CHAPTER 194: ONE SHOT

The match resumed at a more tempered pace after the storm of Nico Williams’ opener, but the atmosphere inside San Mamés stayed at a near-fever pitch. The Athletic players, now armed with the confidence of an early lead, didn’t press with the same frantic intensity, but they pressed smartly, picking their moments, choosing their traps. The crowd helped with that — every time Lukas merely drifted into a pocket or received a sideways pass, the boos swelled like an oncoming wave.

Frankfurt, on the other hand, refused to panic. They didn’t throw players forward. They didn’t chase the game recklessly. Toppmöller knew exactly how dangerous Athletic could be in transition. With Nico Williams and Sancet lurking, a single misplaced pass could turn into a counterattack so fast that the visitors would find themselves two goals down before they could blink.

So Frankfurt circulated the ball in the middle third, trying to pull the red-and-white shirts out of shape. Larsson dropped deeper than usual, forming small triangles with Koch and Theate. Skhiri slid horizontally behind the ball, doing housekeeping work: always available, always offering an outlet.

But every time the ball drifted toward the right channel — toward Lukas — the Bilbao fans erupted again.

Andres Cordero remarked softly over the ambience:

"Listen to that... they are singling him out. Sixteen years old, playing his first European quarterfinal in San Mamés... and the crowd is trying to break him."

Chris Wittyngham replied:

"It shows how much they respect him. They’re afraid of him. The entire stadium reacts when he even turns his hips to face forward."

For nearly twenty minutes after the goal, not much happened in terms of clear chances. Athletic controlled the moods of the game; Frankfurt controlled the ball. Neither side overcommitted. The match simmered but did not yet boil.

Then came the 24th minute — the first moment of genuine, electric danger from Frankfurt.

Larsson, positioned slightly ahead of Skhiri now, received the ball from Theate under moderate pressure. Instead of recycling play, he took a risk. He stepped through a tackle and, with barely a glance, hammered a pass forward into the center-right channel.

It was aimed at Lukas.

But the pass was far too powerful, fired almost like a clearance—

and immediately the San Mamés crowd sensed the opportunity.

The whistles erupted again, sharp and feral.

Lukas was near the halfway line, occupying a central pocket after one of his fluid rotations with Götze. His back was completely to the Athletic goal. Vivian was closing rapidly from behind. De Galarreta, reading the situation perfectly, also sprinted in from the front, sensing the heavy touch that should have come.

"Here they come!" Wittyngham warned. "Frankfurt gave him a rocket there — and Bilbao are surrounding him!"

But Lukas had already checked his shoulder even before Larsson struck the ball. He already knew where Vivian was. He already spotted de Galarreta moving to cut the angle.

And the moment the ball reached him, he made a decision that most players simply would not have even attempted.

He did not try to kill the pass.

He did not try to redirect it away from pressure.

He simply opened his body, subtly — almost invisibly — and allowed the ball’s own momentum to work for him.

Instead of bouncing away, the ball cushioned under his sole and glided perfectly around with the angle of his turn.

The stadium gasped.

One touch.

One turn.

Two Athletic midfielders eliminated.

"OH, WHAT A TURN! BRANDT! THAT IS RIDICULOUS TECHNIQUE!" Cordero shouted, his voice cutting through the noise.

Vivian tried to hook a leg around, but Lukas had already released a sharp pass into Götze and hopped over the attempted tackle with the lightness of someone who had practiced that exact escape pattern a thousand times.

De Galarreta, totally wrong-footed, spun in place trying to readjust, but by then Lukas was already sprinting into the final third.

The jeers grew even louder — almost panicked.

Götze, recognizing the opportunity, returned the ball first-time, threading it into Lukas’ stride.

Now Bilbao were exposed.

Vivian, having stepped high earlier, was out of the picture. Jauregizar was scrambling back. De Marcos was too far to help.

Only Álvarez stood between Lukas and the very edge of the penalty arc, with Ekitike making a diagonal run that pulled the defender’s attention in two painful directions.

"Frankfurt are in! Brandt driving; look at the composure!" Cordero narrated.

Álvarez hesitated, a single, fatal pause, unsure whether to step out or stay compact.

