"GOAL!" Matthäus shouted. "What a strike from Lukas!"

"Incredible technique," Fàbregas added. "Absolutely incredible!"

Lukas stood still for a brief moment, watching the ball settle, almost confirming it had truly gone in.

Then he turned and sprinted toward the corner flag.

As he reached it, he slowed just enough to face the crowd. He raised his right hand, extending his middle, ring, and pinky fingers while his thumb and index formed a circle. He brought the gesture up beside his head, holding it there—pointing.

The signature celebration.

The crowd exploded.

The noise surged into something overwhelming, a wave of sound crashing over the pitch as the stands erupted in black, red, and white.

His teammates didn’t give him long.

Goretzka reached him first, grabbing him around the shoulders, followed immediately by Wirtz and Adeyemi, and then the rest of the team piled in, pulling him into a chaotic bundle of bodies and celebration.

"Germany are level!" Matthäus continued. "And what a response!"

"Two minutes," Fàbregas said, still amazed. "Just two minutes after conceding. That is top-level mentality."

High in the stands, Musiala was on his feet, clapping and laughing, shaking his head in disbelief as he watched the celebration unfold.

On the pitch, Lukas was buried beneath his teammates, grinning, breathing hard, the adrenaline still rushing through him.

Spain had struck first.

But Germany had answered immediately.

And now, the final had truly begun.

The game didn’t settle after the equalizer.

If anything, it sharpened.

Spain responded the way elite teams do—not with panic, but with control. The ball returned to them almost immediately after kickoff, and once again the rhythm began to tilt in their favor. The midfield triangle tightened, Zubimendi anchoring, Fabián Ruiz drifting, and Pedri orchestrating with that same quiet authority that had defined the opening minutes.

Germany, however, were no longer passive.

They stepped higher now, closing passing lanes earlier, forcing Spain to move the ball just a fraction quicker than they wanted. It didn’t break Spain’s control entirely, but it disrupted the flow enough to create moments—small cracks where transitions could form.

Still, the danger remained.

And it came again through Lamine Yamal.

The move began on Spain’s left, with Nico Williams drawing Kimmich inward before slipping the ball back into midfield. Pedri collected it under light pressure, turned effortlessly, and carried it forward just a few steps before releasing it into the right channel.

Yamal was already there.

Waiting.

He received the pass with his back to goal, Raum tight behind him, and for a moment it looked like he might recycle possession again. But instead, he rolled the ball under his sole, dragging it backward just enough to shift Raum’s balance.

Then he spun.

A quick pivot, sharp and sudden, and Raum was half a step late.

Yamal accelerated immediately, pushing the ball ahead with his left foot as he drove diagonally toward the edge of the box. Tah stepped out to close him, trying to block the shooting lane, but Yamal slowed just enough to draw him in before shifting the ball across his body again.

Left to right.

Right to left.

A feint.

Another touch.

Tah committed.

Yamal slipped past him.

The space opened.

"Danger here," Matthäus warned.

Now at the edge of the penalty area, Yamal set himself. His body shape suggested a shot across goal, and Ter Stegen adjusted accordingly, leaning slightly to anticipate the curl toward the far corner.

Yamal saw it. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

And changed it.

Instead of going across, he whipped his foot around the ball, striking it with pace toward the near side, aiming high.

Ter Stegen reacted instantly.

He exploded off his line, arms rising, body stretching upward as the ball arrowed toward the top corner. At full extension, he got a strong hand to it, parrying it away with force.

The ball ricocheted upward and dropped back into the box.

Ronaldo was already moving.

He attacked the second ball, trying to bring it down under pressure from Koch, but the German defender stayed tight, disrupting his balance just enough for the ball to bounce awkwardly. Groß reacted first, stepping in to clear it away before Spain could capitalize.

"Another big save," Fàbregas said. "Yamal is causing problems every time he gets the ball."

Ter Stegen pushed himself up again, exhaling as he glanced toward his defense, shouting instructions, trying to tighten the shape.

Germany had survived.

But only just.

For the next few minutes, the game shifted into something more balanced.

Spain still controlled large stretches of possession, but Germany were finding moments now—small windows where they could break forward with intent. The midfield battle grew more physical, more contested, with Goretzka beginning to impose himself, stepping into challenges and disrupting Spain’s rhythm just enough to slow them down.

The crowd felt it too.

The tension remained, but there was belief again, a growing sense that Germany were not just holding on—they were in it.

Lukas drifted more freely now.

He wasn’t receiving as often as he wanted, but when he did, he held the ball longer, drawing defenders in, testing the spaces, probing for openings. Each touch carried purpose, even if it didn’t always lead to an immediate breakthrough.

Then, just before the half-hour mark, the opportunity came.

And it came through him.

The move started deep.

Germany won the ball in midfield after a loose touch from Fabián Ruiz, with Goretzka stepping in to intercept and immediately pushing it forward into Groß. Groß didn’t hold it long. He turned and played a quick pass into Lukas, who had dropped into a pocket of space just beyond the center circle.

Zubimendi stepped toward him.

Lukas didn’t rush.

He took the ball on the half-turn, letting it roll slightly across his body before guiding it forward with a soft touch. Zubimendi tried to close the gap, but Lukas had already shifted direction, moving laterally to create a better angle.

Then he lifted his head.

And saw the run.

Woltemade.

Already moving.

Already breaking the line.

The pass came instantly.

Threaded.

Perfectly weighted.

Split between Le Normand and Huijsen, rolling into the space behind the defense.

"Brilliant pass," Matthäus said, his voice rising.

Woltemade burst onto it, his long strides eating up the distance as he surged into the box. The defenders were behind him now. The angle was slightly narrow, but it was a clear chance.

One-on-one.

Unai Simón stepped forward, narrowing the angle, arms slightly out, body low, ready to react.

Woltemade didn’t hesitate.

He struck it.

Low.

Toward the far corner.

But he rushed it.

The connection wasn’t clean.

The ball dragged slightly off his foot, losing pace as it rolled toward goal.

Simón read it easily.

He dropped quickly, extending his leg just enough to block it, the ball deflecting off his shin and rolling safely away from danger.

Woltemade stopped.

Hands on his hips.

Then on his head.

He knew.

"That has to be better," Fàbregas said. "The pass is perfect. He has to finish that."

Behind him, Lukas slowed his run, watching the outcome with a neutral expression. He didn’t react outwardly, but there was a flicker of frustration—because he knew exactly how good the chance had been.

Germany had found their moment.

And let it slip.