Become A Football Legend-Chapter 245: Counter (18+ Language)

*CONTENT WARNING: 18+ LANGUAGE*

Kevin Trapp read it instantly.

The Frankfurt captain sprinted off his line, arms outstretched, and plucked the ball cleanly out of the air before Højlund could even jump. As Trapp landed, his eyes flicked upfield.

João’s heart skipped.

Lukas had already moved.

The moment Trapp left his line, Lukas abandoned Ugarte’s shadow and burst forward through the middle. He went from the edge of Frankfurt’s defensive third to the halfway line in seconds, long strides eating up grass as Ugarte reacted too late.

Trapp didn’t hesitate.

He launched a full throw with his right arm, the force so violent it pulled him off balance, his knee brushing the turf as the ball sailed forward.

"And there he goes," Goldbridge said sharply. "Oh—oh hold on—"

Lukas was off.

João leaned forward instinctively, the stadium noise swelling again as the ball arced through the air toward open space.

And for the first time all night, Old Trafford held its breath.

Maguire saw it a fraction too late.

The ball dropped out of the Manchester sky and landed right in that horrible no-man’s land between defender and attacker, the kind that turns legs heavy and minds frantic. Maguire took a step forward, then checked it, then committed—stretching his right leg with one thought in mind: anywhere but here. Clearance, touchline, row Z, it didn’t matter.

He was a split second slow.

Lukas reached the ball first, the touch so sharp it barely registered—just a soft poke with the outside of his boot, nudging it into the space behind Maguire. And then he was gone.

"Oh no—NO, NO, NO—" Goldbridge’s voice cracked in João’s ear.

Maguire spun, arms flying out instinctively, fingers grasping for red fabric that wasn’t there. He grabbed nothing but air as Lukas detonated past him, acceleration brutal, immediate, unforgiving. The crowd gasped, the sound sucking inward for a heartbeat before chaos resumed.

"HE’S DONE HIM. HE’S FUCKING DONE HIM," Goldbridge shouted. "MAGUIRE’S BEEN TURNED INSIDE OUT—WHERE’S THE COVER?!"

There was none.

Yoro sprinted across, long strides chewing ground, one hand brushing Lukas’s shoulder as if that alone might slow him. It didn’t. Lukas powered through, ball glued to his feet, head already up.

Onana stood frozen.

Halfway off his line. Halfway rooted.

João could see it clearly from the stands—the indecision, the moment of paralysis that kills goalkeepers. Lukas saw it too.

"COME OUT OR DON’T, PICK ONE!" Goldbridge yelled. "WHY IS HE JUST—"

Lukas didn’t wait.

One step. One glance. Left foot.

He passed the ball into the bottom right corner with the calm of a training drill, the finish so precise it felt insulting. Onana dove—late, exaggerated, almost theatrical—the ball kissing the net before his gloves even scraped the turf.

"And THAT is FUCKING PATHETIC," Goldbridge exploded. "PATHETIC DEFENDING, PATHETIC GOALKEEPING—WHAT ARE WE DOING?! THEIR FIRST ATTACK AND THEY SCORE!"

The away end detonated.

A red-and-black eruption, arms flung skyward, bodies crashing into one another as if the laws of physics had briefly been suspended. João was already laughing, bent forward at the waist, hand clamped over his mouth as disbelief and joy tangled together.

And in João’s ear, absolute chaos broke loose.

"OH FUCK OFF—JUST FUCK OFF," Goldbridge roared. "MAGUIRE, YOU ARE A FUCKING CONE. A TRAINING DUMMY. WHY ARE YOU STEPPING UP THERE? WHY? WHO TOLD YOU TO DO THAT? AND WHERE THE FUCK IS LINDELOF?"

João snorted, clapping a hand over his mouth as he doubled forward in his seat.

