Both Sané and Mittledtadt struggled to track him.

Every time Germany lost the ball, Mendes was already moving.

Already running.

Already creating danger.

In the 40th minute, Portugal nearly struck.

Bruno Fernandes picked up the ball in midfield and slipped a pass forward to Ronaldo. He took it in stride, shifted it onto his right foot, and struck from the edge of the box.

The shot curled—

but drifted wide.

Not far.

Close enough to draw a reaction.

Minutes later, Bruno tried himself, a low effort from distance, but it lacked power. Ter Stegen gathered it comfortably.

The tempo dropped slightly toward the end of the half.

Germany still had the ball.

Portugal still sat deep.

Neither side willing to overcommit.

The rhythm flattened.

Control without breakthrough.

Threat without finish.

The whistle for halftime echoed through the Allianz Arena, and the players disappeared down the tunnel with the score still locked at nil-nil. The noise in the stadium dipped slightly, replaced by the low hum of anticipation that always comes when a game feels like it’s waiting for something.

Up in the commentary box, Lothar Matthäus leaned back slightly, exhaling as he gathered his thoughts.

"It’s been a very controlled first half from Germany," he began. "They’ve dominated possession, dictated the tempo, and created the better chances. But... they’re still missing that final moment. That bit of magic."

Beside him, Ricardo Quaresma nodded, his eyes still fixed on the pitch below.

"Yes," he said. "Portugal are comfortable suffering. They’re compact, disciplined. They don’t mind letting Germany have the ball because they trust themselves to survive—and then hit back when the opportunity comes."

Matthäus tapped the desk lightly with his fingers.

"But that’s the danger," he replied. "If you don’t take your chances against a team like Portugal, they will punish you."

A brief pause.

Then he added, more decisively, "And for me... surely now we see a change. Leroy Sané hasn’t had the best half. He’s struggled to impact the game, especially defensively against Nuno Mendes."

Quaresma gave a small smile. "You’re thinking about one player."

Matthäus nodded without hesitation. "Of course. Lucas. I thought he would start, and now I think he has to come on. He brings unpredictability. Directness. Something different."

Quaresma leaned forward slightly. "I agree. If the game stays like this, you need someone who can break structure. Someone who doesn’t play by the rhythm."

The camera cut briefly to the bench again.

Lukas sat there, calm, hands clasped, eyes forward.

Waiting.

The players returned.

The second half began.

And as the camera scanned the German lineup again—

Lukas was still on the bench.

Matthäus let out a small breath. "No change," he said. "That is... surprising."

Quaresma raised his brows slightly. "Very."

But the game didn’t wait for debate.

Germany came out sharper.

Faster.

More aggressive.

It was clear Nagelsmann had said something in that dressing room, because the tempo immediately lifted. The passing was quicker, the pressing more intense, the movement more purposeful.

Portugal were pushed back again.

And this time—

Germany found their moment.

It started in midfield.

Florian Wirtz.

Again.

He received the ball just inside the Portuguese half, with Bernardo Silva stepping in to close him down. Wirtz shaped his body as if he was going to drift left, his hips opening just enough to sell it—

Then he snapped the other way.

A quick spin.

Bernardo was gone.

Wirtz burst forward immediately, accelerating into the space, driving straight at the retreating Portuguese line. João Neves stepped across, trying to recover position, but Wirtz was already ahead of him.

He carried the ball thirty yards up the pitch.

Then—

released it.

A short pass into Leroy Sané.

And kept running.

Sané didn’t hesitate. One touch. Then a perfectly weighted return, slipped right into Wirtz’s path, splitting the line just enough.

Wirtz was through.

João Neves reached out instinctively, a hand brushing against Wirtz’s shoulder as he tried to slow him down—but he pulled back just as quickly. One wrong move and it would be a penalty.

Wirtz entered the box.

Shaped to shoot.

Rúben Dias committed, diving in to block—

But Wirtz didn’t strike.

He cut it.

Shifted the ball just to the side.

Created the angle.

Then curled it.

Right foot.

Far corner.

Diogo Costa flew across goal, stretching every inch of his frame—

But he couldn’t reach it.

The ball nestled into the net.

1–0.

The Allianz Arena erupted.

"GOAL! Florian Wirtz!" Matthäus roared. "That is pure quality! Absolutely brilliant!"

Quaresma shook his head, smiling. "That’s what I mean. One player, one action—and everything changes."

Wirtz ran toward the corner, arms outstretched as his teammates swarmed him. The crowd was on its feet, roaring, the noise rolling through the stadium like a wave.

On the bench, Lukas was already up, fists clenched as he celebrated alongside Adeyemi, both of them shouting toward the pitch.

Germany had the lead.

But the game shifted.

Quickly.

Because Portugal didn’t retreat this time.

They stepped forward.

And suddenly, it was Germany being pushed back.

Nuno Mendes became the outlet every time Portugal broke. He surged down the left again and again, his pace relentless, his control precise. Mittelstädt struggled to contain him, Anton dragged across to help, but Mendes kept finding space.

The pressure built.

Crosses came in.

Second balls fell dangerously.

And then—

the chance.

Mendes again.

Down the left.

He drove forward, cut inside slightly, then whipped a low ball across the face of goal. Ronaldo was there, perfectly positioned, side-footing it first time toward the bottom corner.

It looked certain.

It looked like a goal.

But—

Ter Stegen. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

A full stretch dive.

A strong hand.

He pushed it away.

"WHAT A SAVE!" Matthäus shouted. "That is world-class goalkeeping!"

Quaresma exhaled sharply. "Ronaldo scores that nine times out of ten..."

The momentum had shifted completely now.

Portugal were coming.

Wave after wave.

And on the touchline, Nagelsmann still waited.

Still watched.

Lukas had been warming up right from the start of the second half, Nagelsmann had let him know he would be coming on in the second half, although he was now unsure how much minutes he’d get since the team was currently winning.

He jogged along the sideline, stretching, loosening his legs, the crowd noticing immediately. A ripple of anticipation spread through the stands.

Then in the 55th minute—

a call.

Nagelsmann gestured.

Lukas turned back, jogging over, listening as the coach spoke quickly, giving instructions, pointing toward the pitch, outlining movements, positioning—

And in that exact moment... As if Portugal had been waiting for Lukas to come on—

They struck.

It started deep.

Nuno Mendes again.

He won the ball near his own half and didn’t slow down. He drove forward, powering down the left flank, brushing past challenges, forcing Germany backward.

Mittelstädt tried to contain him.

Anton shifted across.

But Mendes kept going.

Right to the byline.

This time—

he didn’t drive it low.

He clipped it.

A perfect, hanging cross.

And in the middle—

"RONALLDOOOOOOO!!" Quaresma screamed as Ronaldo rose above everyone.

Timing it perfectly.

He met it clean.

A firm header.

Back across goal.

Into the net.

1–1.

The Portuguese fans exploded.

Ronaldo wheeled away, arms wide, then leapt into his trademark celebration as the "SIUUUUUU" from their section echoed across the stadium.

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A/N: This is a ko-fi sponsored Chapter by MUD104 — our first dono. Thank you very much for the support. This week’s goal is back live. Same as last week’s. Check out more information on ko-fi(.)com/writ1