Become A Football Legend-Chapter 250: UNBELIEVABLE

Onana reacted instinctively, sticking out a leg, the ball spinning behind for a corner.

"I can’t stand Onana as a Man United goalkeeper... But that is a great save," Goldbridge said as he stood up from his chair. "Alright boys, we’ve come this far, just clear this corner, then see out the remaining couple minutes of this game! We face Spurs in the final! Champions League football next season! The season is salvageable. LET’S NOT DO ANYTHING STUPID NOW!" He said, getting more and more agitated as he walked around his room.

Frankfurt players jogged forward. Lukas walked, slowly, deliberately, wiping his hands on his shorts. Chaïbi picked up the ball, placed it carefully.

Up until that moment, Frankfurt’s corners had been painfully predictable. Lukas had been swinging them in all night, good delivery, real whip, but every single time it felt like Harry Maguire’s forehead was magnetised to the ball. Near post, far post, flat, floated—it didn’t matter. Maguire rose, cleared, reset. United lived on it. The crowd relaxed every time the corner flag went up, already halfway into the next chant, already convinced nothing would come of it. But as the board went up for added time and Frankfurt won another corner, something shifted. Lukas was not walking to the corner flag, Chaïbi was, instead.

"Corner," Goldbridge said, suddenly quieter. "Corner. I don’t like this. Do not like this at all."

Chaïbi rolled the corner short and sharp, low along the grass toward the edge of the box. Larsson stepped over it—opened his legs—letting it run.

Lukas was already there.

One step.

One swing.

He hit it with pure laces, everything through the ball. No hesitation. No curl. Just violence and precision.

The net bulged high.

Top corner.

Right in front of the Stretford End.

For a heartbeat, there was no sound.

Then the away end detonated.

Lukas ran and slowed as he reached the corner flag, turning deliberately toward the Stretford End. For a heartbeat, the noise dipped, disbelief washing through the stands. Then he lifted one hand, hooked his fingers around his earlobe, and tilted his head slightly toward the crowd. Louder. The gesture was clear, almost casual, as if he were genuinely straining to hear something that simply wasn’t there anymore. No shouting. No pumping fists. Just that single motion, held for a second too long.

The away end detonated behind him, sound crashing forward in waves, while the Stretford End sat frozen, stunned into silence. Lukas let the moment linger, eyes fixed on the stand, before dropping his hand and turning away just as white shirts piled into him, the message already delivered.

Up in the stands, Joanna screamed without realizing she was screaming, both arms thrown up as she jumped in place, her scarf slipping loose around her neck. Anne clapped hard, over and over, tears bright in her eyes, laughing as she shook her head in disbelief.

João nearly lost his balance, one hand flailing in the air while the other tried to keep his single AirPod from flying off his ear, the watch-along still blaring faintly as he yelled something incoherent and joyful. Javi was on his feet too, both fists clenched at his sides, chest rising as he exhaled sharply, eyes never leaving the pitch. Around them, strangers hugged like old friends, voices overlapping, the moment too big to belong to anyone alone.

A few rows down, the reaction fractured differently. Roger froze with both hands locked on top of his head, mouth slightly open, staring at the pitch as if it might undo itself if he looked hard enough. Lexi felt the split tug in her chest immediately, instinctively leaping at the sheer audacity of the strike before remembering who it had come against. She half-laughed, half-groaned, hands hovering uncertainly in front of her as the noise swallowed the stadium. And then there was Jane.

Jane was smiling.

Not restrained, not polite. A real smile, bright and unguarded, eyes fixed on the corner of the pitch where Lukas had stood, one hand hooked to his ear, daring the Stretford End to answer him. It lingered on her face even as the boos rained down, even as the replay began to roll.

Lexi turned, catching it. "Mom?" she asked, incredulous. "Why are you smiling?"

Jane blinked, as if realizing herself, then softened, a small apology in her eyes. "I’m sorry," she said quietly. "But... you have to admit, it’s a great goal."

Lexi scoffed, shaking her head. "That doesn’t mean you should laugh," she said, only half serious, turning back toward the giant screen as the replay looped again. Lukas’s face filled the Jumbotron now, beaming, flushed, unapologetic, the moment frozen larger than life.

Lexi glanced back at her mother.

Then she looked again.

And then, almost absently, she said, "Mom... you and Lukas kinda look alike when you smile."

"..."

On João’s phone, there was only stunned silence.

"...I—"

A breath.

"I don’t believe what I’ve just seen. I genuinely don’t FUCKING believe it."

"I can’t believe it. I actually can’t believe it," Goldbridge said, the disbelief hanging in the air for half a second before the anger detonated. The replay rolled again. "WHY is NOBODY closing him down? WHY is no one stepping out?" His voice rose sharply. "You’ve got THREE players just STANDING there like traffic cones! Maguire’s in the box fighting GHOSTS, Casemiro’s pointing at ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, and you’re just letting him HIT THAT?"

He scoffed loudly, breath sharp through his nose. "And look at the celebration as well—OH DO ONE, mate. Hand to the ear in the STRETFORD END? Who do you think you are?"

Then it properly went. "THIS is BASIC. This is SCHOOLBOY defending! SHUT HIM DOWN! SHUT HIM DOWN! You do NOT let a player like that line it up from there—WHAT ARE WE DOING?" 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

João was doubled over by now, shoulders shaking as laughter spilled out of him, Goldbridge spiralling live, half-rant, half-meltdown. "I turn away for ONE second earlier and we concede—NOW I’m WATCHING and we STILL concede. UNBELIEVABLE. ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE."

The referee glanced at his watch.

Whistle.

Full time.

Players collapsed where they stood. Some with hands on knees. Some staring into nothing. Others sprinting toward the bench.

Frankfurt had done it.

They walked toward the touchline, toward their bench, toward the extra time that now awaited—lungs burning, hearts pounding, belief roaring louder than any crowd.

They formed up near the touchline, boots scraping against the turf as players dropped into a tight huddle. Someone passed a bottle down the line, another player wiped sweat from his eyes with his sleeve. The noise from the stands was still buzzing, uneven, confused. Toppmöller stepped forward and clapped his hands once.

"Eyes up. Eyes up," he said, waiting until everyone was looking at him. "Listen to me."

He took a breath, slow and deliberate.

"That," he said, nodding back toward the pitch, "that is what belief looks like. You stayed in it. You didn’t panic. You kept playing."

A few players nodded. Someone muttered a quiet "come on" under their breath.

"But don’t get it twisted," Toppmöller continued, his tone sharpening. "We haven’t won anything yet. Not a single thing."

He pointed toward the tunnel, then back to the pitch.

"They are rattled right now. You can feel it. The crowd felt safe five minutes ago. They don’t anymore." He held up an open hand. "Five minutes. First five minutes of extra time, we go again. We push. We’re brave. We look for one more."

He lowered his hand slowly.

"If it doesn’t come in those five," he said, "then we’re smart. Compact. Together. No stupid fouls. No cheap giveaways. We suffer if we have to, but we suffer together."

He turned his head toward Lukas, who was sitting on the grass a few steps away, one leg stretched out while the medic worked on his ankle.

"You good?" Toppmöller asked plainly.