As the song swelled one last time, Lukas lifted his head, the lights of Deutsche Bank Park shining in his eyes. He turned toward the stands, clapped again, and whispered under his breath—

"Thank you."

And then he walked off the pitch, side by side with his teammates, the echoes of his name still rolling through the stadium.

* * *

The door to the dressing room swung open with a low, metallic creak. One by one, the players filed in — silent, heads down, boots dragging against the floor. The hum of the fluorescent lights above filled the room, mixing with the faint sound of showers running in the distance. No one spoke.

Jackets were tossed aside, tape peeled off, gloves dropped onto benches. The air smelled of sweat and disappointment. Lukas sat at the far end of the room, still in his kit, staring at the floor. He could hear Larsson's slow breathing beside him, the sound of someone still trying to make sense of the loss.

Ekitike sat alone in the corner, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. His face was blank — but behind it was a storm of guilt. The missed penalty hung over him like a cloud. No one blamed him out loud, but the silence said everything.

Then came the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. The door slammed open.

Dino Toppmöller stepped in — face tight, jaw clenched, his voice cutting through the air like a whip.

"Sit down."

No one dared move. The room froze.

He looked around — at every player — his eyes sharp, searching. "We had that game," he started, his voice rising. "We had it in our hands. Ninety minutes of hard work, control, fight... And then we throw it away."

He paced across the room, his shoes echoing off the tile. "I don't care about luck. I don't care about 'almost.' We make our own results here. And today, we didn't finish the job."

He turned toward Ekitike. The room held its breath.

"Hugo," Toppmöller said, his tone dropping but no less sharp. "You know what I'm going to say."

Ekitike swallowed hard, eyes still on the floor.

"That penalty…" Toppmöller exhaled through his nose, visibly holding back anger. "You never walk up to a penalty like that. Never. Not in the Bundesliga. Not with points on the line. You don't try to be clever — you put it away."

Ekitike nodded slightly. "Yes, coach," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

"No," Toppmöller snapped. "Not 'yes, coach.' I want to see it. Tomorrow. You'll be out there early. Extra penalty work. Every morning this week. I want fifty clean shots a day until you don't miss again. Understand?"

Ekitike nodded again, this time meeting his coach's eyes. "Understood."

Toppmöller's voice softened — but only slightly. "You've got the talent. Nobody doubts that. But you've got to earn the right to be the difference. That comes from work... From doing the simple things right."

He turned to the rest of the squad. "And that goes for all of you. We fight, we press, we play good football, but when the moment comes, we need killers out there. Not dreamers. Killers."

The room stayed quiet. A few players nodded silently.

Toppmöller exhaled, his shoulders lowering just a little. "We'll review everything tomorrow. Rest tonight. Clear your heads. Because come next matchday…" He paused, scanning the room. "We respond."

He turned toward the door, then stopped for a brief moment. His eyes flicked toward Lukas, who hadn't spoken a word.

"Brandt," he said, voice softer now. "You did well tonight. Keep your head up."

Lukas blinked, surprised. "Thank you, coach."

Toppmöller nodded once, then left, the door slamming shut behind him.

For a few seconds, no one moved. Just the hum of the lights again — that same, heavy silence. Then Larsson leaned over, patting Lukas on the back.

"Welcome to real football," he said quietly.

Lukas managed a small smile. The loss still stung, but deep down, he knew this was just the beginning.

However deep in Ekitike's heart, something was beginning to turn. A feeling he could not quite describe yet, but one he was clearly unhappy with.

* * *

The night outside was quiet, the kind of silence that only comes after defeat. The streets of Frankfurt had emptied, the echoes of the match long gone. Inside his small apartment, Lukas sat on the edge of his bed, the glow of his phone lighting up his face.

His kit bag lay untouched by the door. His boots, still muddy from the match, sat beside it as silent reminders of the night's heartbreak.

He scrolled through his phone. Notifications kept popping up: messages, tags, fan posts. His name was trending among the club supporters. Some were praising his performance:

@SGEmania: "That kid Brandt is special. He gave everything."@Eintrachter4life"Only on the pitch for 15 minutes, but you could feel the difference. Future Balon d'Or candidate for sure."

@ManSanMia: "True. But if he wants to stand any chance, he would have to move to a bigger club."

@SGEmania: "What are you doing here? Is this what it's like to be stalked? Go to your team's page and leave us alone!"

But then, the tone changed. Some faceless accounts on Instagram were starting to pile criticism on Ekitike for his saved penalty.

"Ekitike should've let Lukas take the penalty.""He's selfish, cost us the points.""Toppmöller needs to make Brandt the first-choice penalty taker from now on."

Lukas sighed and leaned back against the wall, the screen reflecting in his tired eyes. He scrolled slower now, reading every harsh word aimed at his teammate.

He could still see it clearly: Ekitike standing at the spot, the stadium holding its breath. The clean strike, the perfect height, and then that incredible save. The Union keeper had guessed right, dove full stretch, fingertips pushing the ball wide.

"That wasn't a bad penalty," Lukas muttered to himself. "Just a better save."

He locked the phone and tossed it onto his pillow. The room fell dark again, the only light coming from the city outside his window. He rubbed his face, replaying the moment when he saw Ekitike fall to his knees after the miss. He remembered running up to him, the disbelief on his face — not anger or regret, just pain.

Lukas got up and poured himself a glass of water. The cold hit his throat, but his mind was still burning with thoughts.

He picked up his phone again and opened the team group chat. A few messages had come in. Larsson had sent one earlier:

"Forget the result. We keep going."

Ekitike hadn't said anything.

After a moment, Lukas typed:

"That save was world-class. Don't blame yourself, bro. We win and lose together."

He stared at the message for a second, then hit send.

The screen stayed still for a while. Then a reply popped up.

"Appreciate that, man. I'll make it up next game."

Lukas smiled faintly. "Yeah," he whispered to himself, "we both will."

He placed the phone on his desk and looked at the wall above it, filled with training schedules, motivational notes, and one photo from the youth team days in Darmstadt with Joao and the rest of the players in the U17 squad.

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