Become A Football Legend-Chapter 254: Look Alike

No Europa League.

No Champions League.

No European nights next season.

A season already spiraling in the league had been handed its final verdict here. United’s last lifeline had snapped, and it had snapped spectacularly.

"And that’s the cruel truth of knockout football," the commentator continued. "You can win the first leg by two. You can walk into the return leg confident. But if you switch off—if you hesitate—even once—someone will punish you. Tonight, that someone was Lukas Brandt."

The camera found him briefly on the bench. Wrapped in ice, hair damp with sweat, eyes still burning. Not celebrating wildly. Just watching. Taking it in.

On the pitch, the Frankfurt players gathered themselves, then turned as one toward the corner where their supporters were packed tight. They formed a line. Arms around shoulders. Jumping. Clapping. Singing.

They bowed.

They pointed.

They beat their chests.

The away end roared back at them, flags whipping, voices cracking, tears flowing freely now.

"This," the commentary said, voice rising again, "is what European football is about. Courage. Defiance. A team that refused to accept the script. A kid who didn’t know he was supposed to be afraid."

Three goals.

At Old Trafford.

In a semi-final.

At sixteen.

"Manchester United are out. Eintracht Frankfurt are through. And at the end of May, when the Europa League final lights up San Mamés... it will be Frankfurt walking out in Bilbao against Tottenham."

The camera pulled wide one last time. The red seats. The stunned silence. The white shirts celebrating in defiance of history.

A masterclass.

A collapse.

A night that would be replayed for decades.

Eintracht Frankfurt to Bilbao.

And football, once again, reminded everyone that sometimes the future arrives early—and announces itself loudly.

The noise hadn’t faded yet. Not really. It had just changed shape.

Boos still rolled down from pockets of the stadium, angry and raw, cutting through the lingering chants from the away end where Frankfurt’s players were still lined up, arms raised, faces split by smiles. The giant screen flickered, then settled on a close-up.

Lukas.

Sweat still clung to his hair, his cheeks flushed, eyes bright as he clapped above his head toward the travelling supporters. The roar from that corner surged again, defiant and joyful, as if they were trying to drown out the bitterness everywhere else.

Lexi stared at the screen.

Then she glanced sideways.

Then back again.

She frowned, leaned forward slightly, and squinted. Once more to the screen. Once more to the woman beside her.

"...I really can’t unsee it now that I’ve seen it," Lexi said slowly, her voice cutting through the noise around them. "You and him really look alike, Mom."

Jane stiffened.

"What?" she said too quickly, eyes still fixed on the pitch.

"I’m serious," Lexi continued, undeterred. "Same eye colour. Same nose bridge. Even the eyebrows. Look—when he smiles like that—" She nodded toward the screen, where Lukas’s grin had just widened as a teammate shoved him playfully from behind. "—it’s actually kind of scary."

Jane let out a short laugh that didn’t quite land. "Don’t be ridiculous," she said, smoothing the front of her shirt, fingers fidgeting for half a second too long. "Stop making jokes like that."

"I’m not joking," Lexi insisted. "It’s there. Dad—" She turned. "You see it too, right?"

Roger followed her gaze to the screen, watched Lukas for a beat, then looked back at his wife. He shook his head once, dismissive. "Nope. Absolutely not," he said. "Your mother doesn’t look like a footballer, last I checked. Don’t mind her, Jane. She needs her eyes checked."

Jane smiled at that, grateful for the escape, even if her shoulders hadn’t quite relaxed.

Roger stood up, already slinging his jacket over his arm. "Come on," he said. "There’s nothing more to see here. Let’s get moving before it gets ugly outside. You can hear it already." As if on cue, another wave of boos rippled through the stadium, louder now, sharper. "Season’s basically gone. Fans are going to be furious."

Lexi rose reluctantly, casting one last look at the screen where Lukas’s face was still plastered large, still glowing, still impossible to ignore. Jane stood more slowly.

For a brief moment, before turning away, her eyes drifted across the stands.

She saw him.

Javi, on his feet, arms raised, shouting toward the Frankfurt players. Anne beside him, clapping, laughing. Joanna and João jumping, wrapped in scarves, lost in the joy of it all. A small island of celebration in a sea of resentment.

Jane looked away.

She turned her face toward the aisle, slipped in behind Roger and Lexi, and followed them up the steps, leaving the noise, the screen, and the unanswered thoughts behind as they disappeared into the restless night.

The pitch was still scattered with emotion when Lukas was called back toward the centre circle. United players drifted past him slowly, some with hands on hips, others staring into nothing. The away end was still singing, relentless, as a staff member pressed a small trophy into his hands. Player of the Match. Lukas looked down at it, then up again, almost unsure what to do with it, before a shy smile crept onto his face.

A broadcaster guided him a few steps away, microphone raised. The interviewer waited for the noise to dip just enough before speaking.

"So, Lukas," she began, voice carrying over the hum of Old Trafford, "three goals, at sixteen years old, here of all places. A hat-trick at Old Trafford to turn a two-goal deficit and send Eintracht Frankfurt into a European final. How does that feel right now?"

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, still half-laughing at the absurdity of it.

"Honestly? I don’t think it’s fully hit me yet," he said. "It feels... unreal. Like everything I tried tonight just worked. Every touch, every run, every decision—it was like the stars aligned, not just for me, but for the whole team. Nights like this don’t happen often, so I’m just trying to take it in."

She nodded, letting the moment breathe, then followed up. "That last goal in normal time, the one from the corner routine—it looked very deliberate. Talk us through that."

Lukas glanced back toward the corner flag at the Stretford End, then smiled.

"That wasn’t spontaneous," he said. "We’ve been working on that routine all week in training. Same movements, same timing. We’d tried a few normal corners tonight and they were dealing with them well, so we said, if we get one late, let’s try something different. It was kind of a last-ditch effort, to be honest. Chaïbi played it perfectly, Larsson did exactly what he was supposed to do, and when the ball came to me... I didn’t really think. I just hit it."

The interviewer shifted slightly closer as the crowd noise swelled again. "You didn’t stop there, though. In extra time, after the third goal, we saw you tracking back, tackling, blocking shots. That defensive work stood out just as much. Was that a conscious decision?"

Lukas nodded, his expression sharpening.

"Yeah. That was important. This was my first ever 120-minute game, so I won’t lie—my legs were heavy. Really heavy," he admitted with a small grin. "But I also knew that if United scored once in extra time, everything changes. Momentum can flip fast here. We’ve seen it before. So I told myself I had to help however I could. If that meant defending deep, making tackles, blocking shots, then that’s what I had to do."

She gestured subtly toward his ankle. "You limped off when you were subbed. Are you okay?"