On the pitch, Lukas had already collected the ball from the net, turning sharply before Onana could even get a word out. No celebration. No pause. Just purpose. He jogged back toward the center circle and, almost absent-mindedly, lifted his thumb toward Trapp.

"LOOK AT HIM," Goldbridge continued, voice cracking with rage. "HE’S PICKED THE BALL UP LIKE HE’S LATE FOR SCHOOL. THIS IS OLD TRAFFORD, NOT A FUCKING PARK IN FRANKFURT."

João shook his head, laughing now—not at the goal itself, but at the sheer meltdown in his ear.

"Oh my God," he muttered, breathless. "He’s gonna blow a gasket."

Yoro had his hands on his hips. Maguire stood frozen, staring at the turf. Onana was still on the ground, rolling onto his side far too late to matter.

"And ONANA—DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED," Goldbridge went on. "WHAT IS THAT DIVE? HE’S ALREADY SCORED BEFORE YOU’VE DECIDED WHICH WAY TO FALL. THAT’S A FUCKING CHARITY GOAL."

João laughed again, louder this time, earning a sharp look from Joanna.

"Turn it off," she said, half-exasperated, half-amused. "You’re impossible."

"I can’t," João replied between breaths, tapping his AirPod. "I literally cannot watch this without him losing his mind. It’s part of the experience."

On the pitch, Lukas stood calm and still, eyes forward, hands resting loosely on his hips as the referee ushered United back into position. The boos rained down harder now, sharper, angrier.

"THEY’RE BOOING HIM," Goldbridge snarled. "THEY SHOULD BE BOOING OUR BACK LINE. HE’S SIXTEEN. SIXTEEN!"

João leaned back at last, grin still plastered on his face, eyes fixed on the field as United prepared to restart.

Goldbridge ranted on.

And Lukas, unmoved by any of it, waited for the next phase of the game to begin.

United reacted the only way a wounded giant knows how: with volume, bodies forward, and a sense of indignation that rolled down from the Sir Bobby Charlton Stand and wrapped itself around the pitch. The tempo jumped a notch. Bruno started demanding the ball every phase, waving teammates into shape, pointing, clapping, cajoling. Casemiro pushed ten yards higher. Garnacho stayed wide, then darted inside, then wide again, trying to drag Frankfurt’s shape out of its compact shell. From João’s seat, it felt like the stadium itself was leaning toward Trapp’s goal, willing something to happen through sheer noise.

Lukas didn’t get another runway like the one he’d just used. Not even close. United adjusted instantly. Ugarte stuck to him like a shadow with a conscience, never diving in, always close enough to make the first touch uncomfortable. Yoro stepped up behind that line, ready to pounce if Lukas tried to turn. Every time Frankfurt tried to find him between the lines, there was a red shirt already there, sometimes two, sometimes three. The boos followed him everywhere now, swelling every time he dropped deep to receive, sharp and personal, as if the crowd had decided that intimidation was a tactical instruction.

Goldbridge, in João’s ear, oscillated between fury and desperate analysis.

"Right. Good. Good. That’s better. Just don’t let him turn. Don’t let him fucking breathe. He’s not Messi if he’s got two blokes on him."

A pause.

"...Still though. Why is he always in space when he drops deep? WHY?"

Frankfurt were content to suffer. They slid as a unit, five across the back at times, wing-backs tucked in, Larsson and Skhiri screening relentlessly. When United pushed numbers forward, Frankfurt cleared long, regrouped, waited. Lukas conserved energy, choosing moments carefully, rarely demanding the ball unless the picture was right. It was a different kind of influence now. Less flash. More gravity. United were reacting to where he might be, not just where he was.

Around the half-hour mark, he finally found a pocket.

A/N: So in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a huge fan of Mark Goldbridge. I’m not a United fan, but I absolutely love his watch-alongs. So pardon his intrusion here... It’s only gonna be for games against United, I promise. Also I think it’s more fun that writing boring old commentators.

Love y’all

-Writ