CHAPTER 157: GAME CHANGER (GT CHAPTER)

He saw a sliver, not a gap, but a whisper of space, between three bodies, just inside the bottom-right corner of the net — the opposite side of where he was running, and it just clicked.

He didn’t blast it. He didn’t curl it dramatically. He simply passed the ball, with side-foot precision, through the crowd.

Time seemed to slow. Donnarumma reacted late, wrong-footed, unable to drop to the corner quickly enough.

The ball kissed the side-netting.

A goal so quiet and subtle — it silenced the stadium before the net even rippled.

"BRANDT AGAIN!!! OH MY WORD! THAT IS INSANE! WHAT ARE WE WITNESSING FROM THIS 16-YEAR-OLD!?"

Nagelsmann froze on the touchline, both hands on his head, the kind of expression a man wears when logic has failed him.

Musiala stood still for a second, mouth open, then placed both hands on his head as he began sprinting toward Lukas. Goretzka mirrored the reaction, laughing in disbelief as he ran after them.

Lukas reached the corner flag, eyes wide, grin stretching across his face. He slid on his knees, the German fans in the away sector exploding, limbs everywhere. Teammates piled onto him, shouting over each other, half screaming, half laughing.

"This is a prodigy we’re watching," the commentator exclaimed. "This isn’t normal. This is generational. Germany has a superstar — and he’s only sixteen!"

Italy 1–3 Germany.

San Siro was stunned. The noise died. The cameras zoomed in on Italian fans with their hands in their hair.

Lukas Brandt had announced himself to world football — and not with a whisper.

With a roar.

* * *

When the referee finally blew the whistle, Lukas was still catching his breath from a late defensive sprint. The sound cut through the cold Milan night, sealing a result that very few had predicted when the teams were announced.

Fweeeee!

Italy 1–3 Germany.

A second-half masterclass — and it had been orchestrated by a boy who wasn’t even part of the first-half picture.

The German players embraced one another, clapping the away supporters tucked into the upper corner of the San Siro, their cheers echoing across a stadium that had fallen silent long ago. Italy’s players sank into their shirts, frustrated and exhausted, knowing exactly who had broken them.

Lukas didn’t celebrate wildly. He stood for a moment, hands on his hips, just looking at the pitch, at the stadium, at the scoreboard — as if trying to convince himself it had actually happened.

Musiala came up behind him and hugged him around the shoulders, shaking him lightly. "You’re ridiculous, you know that?" he laughed.

Lukas only smiled, his heart still racing. It still didn’t feel real.

Minutes later, Lukas was called over by the UEFA Nations League officials. He walked toward the presentation area near the tunnel, where a small podium had been set up. In the official’s hands was the Nations League Man of the Match trophy — a sleek, modern design: a tall, slender silver column with a twisted helix running through the middle, the Nations League logo at the top in polished chrome. It shimmered under the San Siro floodlights, elegant and minimal, yet prestigious.

And it was being handed to a sixteen-year-old who had only played forty-five minutes.

The cameras closed in on his face as the presenter announced:"Man of the Match: Germany’s number 21, Lukas Brandt."

The small group of travelling fans screamed and cheered as the announcement rang throughout the stadium.

Lukas accepted the trophy with both hands and gave a shy nod to the crowd, his usual composure shifting into something far more human — disbelief, pride, nervous excitement all tangled together.

Then came the interview.

A microphone was raised to him along with a miniature Nations League-branded board behind him. The presenter smiled warmly.

"Lukas, first of all, congratulations. A goal with your very first touch for Germany, an assist, and another brilliant goal to seal the win. How are you feeling right now?"

For the first time that night, Lukas’s calm exterior cracked slightly. He puffed a small breath, laughed under it, and shook his head.

"I... I don’t know how to explain it," he admitted. "It still feels unreal. Just a few hours ago, I was preparing myself to maybe come on for a few minutes, and now... this?" He glanced at the trophy, almost as if checking it wasn’t plastic or imaginary. "I still can’t believe it. It’s... surreal. I’m just happy I could help the team."

"Did you ever imagine your debut going like this?"

"No. Not like this," he said with a slight, shy grin. "I just wanted to do my best. I didn’t expect... all of this."

The fans watching at home saw something different now — not the ice-cold prodigy who glided through world champions, but a teenager with honest, unfiltered wonder in his eyes.

The noise reached him before he pushed the door open — muffled claps, laughter, a faint cheer.

The moment Lukas walked into the dressing room, the place erupted.

The entire squad stood, clapping and whistling, some banging on lockers, others shouting his name. A few players tossed towels in the air like confetti.

Koch reached him first, pulling him into a side hug and aggressively ruffling his hair. "There he is! I told everyone — this is weekly stuff at Frankfurt! Now the whole world knows!"

Musiala, Sané, and Goretzka slapped him on the back as he passed through, teammates hoisting the Man of the Match trophy from his hands to look at it, admire it, joke about it. Even Rüdiger, usually composed and stern, smiled proudly and tapped a fist to Lukas’s chest.

It wasn’t hero worship.

It was genuine respect.

A sixteen-year-old had just carried the German national team on his debut in the San Siro.

Nagelsmann eventually walked in, and the room naturally settled.

He scanned his players — sweaty, smiling, exhausted, euphoric — and the corner of his lip lifted just slightly.

"Congratulations," he began, voice firm but proud. "This was a big win. A huge win. To come to Milan, against an Italy side that hasn’t lost here in the Nations League... and play with that personality — that is the standard."

Players nodded, the pride visible on their faces.

"But." His tone shifted; the players straightened. "It is half of a tie. Nothing more. The second leg is in four days. If we relax, if we think the job is done, we will regret it."

He gave the message time to sink in.

"We recover. We prepare. And we finish the job in Frankfurt."

"Jawohl," came a few replies around the room.

As players began heading toward the showers and physio tables, assistant coach Benjamin Glück passed by Lukas and paused, his voice low enough for only Lukas and Nagelsmann — just behind — to hear.

"You changed everything tonight," Glück said. "From your first touch, the game tilted. You took us from one-nil down to three-one up, almost by yourself. At sixteen... on your debut... against Italy... at the San Siro." He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "If you keep this up, 2026 might not be a dream."

He walked away before Lukas could respond.

Nagelsmann, who had overheard, didn’t comment. He simply looked at the floor for a moment, hands on his hips, deep in thought.

"2026, huh?"The words echoed in his head.

He didn’t say yes.

He didn’t say no.

But the idea no longer sounded far-fetched.

Not after tonight.

A/N: Hey guys...Thanks for all your reading. I really do appreciate and love y’all for real. It’s so crazy that so many people enjoy what this brain of mine can cook up. I hope you all have a wonderful day/night. I see the Powerstones, GTs, and Gifts. I appreciate them all. You guys are the best.

Love y’all.

-Writ