CHAPTER 180: BREMEN (3) (GT)

"Slick turn by Brandt to escape from Lynen. The way this boy controls the ball is just mesmerizing to watch. Ekitike is making the run... Oh beautiful pass to find him EKITIKEEEE!!...

NO... No... no... He’s scuffed the shot. A perfectly-weighted pass from Brandt to find Ekitike, a chance to level the score line, and Ekitike and misplaced his shot," Feldmann said as the shot rolled tamely into Zetterer’s waiting arms.

Ekitike cursed under his breath. Lukas exhaled sharply, then clapped his hands to encourage him.

"Next one. We go again."

But the miss stung. Frankfurt were still behind.

The final ten minutes of the half saw a more cautious Bremen, happy to disrupt Frankfurt’s flow with fouls and delayed restarts. Frankfurt regained 70% possession, but the final-third precision kept letting them down. Collins and Brown continued to push forward, but crosses were easily cleared; Larsson tried a couple of long shots, both blocked; and Bahoya found less and less space as Weiser tightened his marking.

It felt like the half was drifting quietly toward a 1–0 interval.

Until Lukas decided otherwise.

With the first-half stoppage time ticking, Brown slipped the ball to Lukas just outside the penalty area. Three green shirts converged instinctively—Schmid, Stage, and Pieper all closing in from different angles.

Lukas took one delicate touch backward, forcing Stage to overcommit.

Then he dragged the ball sideways with the inside of his foot, slipping between Schmid and Stage in a move so fluid it drew gasps even from the home supporters.

Now at the left edge of the arc, Lukas hesitated just long enough for Pieper to step toward him.

That was exactly what he wanted.

Using Pieper as a screen, Lukas curled a low shot around the defender’s leg, angling it toward the far bottom corner. Larsson raised his arm in celebration the moment it left his foot.

The curl was perfect.

The goalkeeper was unsighted.

The ball was destined for the net.

Except—

At the last possible instant, Zetterer stuck out his fingertips and altered the ball’s path by barely a centimeter.

CLANG!

"Zetterer has denied Brandt again!! This is turning into a personal battle between the teenager and the veteran goalkeeper."

The ball crashed against the inside of the right post and ricocheted out. Stark hacked it away before Ekitike could reach the rebound.

The Bremen fans roared with relief.

The Frankfurt end groaned in collective agony.

Lukas stared at the post in disbelief.

And then—

FWEEEEEE!

The halftime whistle blew.

Lukas wiped sweat from his forehead as he jogged off the pitch, frustrated but composed.

Frankfurt had dominated.

But Bremen had scored.

And the second half would require a comeback built on resilience, precision, and maybe a bit of luck.

Above in the stands, Javi and Anne clapped encouragingly despite the scoreline, while Mr. and Mrs. Brandt exchanged worried glances. They didn’t mind Bremen winning—

but they hated seeing Lukas walk off the pitch with that tight, unsatisfied expression.

And down in the tunnel, Toppmöller disappeared into the dressing room, still clearly unhappy with the first half, especially the cheap goal his team had conceded.

* * *

The tunnel at the Weserstadion hummed with the deep, rising noise of the second-half atmosphere. The low bass of fan drums vibrated through the concrete walls, and the smell of wet grass drifted in with every gust of wind from the pitch. Lukas walked out first for Frankfurt, rolling his shoulders, jaw clenched, eyes already fixed on the far touchline where Bremen players were jogging into shape.

Behind him came the rest of the team—Kaua, Collins, Koch, Theate, Brown, Larsson, Götze, Bahoya, Ekitike...

Except one.

Tuta did not emerge with them.

Instead, as Frankfurt reached the edge of the pitch, Tuta walked the opposite direction, toward the bench, shaking his head with a tight, apologetic expression. He barely met anyone’s gaze. His disastrous mistake in the first half still weighed visibly on him.

Right on cue, Ellyes Skhiri jogged out of the tunnel, fastening his armband wrist tape as the fourth official lifted the substitution board.

"And it looks like Frankfurt are making a change at the break," Thomas Albrecht said from the commentary box.

"Ellyes Skhiri is coming on for Tuta. No surprise there, Dan—Tuta looked shaken after that first-half error and Frankfurt need a calmer presence in midfield to rebuild the structure."

His co-commentator agreed.

"Yes, Thomas. Larsson will likely drop into the defensive midfield role while Skhiri adds stability. Brandt continues as the number ten. Frankfurt desperately need to convert their possession into chances—this adjustment may help them regain control in the middle."

On the pitch, Lukas clapped Skhiri on the back as he arrived in the formation.

"Let’s get control," Lukas said quietly, the stadium noise swallowing his words.

Skhiri gave a firm nod. "We will."

Across the halfway line, Bremen players regrouped with renewed energy. They smelled blood. A one-goal lead at home against a frustrated Frankfurt? The perfect setup to pounce.

The referee checked both sides, lifted his whistle to his lips—

FWEEEEEE!

The second half began. And immediately, everything felt sharper, tenser, more volatile than before.

Frankfurt needed a response. Bremen wanted the kill.

The second half had barely settled into its rhythm when Frankfurt finally found the breath they needed—one clean sequence that would flip the mood of an entire stadium on its head.

They had pushed Bremen deep, pinning them inside their own defensive third with short, patient passes. Larsson drifted centrally with the ball, scanning, pivoting, then shifting his weight onto his left foot before sliding a firm, skimming pass into the feet of Lukas, positioned just outside the D of the penalty area.

The moment Lukas touched the ball, the Weserstadion erupted—not with cheers, but with a sharp, violent wave of boos.

A deep, rolling wall of sound crashed over him.

They knew exactly who he was.

They knew exactly what he could do.

And they wanted to rattle him.

But Lukas didn’t even blink.

His touch was soft, cushioned, settling the ball under his sole. His eyes didn’t flick toward the crowd, not even for a moment. It was as if his ears had switched themselves off. He simply adjusted his stance, shoulders loose, breathing slow.

Calm. Cold. Focused.

Ahead of him, Ekitike darted diagonally toward the left side of the box, tearing through the line between Pieper and Stark. Lukas spotted the run instantly. He leaned slightly to his right—selling the idea of a curled shot—and then used the outside of his left boot to scoop a delicate, teasing ball over the first defender.

It drifted down toward Ekitike.

But the weight wasn’t perfect—just a little too soft.

Ekitike realized immediately he couldn’t take it first-time on the flick. He widened his stance and used his arm to shield Stark, letting the ball drop toward his right foot. Before he could strike it cleanly, Lynen came crashing across and refused to wait for a bounce. He threw himself forward, heading the ball clear in desperation.

But his clearance only half-worked.

The ball popped into the air, floating high, floating slow—falling back toward the edge of the box.

And Lukas was already there.

As if he had predicted the exact angle, the exact bounce, the exact second it would descend.

He took two steps forward, never taking his eyes off the falling ball. His left foot planted firmly. His body turned slightly sideways. His chest opened toward the right corner of the goal.

The boos died for a fraction of a second.

Then—

CRACK!