Become A Football Legend-Chapter 252: Terrorismo

The goal did not just put Frankfurt ahead in the tie. It changed the temperature of the night.

For a few stunned seconds, Old Trafford didn’t roar, it inhaled. You could feel United’s entire stadium trying to understand how the same kid who had already dragged this tie to extra time had now come out and, within three minutes, ripped the heart out of it again. Lukas peeled away toward the away end, fists clenched, chest heaving, and the Frankfurt pocket behind the goal shook like a living thing. Down on the touchline, Toppmöller didn’t sprint in celebration this time. He snapped his head toward the bench, jabbed a finger toward the pitch, and barked something sharp that didn’t need lip-reading to translate.

"Now we suffer," came the voice from the commentary booth, half awe, half warning. "Now we suffer intelligently."

The immediate instruction was visible. Frankfurt fell into a compact shell. The swagger of the equaliser and the chaos of extra time collapsed into discipline. Kristensen and Brown tucked in. Larsson and Skhiri held the middle with Tuta and Koch forming a tight block in front of Trapp. And Lukas, the man who had just detonated Old Trafford, jogged back into position and set up camp where you would least expect your hat-trick hero to spend the next quarter of an hour: ten yards in front of his own penalty area, scanning, pointing, talking, tracking shadows.

United, wounded and desperate, tried to respond with speed. Bruno Fernandes kept dropping into pockets to turn the screw, urging Ugarte and Mainoo to push higher and higher, trying to force Frankfurt into a mistake. The first wave arrived through the left side, Dorgu pinning Knauff back and whipping a ball toward the six-yard box. Højlund attacked it like a man starving, but Koch stepped across his line early and nudged him just enough to throw off the jump. The header floated, harmless, and Trapp caught it with both hands to a chorus of anxious groans from the Stretford End.

"United have to score," the commentator said, voice sharpened by the stakes. "But they also have to score without giving that lad a runway again."

That sentence was exactly why Lukas stayed deep. He wasn’t just a body. He was a warning sign. Every United centre-back who looked up to clip a pass into space could picture his sprint from the first half of the match, the way he had turned one loose ball into a knife through the ribs. Even now, even with Frankfurt defending in a low block, the threat of him was like a shadow across United’s build-up. It made them hesitate. And hesitation, in a stadium like this, becomes panic.

Bruno tried to light the fuse himself. He received the ball just outside Frankfurt’s box, opened his body for a shot, and was already drawing back his right foot when Lukas slid across the turf, low and clean, toe first, and nicked the ball away before the strike could leave Bruno’s boot. Bruno stumbled, arms flaring, looking for a whistle that never came.

"THAT is unbelievable defending," came the commentary, the tone rising. "That is a number ten doing centre-back work."

United surged again. Garnacho came inside, slipped a short pass into Højlund, and Højlund spun, trying to punch through the narrow lane between Koch and Tuta. He got the shot off, low and hard, headed for the inside of the post.

Lukas threw himself into it.

Not a flourish, not a cinematic dive, just a brutal, unglamorous block with his shin that sent the ball skidding wide. The sound was horrible, boot meeting bone, and Lukas didn’t even look at the pain. He pushed himself up instantly, jaw clenched, and pointed at Brown to mark the far runner. He was already re-organising before United could even win the second ball.

"Every single duel is a final now," the commentator said. "United are throwing themselves at the door and Frankfurt are turning the key from the inside."

On the sideline, Amorim paced with short, sharp steps, clapping his hands once, then twice, urging his wingbacks to keep feeding crosses. Across from him, Toppmöller stood almost still, arms folded, then suddenly unfolded them to bark at Larsson to drop five metres deeper. His message was clear. No romance. No hero ball. No temptation. They had their lead. They had their tie. They were going to protect it with their lives.

The first half of extra time bled away under pressure, United’s attacks arriving like tides, Frankfurt absorbing them like stone. Onana even walked the ball out at one point, gesturing for calm, then launched it long toward Højlund, hoping for chaos. Koch won the header, but only just, and the loose ball fell to Bruno at the edge of the box. He hit it first time, a skidding drive through bodies that seemed destined for the corner.

Trapp saw it late, dove, got fingertips on it, and pushed it away.

Lukas was the first person there to clear the rebound, hooking it into the stands without caring where it landed. Then he turned and screamed something toward the midfield line, eyes blazing, as if daring his team to fall asleep for even a heartbeat.

And then, finally, the whistle came for the brief pause between halves of extra time. The players didn’t run anywhere. They drifted, some bent over, some hands on hips, some staring into the night as if trying to pull oxygen out of thin air. Lukas crouched near the edge of the box, palms on his knees, sweat dripping from his chin.

Toppmöller gathered them with urgency. No theatrics. No speeches for the cameras. Just survival.

"Listen," he said, voice quick, forceful, the kind of tone that cuts through ringing ears. "We’ve done the hard part. Now we do the ugly part. Five minutes. We press five minutes, then we drop and we kill it. Nothing stupid. No cheap fouls. No hero passes in our third. We live in their frustration."

His eyes flicked to Lukas for a fraction longer than everyone else. Lukas looked back, breathing hard, and gave him a small nod that was almost defiant.

The coach’s face tightened, like he wanted to take the kid off and wrap him in cotton. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not with what Lukas represented on the pitch, not with penalties looming as a possibility, not with the way United’s whole backline kept glancing over their shoulders whenever Lukas stood anywhere near the halfway line.

"We need you," his stare said without words.

Lukas swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and got back to his feet.

The second half of extra time began with United kicking off again, and it began like a storm. They came harder, faster, with that frantic clarity that comes when a season is hanging by a thread. The ball moved side to side, United trying to stretch Frankfurt’s block until it snapped. The crowd found its voice again, not celebratory now, but pleading, roaring at every forward pass like volume could turn one-touch combinations into miracles.

A cross came in. Koch headed it out. Another came in. Tuta cleared it. A cutback found Mainoo at the top of the box and he tried to shape it into the corner, but Larsson threw his body in the way, the ball thudding off his thigh and spinning away. Frankfurt were not playing football anymore. They were playing resistance.