Quaresma’s voice cut through the moment. "That’s what he does even at this age, you give him one chance — and it’s enough. He’ll punish you."

Matthäus shook his head. "And now the game is wide open again."

On the touchline, Lukas stood there, still processing the instructions he had just been given.

The ball had gone in mid-conversation.

The noise around him surged.

Portugal celebrating.

Germany regrouping.

Nagelsmann turned back to him immediately.

A quick nod.

Decision made.

The board went up.

Double substitution.

Lukas for Sané.

Undav for Woltemade.

As Lukas stepped toward the touchline, the stadium reacted instantly.

A wave of applause.

Louder than expected.

Anticipation.

Expectation.

Matthäus’ voice carried it perfectly.

"Finally," he said. "Here he comes."

Quaresma smiled slightly. "This is what everyone has been waiting for."

Lukas crossed the line, the number 21 visible on his back as he jogged into position.

Matthäus added, "Such a young player—and already a fan favourite for the national team. Let’s see what he can bring."

And as the game restarted—

all eyes shifted.

To him.

Germany restarted immediately after the equaliser, the ball tapped back into midfield before being circulated under pressure. Portugal stepped up with intent, Bruno Fernandes angling his run while Pedro Neto sprinted across to close the angle, forcing Germany deeper. The ball moved quickly through a couple of touches before being played all the way back to Marc-André ter Stegen, who found himself under immediate pressure.

"Portugal pressing high immediately," Matthäus observed. "They’re trying to force a mistake here."

Ter Stegen barely had a second. Bruno was closing, Neto cutting off the passing lane, and the goalkeeper had to make a decision quickly. He lifted his head, scanning, and then spotted Lukas high on the right flank near the halfway line. Without hesitation, he struck through the ball, sending a long, driven pass arcing across the pitch.

"That’s brave," Quaresma added. "Very brave under this kind of pressure."

The ball dropped quickly toward Lukas, who adjusted his body under it while already feeling Nuno Mendes tight behind him. The contact came early—Mendes leaning in, trying to disrupt him before he could even bring the ball down cleanly. Lukas raised his thigh and cushioned it well, letting it fall into his path, but Mendes immediately tried to muscle him toward the touchline.

It was physical, relentless. Mendes tried to use his strength to force him out for a throw, and for a moment, it looked like Lukas might be pushed off balance. But he held his ground just enough, planting himself and trying to improvise a way out. He flicked the ball with the back of his foot, attempting to slip it through Mendes’ legs and spin away.

Mendes read it perfectly. He snapped his legs shut, blocking the attempt, and the ball ricocheted off him and out of play.

"Good defending again," Matthäus said. "He’s not committing too early."

Quaresma nodded. "He’s waiting for Lukas to make the first move—and then reacting."

The first duel went to Mendes.

Germany recycled possession again, trying to maintain their structure, but Portugal looked sharper now, more aggressive without the ball. A few minutes later, the ball found Lukas again, this time through Pavlović. He received it just inside Portugal’s half, took a touch, and immediately laid it off to Wirtz in the centre.

Wirtz didn’t dwell on it. With one touch, he sent it straight back out wide, perfectly into Lukas’ path as he moved forward. Lukas collected it near the edge of the final third, but this time he wasn’t alone—Mendes was in front of him again, and Pedro Neto had tracked back to support.

"Two against one," Quaresma noted. "This is difficult."

Lukas slowed things down, keeping the ball close, dragging it slightly forward as he measured the space between them. Then he made his move—a quick la croqueta, shifting the ball from his right to his left and punching it forward between the two defenders. For a split second, it looked like he had slipped through cleanly.

The crowd reacted, sensing danger.

But Mendes reacted faster. He stretched out his leg, cleanly getting a touch on the ball while clipping Lukas in the process. The challenge was strong but fair enough, and the move broke down instantly.

"Again, Mendes," Matthäus said. "Very composed." 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Quaresma added, "He’s learning him. He knows what Lukas wants to do now."

Second duel.

Mendes again.

The game continued to ebb and flow, both sides probing, but the tension was building. Then came the moment in the 78th minute.

Kimmich switched play from deep, a long diagonal ball curling through the air toward the right flank. Lukas tracked it carefully, bringing it down on his chest with control, cushioning it perfectly into his stride.

And there he was again.

Nuno Mendes.

This time, there was no immediate help. No Neto closing in yet. Just the two of them, squared up on the flank.

"Now this is the moment," Matthäus said, his voice sharpening slightly.

Lukas slowed the play, dragging the ball forward step by step. Mendes mirrored him, crouched slightly, balanced, retreating just enough to maintain distance but ready to challenge. Both of them waited, reading each other, neither committing too early.

Then Lukas gave the faintest hint of movement, a subtle shift of his body.

Mendes reacted.

Just a fraction.

His foot came forward.

That was all Lukas needed.

He clipped the ball up instantly, lifting it over Mendes’ outstretched leg, and at the same time jumped cleanly over the challenge. Mendes tried to recover, reaching out to grab his shirt, but Lukas shrugged it off and powered forward.

"He’s away now!" Matthäus shouted.

Lukas accelerated down the flank, the ball dropping back perfectly into his stride. Mendes turned and chased, refusing to give up, but Lukas had the momentum now. He reached the byline and shaped his body as if to whip in a cross with his right foot.

Mendes lunged to block it.

Lukas chopped the ball back sharply.

Mendes stayed on his feet and recovered quickly, closing the angle again. Lukas shifted the ball onto his left, shaping once more as if to cross, and again Mendes committed, throwing his leg out to block.

But Lukas cut it back again, snapping it onto his right foot and changing direction completely. This time, Mendes lost his balance slightly, his weight caught the wrong way for just a moment.

It was enough.

Lukas burst past him into the box.

He lifted his head and scanned quickly. At the back post, Pavlović was arriving late, unmarked, timing his run perfectly.

The cross came immediately, clipped with precision toward the far side. Rúben Dias jumped to meet it but couldn’t get there. The ball sailed just over him and dropped into Pavlović’s path.

Pavlović launched himself forward, meeting it with a diving header that drove the ball down and into the net.

"GOOOAL! GERMANY!" Matthäus roared.

The Allianz Arena exploded.

Pavlović sprang to his feet, sprinting toward the corner as his teammates chased him down in celebration. Lukas stood still for a brief moment, watching the ball settle in the net, then turned as the noise crashed over him and began to run, joining the celebrations.

Quaresma shook his head, almost impressed. "That’s the difference. Third time—and he figures it out."

Matthäus pointed down toward the pitch. "Exactly. He lost the first two duels, but he kept taking on his man. And this time, he beats Mendes—and creates the goal."

Germany led again.

And this time, it felt heavier.