Become A Football Legend

The game resumed and the fans poured out chants to try and raise the team's morale.

And for a while, that worked.

The home team seemed to gain a much-needed impetus after going a goal down.

Their press when out of possession was more intense and coordinated. And when in possession, they moved the ball more swiftly and with intent instead of just a bunch of back-passes.

And soon enough, spurred by the fans, they started mounting attacks on Eintracht Frankfurt's goal.

Their biggest chance of the half came in the 30th minute.

A shot from Ekitike had gone just wide of the post resulting in a goalkick which Egribayat launched out into the midfield.

Džeko rose to meet it, timing his leap perfectly between Skhiri and Larsson. The veteran striker's forehead connected with a solid thunk, redirecting the ball into the path of Szymanski as Fenerbahçe surged forward. Yellow shirts flooded the attacking third in a wave, quick one-touch passes slicing through Eintracht's shape.

Szymanski slipped a clever pass inside to Tadic, who exchanged a sharp give-and-go with Amrabat at the top of the box. Tadic took the return ball in stride and unleashed a curling shot toward the far corner while Collins went in for the block.

For a heartbeat, the stadium held its breath — the ball seemed destined for the net.

But Trapp sprang across his goal, fingertips stretching at full extension. With a lightning reflex, he managed the faintest of touches, nudging the ball just wide of the post. The deflection sent it spinning out of danger and into the advertising boards as the referee pointed to the corner flag.

The home fans erupted in a mix of awe and frustration, a guttural roar cascading down the stands, while Trapp popped back to his feet, barking instructions to Tuta and Collins, his gloves still buzzing from the save.

As Kostic strutted towards the flag to take the resultant corner and Lukas walked back to engage in the defense, he heard his name screamed from the touchline.

"LUKE! LUUUKE!"

He looked over and saw assistant coach Buck waving vigorously trying to signal to him to stay back and not join the defense.

Normally when facing corners, Lukas stays around the edge of the box to receive second balls if cleared by a teammate and launch a counterattack or just launch the ball out of play if under severe pressure.

But this time, the assistant was telling him not to even stay around the edge of the box.

Lukas stood a few meters outside the box just at the edge of the final third.

The two players — Djiku and Muldur — Mourinho had initially put on Lukas were players in the box together with two of the three center backs also in the box to attack the corner.

Consequently, the players beside Lukas were Szymanski and Akcicek who were also the last Fenerbahçe players.

Once Mourinho saw what was going on, he jumped up from his seat and screamed something illegible in Portuguese to stop what was about to happen.

But it was too late.

Kostic swung the cross in but the ball couldn't even beat the first man, Skhiri, who headed the ball upfield.

Skhiri's header looped high into the air, hanging just long enough for everyone inside the Şükrü Saracoğlu Stadium to sense danger.

Lukas exploded off the mark before Szymanski could even react, his boots biting into the slick grass like sharpened studs on ice.

The crowd shrieked as the ball dropped toward the center circle — two bodies lunging at once — but Lukas arrived a heartbeat earlier, cushioning the header with his chest while twisting his body to shield it from Szymanski's late lunge.

"AND FRANKFURT ARE AWAY!" the commentator's voice cracked over the PA feed as yellow shirts spun to chase.

One touch to settle, another to push into space — Lukas was gone.

Szymanski flailed desperately, legs pumping in frantic pursuit, but the Eintracht winger had already shifted through the gears, each stride longer and more ruthless than the last.

The roar of the home support swelled into a deafening wall of panic as Lukas tore down the center channel, the green pitch opening before him like a runway at dusk.

Akcicek darted across from the right, the last yellow barrier between Lukas and glory.

Lukas feinted to the outside, then cut sharply inward, a sudden swivel of hips that sent Akcicek sliding across the turf like a passenger on black ice.

The crowd gasped, a wave of disbelief that carried through every tier of the stadium.

"LOOK AT THE PACE! LOOK AT THE POWER!" the commentator bellowed.

"BRANDT IS AWAY! IT'S ONE V ONE!"