Lukas recognized it immediately. His hips shaped toward the passing lane, signaling a through ball into Ekitike—

But just as he slid slightly to release it—

CRUNCH.

A brutal challenge from the side wiped him out.

Jauregizar had lunged desperately, taking ball and man but in the wrong order.

The whistle shrilled instantly.

"Ooooh that’s a nasty one!" Wittyngham groaned. "He gets none of the ball and all of Brandt."

Frankfurt players swarmed, furious.

Lukas sat up, rubbing his shin, wincing as he bent his sock to check for marks.

The referee reached calmly into his pocket.

Yellow card.

The San Mamés crowd cheered the booking like a goal. This was a tackle that could get you a red card any other day, but it was checked for serious foul play by the VAR, and cleared even as Koch, the captain that night, protested to the referee.

Ekitike jogged over, grabbing Lukas under the arms and pulling him to his feet, muttering something about the stupidity of the tackle and how close he had been to being clean through.

"That entire move," Cordero observed, "came from Brandt’s brilliance. One impossible touch, and suddenly the entire Bilbao midfield was gone. Sixteen years old in a cauldron like this — and he’s playing like the pressure doesn’t exist."

The boos began again as Lukas stepped over the ball with Skhiri lining up beside him as they whispered something to each other.

Agirrezabala adjusted his wall.

Nico Williams lay flat behind his defenders, ready to block a low strike.

The jeers were a living thing—alive, swelling, growing teeth. The moment Lukas placed the ball down and took his few steps back, the entire cathedral of football roared as if trying to force his lungs to seize mid-breath. Every Bilbao player yelled instructions to the man next to him.

Agirrezabala, the goalkeeper, crouched, then stood tall, then crouched again, his gloves tapping anxiously against one another as he tried to read the teenager’s posture, his angle, the position of his standing foot. Nico Williams flattened himself behind the wall, his face half-turned to watch the ball through the gap between two ankles.

And yet Lukas stood utterly still.

No adjusting of his socks.

No tug at his shorts.

No darting glances at the wall.

He just stared at the ball, then at the goal, as if the noise was nothing more than a muted hum behind glass.

Chris Wittyngham filled the silence on commentary.

"The boy has ice in his veins. Just listen to this... it’s deafening."

Andrés Cordero added quietly:

"Three free-kick goals already this year, left foot or right foot—he’s deadly from here."

The whistle went.

And Lukas did not move forward.

Instead, he shuffled two steps sideways, almost casually, as if abandoning the responsibility entirely. The stadium buzzed in confusion. Agirrezabala’s weight shifted instinctively toward the side where Skhiri was now shaping his run.

Even Toppmöller, arms folded on the touchline, leaned forward in concern, "what’s going on?" he thought. "Lukas never gave up a free-kick unless something was wrong."

Skhiri began his run.

The wall jumped.

The goalkeeper braced.

And nothing came.

Because the ball never left the ground. Skhiri rolled it sharp and flat to the left, right into the small pocket Lukas had moved into.

Suddenly everything clicked.

A collective gasp broke through the stadium — like the sucking in of oxygen before a scream.

Alvarez burst out from the wall, throwing his entire frame toward the ball, but he was a heartbeat too late. Lukas had already shifted his weight, left foot coiling like a bowstring, right arm whipping backward for balance. His body twisted beautifully, violently, and the moment the ball reached him—

He struck it.

A half-step, one smooth arc of motion, and his left foot detonated through the ball.

Both of Lukas’s feet left the ground from the force.

The ball didn’t rise more than a meter above the turf, but it whistled like something alive, bending and accelerating at the same time, a vicious skipping stone that refused to bounce. Agirrezabala saw it far too late — he flung himself full-stretch, fingertips grazing empty air—

And the right-side net exploded as the ball slammed into the bottom corner.

Time froze.

The jeers died mid-breath.

For a moment, San Mamés was silent.

Then the away end erupted like it had been holding its breath for centuries.

Chris Wittyngham’s voice cracked.

"OH MY WORD — WHAT A HIT! WHAT A HIT FROM LUKAS BRANDT!"

And Cordero rode the wave:

"A devastating strike! Inventive! Brilliant! Outrageous! Eintracht Frankfurt level through the 16-year-old wonderkid, who has just silenced the cathedral!"