pardon my language)

Malo71 with 70 GTs! 70!!!

Damn

Yeah GGs, he’s won.

Thank you sooo much!! Hopefully things will get sorted out on my end and I’ll be able to mass release some Chapters before the end of the month.

Stay tuned y’all.

-Writ