Egribayat surged off his line, arms spread wide, trying to narrow the angle as the distance evaporated.

But Lukas was cold, eyes locked on the tiniest seam between keeper and post.

At the perfect stride, he unleashed a vicious right-footed strike — a low, skimming bullet that screamed past Egribayat's outstretched glove and ripped into the far corner of the net.

"GOOOOOAAAAAL!!!"

The away section detonated in white and black delirium.

Eintracht players leapt from the bench, fists pumping toward the night sky as Lukas wheeled away, sliding on his knees in front of the traveling supporters.

Behind him, the stunned home crowd fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the pockets of Frankfurt fans chanting his name.

"MAGNIFICENT COUNTER! TWO-NIL EINTRACHT! AND LUKAS BRANDT— THE KID WITH ICE IN HIS VEINS — HAS RIPPED FENERBAHÇE APART!"

The referee glanced at his watch.

The stadium clock had barely ticked past the forty-fourth minute, but Fenerbahçe's players looked as though someone had pulled the oxygen out of the air.

Before the home side could even restart, the whistle shrilled across the pitch, signaling the end of a breathless first half.

* * *

The visiting locker room buzzed with adrenaline and sweat.

Boots scraped against tile, hearts still pounding from the energetic end to the first half.

Kevin Trapp strode in, gloves dangling from one hand, a grin splitting his face.

Larsson slapped Lukas on the back hard enough to rattle his lungs.

"Bro, what was that for?!" Lukas asked as he turned around to face his friend.

"Ahh, I was just thinking you for the assist," Larsson replied as he took a sip of his hydration drink.

"Well just for that, you've gotten the last assist from me this season."

"Ohh no pleaseee... That was my mistake, sir. Don't cut me off!"

The players laughed as Larsson sarcastically begged Lukas.

"Okay, that's enough," coach Toppmöller stepped to the center, eyes blazing but voice calm — the mark of a man who wanted focus, not frenzy.

"That," he said, sweeping a hand toward the room, "is exactly how you silence forty thousand people.

Discipline. Intensity. Ruthless execution."

He pointed toward Lukas, who was still catching his breath in the corner.

"And that counter… textbook.

Ellyes wins the header, Lukas makes the run — perfect decision, perfect finish.

That's how we punish mistakes."

A ripple of applause broke out from the players, echoing against the lockers.

"But listen," Toppmöller continued, lowering his tone.

"This isn't over.

Two-nil is dangerous if we get sloppy.

Stay compact.

Force them wide.

The next fifteen minutes after the restart will decide everything.

If we keep our heads, we leave Istanbul with a huge advantage and this tie is as good as won."

He paused, scanning each determined face.

"Enjoy the moment.

You've earned it.

Now let's finish the job."

The players nodded, fists bumping, voices low but full of fire.

Outside, the roar of the restless home crowd leaked through the concrete walls — a reminder that the second half was waiting, and that the night was far from done.

Meanwhile, down the corridor, behind a heavy steel door, the atmosphere inside the Fenerbahçe dressing room was nothing short of volcanic.

The low murmur of players stripping off sweat-soaked shirts was shattered when Mourinho stormed through the door, his coat still flaring from the tunnel draft.

The room stiffened.

"HORRIBLE," he barked, his voice ricocheting off the tiled walls.

"Absolutely horrible!"

He slapped a tactics board with the flat of his hand, the sharp crack making even the veterans flinch.

"You think this is a friendly? Two-nil down, at home, and you jog back like it's a Sunday stroll.

Do you know what the fans are watching out there?

They're watching a team that doesn't believe."

Mourinho paced the floor, eyes darting from player to player like a hawk searching for weakness.

"Their player wins a header on OUR corner. OUR corner!

Szymanski, you let a child run past you like you were chasing a bus.

Akcicek, where is your body? Where is the tackle?

And the rest of you… statues.

You give them space, you give them time, and you expect me to fix it with magic?"

He stopped abruptly, turning toward the goalkeepers' bench where Egribayat sat with his head down.

"And you — don't dare think that save is impossible.

If you come out with authority, that boy doesn't even shoot."