"Brilliant!" Matthäus shouted.

Cucurella spun, scrambling to recover, but Lukas was already accelerating down the line. His first few steps were explosive, and then his run began to curve inward, angling toward the edge of the penalty area.

Fabián chased from behind.

Too late.

Lukas lifted his head.

Scanned the box.

Movement.

Woltemade central, dragging Huijsen with him.

And at the back post—

Wirtz.

Free.

He had slipped away from Mingueza, timing his run perfectly, arriving into space just beyond the defensive line.

Lukas didn’t hesitate.

From the edge of the box, just as he crossed into the right side of the area, he shaped his body and curled the ball across goal.

Not a shot.

Not quite a cross.

Something in between.

A driven, bending delivery that arced across the six-yard box.

Unai Simón hesitated.

For a split second, he couldn’t decide.

Step forward?

Stay?

Claim it?

Leave it?

That moment of doubt was enough.

The ball flew past him.

Across the face of goal.

Toward the back post.

Wirtz was there.

Running full speed.

He met it cleanly.

Side-foot.

Controlled.

Guided it into the net.

And the stadium erupted.

"GERMANY TAKE THE LEAD!" Matthäus roared.

"What a move!" Fàbregas added. "That is outstanding from Brandt — absolutely outstanding!" 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

Wirtz’s momentum carried him toward the post, and he steadied himself with a hand against it to avoid colliding, his breath heavy, heart racing. Then he turned immediately, already pointing.

At Lukas.

"Come here!" he shouted.

Lukas was already running toward him, arms slightly out, a grin breaking through as the noise of the Allianz Arena crashed over them.

They met just inside the box.

Hands up.

Then into a hug.

Around them, the rest of the team poured in.

Kimmich sprinted from deep, fists clenched, shouting at the top of his voice. Goretzka arrived seconds later, grabbing both of them. Adeyemi slid in from the side, laughing, yelling, feeding off the energy.

The bench exploded.

Players leaping up.

Coaches shouting.

Everything—everything—bursting at once.

Spain stood still.

Fabián Ruiz slowed to a stop, hands on his hips, staring at the ground for a second before looking back toward where Lukas had been.

Cucurella didn’t even move at first.

He just stood there.

Then lifted both hands to his head.

Because he knew.

He had been beaten.

Cleanly.

"Spain are in trouble now," Matthäus said. "Germany have turned this game around completely."

In the middle of it all, Lukas pulled back slightly from the celebration, breathing hard, scanning the pitch again.

Focused.

Still locked in.

Because the game wasn’t over.

But now—

Germany led.

2–1.

Spain didn’t fold.

If anything, the goal seemed to sharpen them.

They pushed higher, quicker, their passing snapping back into rhythm as they tried to wrest control away from Germany. Pedri dropped deeper to collect, dictating the tempo again, while Fabián Ruiz stayed tighter to Lukas, no longer allowing even a yard of space. On the flanks, Nico Williams and Lamine Yamal stretched the pitch, forcing Germany’s back line to retreat and compress toward their own box.

Germany responded in kind. Kimmich and Goretzka held their ground in midfield, stepping into duels, recycling possession when they could, and launching quick transitions when the chance presented itself. Wirtz drifted between lines, Adeyemi darted into channels, and Lukas continued to move intelligently, pulling markers out of position even when he wasn’t directly involved.

The game became a pendulum.

One moment Spain probing, the next Germany breaking.

The Allianz Arena felt it with every phase—rising with Germany’s attacks, tightening in anticipation when Spain surged forward. Time ticked on, minute by minute, each passage of play carrying more weight than the last.

By the time the clock crept past seventy, the tension had settled into something sharper. One mistake. One moment. That was all it would take.

72nd minute.

Spain built from the middle.

Pedri received under pressure, turned smoothly, and lifted his head. Without hesitation, he clipped a precise pass out to the right flank, where Lamine Yamal was already waiting.

Raum stepped out immediately.

Groß followed, closing the angle.

Two defenders.

Same situation.

Different moment.

Yamal controlled it cleanly, bringing the ball under his spell with a single touch. He paused just enough to scan the box. Oyarzabal was there, central, but tightly marked by Koch—no clear lane for a cross.

So he kept it.

He began with the familiar rhythm.

Small touches.

Subtle shifts.

The ball moving almost lazily under his feet, but his eyes—sharp, calculating—locked onto the defenders in front of him.

Raum stayed low, body angled.

Groß hovered just behind, ready to step in.

Yamal rolled his foot around the ball.

A feint.

Then another.

He shaped as if he was about to explode down the byline, dragging the ball slightly forward with him.

Raum reacted instantly, stepping across to match the movement, trying to close him off before he could accelerate.

For a split second—

just a split second—

the spacing between Raum and Groß stretched.

Barely noticeable.

But enough.

Yamal saw it.

And that was all he needed.

With a sudden, sharp touch, he cut the ball back inside, threading it through the narrow gap between the two defenders. His body followed the movement fluidly, slipping past them in one motion as he entered the edge of the box.

Groß tried to recover.

Raum turned to chase.

Too late.

Yamal set himself.

One touch to steady.

Then—

he struck.

It was the same motion he had attempted before.

That curling effort.

The one he had shaped all game.

But this time—

it was perfect.

The ball left his foot with a clean, rising trajectory, bending away from Ter Stegen, arcing toward the far corner.

The moment it left his boot—

he knew.

Ter Stegen knew too.

He had seen it before.

In training.

Countless times.

At Barcelona.

He dived.

Full stretch.

Everything he had.

But the ball kept bending.

Kept curling.

It kissed the inside of the post.

And nestled into the net.

Silence.

For a fraction of a second.

Then—

explosion.

"Oh, what a goal!" Matthäus shouted, his voice cutting through the roar. "That is sensational!"

Fàbregas laughed in disbelief. "Lamine Yamal! That is world class—absolutely world class! We are watching something special here!"

Yamal didn’t sprint wildly.

He didn’t slide.

He simply turned, nodding his head slowly, almost calmly, as he looked around the pitch, absorbing the moment, acknowledging it.

He knew what he had done.

The camera cut.

To midfield.

Lukas stood near the halfway line.

Still.

Watching.

He followed the ball into the net.

Watched the celebration.

Then tilted his head slightly.

And shook it.

Just once.

"Listen to this," Matthäus said, his tone shifting slightly. "This is turning into something else now. This is no longer just Germany against Spain."

Fàbregas nodded. "It’s a battle," he said. "A battle of the teenagers. Lukas Brandt with a goal, an assist and a sensational performance, and Lamine Yamal has just responded with a signature screamer of his own."

"They are the youngest players on their team, but they are looking like the best players on their team too. This is why we love the beautiful game."

2–2.

And the game was alive again.

A/N: New announcement out on the YouTube community. Please check it out. Also voting ends soon so make sure you go vote. Thank you for your continued support.

Love, Writ.