Become A Football Legend-Chapter 246: Halftime

Koch fizzed a pass into him right on the edge of Frankfurt’s box, Garnacho snapping at his heels. Lukas took the ball on the half-turn, felt the pressure coming from behind, and rolled away in one smooth motion, shoulder dipping just enough to throw Garnacho off balance. The crowd groaned. Goldbridge cursed.

"Oh for fuck’s sake — why are you diving in there?"

Before Ugarte could clamp down, Lukas looked up and hit it. Not a hopeful clearance, but a measured, slicing ball that arced diagonally across the pitch toward Chaibi. It landed perfectly into his stride. Chaibi didn’t hesitate, cushioned it once and laid it inside for Ekitike, who had peeled off the shoulder of his marker. The shot came early, low, skidding across the turf—just wide, close enough to shave the outside of the post before rattling the advertising boards behind Onana’s goal.

A collective inhale. Then release.

"Thank. Fuck," Goldbridge muttered. "That’s the warning. Don’t let that happen again."

Lukas jogged back into position, hands briefly on his hips, eyes already scanning the reset. He clapped once, sharply, at Chaibi. Encouragement. Approval. No frustration. He looked entirely at ease in a stadium that was doing everything it could to unnerve him.

United kept coming. Bruno tested Trapp from distance. Garnacho wriggled free once, only for Kristensen to block the cross at source. Højlund battled, scrapped, tried to bully Koch and Tuta, but service dried up whenever Frankfurt collapsed into their box. Every clearance, every interception, every small win for the visitors drew a groan from the stands and a running commentary of disbelief from Goldbridge.

"How is this lot so calm? It’s like they’ve been here a hundred times."

Time bled toward halftime. The edge dulled slightly, not from lack of intent but from fatigue, from the realization that Frankfurt were not going to open up just because Old Trafford demanded it. Lukas drifted wide for a few minutes, then central again, always dragging Ugarte with him, always forcing United to account for his presence even when he wasn’t on the ball.

Then the fourth official lifted the board.

Two minutes of added time.

A murmur ran through the stadium, half anticipation, half anxiety. United pushed higher still. Casemiro dropped between the center backs to start the next phase, Bruno already pointing forward, urging speed. Goldbridge’s voice sharpened in João’s ear.

"Come on. One chance. One bloody chance before halftime."

United’s pressure finally found its crack, not through chaos but through insistence. Frankfurt had defended well for long stretches, sliding and blocking, forcing United wide, forcing crosses to be recycled. Lukas remained largely boxed in now, Ugarte tight, Yoro ready to step out, every second touch contested. But the longer United stayed camped in Frankfurt’s half, the more inevitable it began to feel that one moment would slip.

It came from something simple.

A turnover near the center circle, Skhiri just a fraction late to a loose ball, Bruno snapping onto it and immediately accelerating play. Garnacho darted inside from the left, dragging Kristensen with him, and slipped a short pass into Højlund’s feet. The Dane backed into Koch, laid it off first time, and Bruno kept running. No one tracked him quickly enough. Larsson hesitated, unsure whether to step or hold the line.

Bruno didn’t hesitate.

He took the return pass just outside the box, opened his body, and whipped a right-footed shot low and hard toward the far corner. Trapp reacted late, fingertips stretching but never quite reaching. The ball kissed the inside of the post and buried itself in the net.

Old Trafford erupted.

Goldbridge detonated in João’s ear.

"YES! GET IN! THAT’S IT! THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU KEEP THE PRESSURE ON! FUCKING COME ON, BRUNO! THAT’S A CAPTAIN’S GOAL!"

João burst out laughing, not even looking at the pitch for a second, shaking his head as he hurriedly slid his phone volume down while Goldbridge kept going.

"Where are you now, Frankfurt? Where’s your wonderkid now? THIS is Old Trafford!"

Around them, the stadium became a wall of sound. Roger was on his feet instantly, fists pumping the air, shouting something incoherent as Lexi jumped up beside him, arms raised, yelling Bruno’s name. Scarves waved. Beer sloshed. Strangers hugged like family.

Jane stayed seated.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t clap. Her eyes never left the pitch, her hands folded tightly in her lap as the red tide around her surged and celebrated.

At the touchline, Amorim exploded on the touchline the moment the ball hit the net. He spun toward his bench, fists clenched, shouting something in Portuguese as he pulled one of his assistants into a quick embrace.

Another staff member slapped him on the back, and Amorim pointed sharply toward the pitch, already barking instructions even as the noise from the stands swallowed half his words. It wasn’t just relief. It was validation. This was exactly the spell of pressure he had demanded.

On the opposite side, Toppmöller didn’t react outwardly. He turned slowly, jaw tight, and walked back toward his seat without a glance at the celebrating crowd. As he sat, Zembrod slid one chair closer, tablet already in hand, the screen glowing with freeze frames and numbers. He leaned in and murmured something low, tapping at a still image of the buildup. Toppmöller nodded once, eyes never leaving the pitch, then leaned forward, elbows on knees, already thinking about the next forty-five minutes.

Down on the pitch, Bruno sprinted toward the corner, fists clenched, teammates piling onto him as the noise kept climbing. Lukas stood near the center circle, hands on his hips for a brief second, eyes fixed on the celebrating mass. Then he exhaled, turned, and jogged back toward the center spot.

Goldbridge, still buzzing, barked into João’s ear again.

"That’s how you do it. None of this sitting back rubbish. Level. Game on. Absolute scenes."

Play restarted quickly. Lukas tapped the kickoff back, all the way to Trapp, who didn’t take a touch and launched it long into the Manchester night. The ball hung in the air and—

"FWEEE"

—the whistle blew.

Halftime.

Goldbridge groaned theatrically.

"Ahh, come on! I was just getting warmed up. But listen, I’ll take that. 1-1 at the break. We’ve rattled them. We’ve shown them this isn’t some fairytale. That kid’s dangerous, yeah, but we’ve kept him quiet since the goal. Let’s continue that way in the second half."

João and the rest of the group stood up from their seat to go get some refreshments, stadium still humming around them, knowing the night was very far from finished.

Lexi was already halfway out of her seat when she paused and looked back. "Mom, you’re not coming?" she asked, raising her voice slightly over the halftime buzz as people streamed into the aisles.

Jane shook her head, a small, polite smile on her face. "You two go. I’ll watch the seats." She gestured down at the scarves and jackets piled on the chairs. Roger leaned in and asked if she wanted anything, already stepping into the row. "Just a Diet Coke," Jane replied quickly. "If they have it."

Lexi turned to follow her dad, then slowed, her eyes catching on something a few rows over. A man had just stood up, tall, dark-haired, his profile sharp in the harsh stadium lights. His hands were interlocked with the woman beside him as they waited for the row ahead to clear. Lexi squinted, tilted her head. "Wow," she said, half to herself, half to her dad, "that man looks like Lukas. Is that his dad?"