Spain didn’t let the moment settle.

The equaliser had lit something inside them, and from the restart they surged forward again, sharper, quicker, more direct. Pedri dropped deeper to orchestrate, dictating the tempo with those effortless touches, while Fabián Ruiz and Zubimendi pushed higher, compressing Germany into their own half. Yamal and Nico Williams stayed wide, stretching the pitch, constantly threatening to isolate their markers. Germany, for the first time since taking the lead, were being forced back.

It felt like Spain were the ones hunting the winner now.

Every clearance came back. Every loose ball seemed to fall red. The Allianz Arena, which had been roaring just minutes earlier, now held a nervous edge, the kind that tightens with every Spanish pass around the box.

By the 85th minute, the pressure had reached its peak.

A long goal kick from Ter Stegen sailed into midfield. Jonathan Tah rose and met it, heading it back into the center, but the ball didn’t drop harmlessly. It dropped to Pedri.

And what he did next froze the moment.

As the ball descended, Pedri lifted his leg high, almost casually, and cushioned it on the tip of his toes while it was still in the air. It stuck to him, like it belonged there, before he brought it down seamlessly to the grass. Instantly, he was surrounded—Pavlović and Serge Gnabry closing from either side—but Pedri didn’t panic. He twisted, turned, wriggled through the pressure, the ball glued to his feet, slipping out of the trap as if it never existed.

"Unbelievable control," Lothar Matthäus muttered.

In one motion, Pedri released Yamal on the right.

Yamal took it in stride, just inside Spain’s half. He lifted his head and immediately saw the run—Nico Williams bursting forward behind the German line. Without breaking stride, Yamal struck the ball with the outside of his foot, sending a perfectly weighted trivela pass skimming across the grass, curving around the defensive line like it had eyes.

The pass split Germany open. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Williams was through.

One on one.

The stadium held its breath.

He struck it—

High.

Over.

Way over.

The chance was gone.

The Spanish players threw their hands to their heads in disbelief. Yamal stood still for a moment, staring at the space where the ball should have been, while Ter Stegen erupted, screaming at his defenders, his voice echoing across the pitch as he pointed and barked orders, demanding they never allow that kind of pass again.

Still 2–2.

Still alive.

But Spain were knocking.

On the touchline, Nagelsmann paced, his eyes flicking toward Lukas. For a brief moment, he considered it—taking him off, fresh legs, control—but he shook his head almost immediately. No. Not yet. Not him.

Not now.

Moments later, Ter Stegen went long again. This time Dennis Undav, who had come on for Woltemade, rose to meet it. His header wasn’t aimless—it was directed, flicked into the path of Wirtz. Wirtz brought it down and instantly found Lukas.

From the right side, Lukas began to carry.

Cucurella stepped up. Zubimendi shaded across.

Two again.

But Lukas didn’t slow.

He slipped the ball into Wirtz, then burst forward between the two defenders. Wirtz returned it first time, threading it into space ahead of him, and suddenly Lukas was driving straight at the heart of the Spanish defense.

Huijsen stepped out.

Lukas shifted the ball with a quick la croqueta, moving it from left to right, gliding past the tackle in one smooth motion. The space opened up at the edge of the D, and without hesitation, he struck.

Power.

Clean.

But Le Normand threw himself into it, body on the line, and the ball ricocheted away for a corner.

Germany’s biggest threat.

Again.

The minutes bled away.

Ninety approached.

Then passed.

Four minutes added.

It felt inevitable now—extra time looming, both teams stretched, both searching but wary of making the final mistake.

Spain pushed one last time.

The ball worked its way to Oyarzabal at the edge of the box. He cushioned it, laid it off to Zubimendi, and Zubimendi wound up, striking through the ball with venom.

Kimmich threw himself in the way.

Block.

The ball ricocheted out into midfield.

Pavlović reacted first.

He lifted his head and saw Undav at the halfway line and played it into him.

Transition.

Now.

Germany broke.

Undav controlled and immediately slipped it wide to Lukas, who was already sprinting down the right flank. The space opened in front of him as he drove forward, Cucurella chasing, trying to recover ground.

Lukas entered the final third at pace.

Reached the byline.

Looked up.

Undav arriving.

Wirtz arriving.

He shaped to cross—

Cucurella stepped to block.

So Lukas cut it back.

Shifted onto his left.

Drove inward toward the edge of the box.

Cucurella lunged again—

Contact.

From behind.

Lukas went down.

"FWEEE!" The referee’s whistle blew as he showed Cucurella a yellow card and gave the freekick.

Free kick.

Right side of the D.

Last kick.

The clock had already passed the four minutes.

There would be no more.

Kimmich stood over it.

Lukas beside him.

The Spanish wall formed quickly, Unai Simón shouting, adjusting, pointing, trying to close every angle.

"It’s too close," Matthäus said. "This is difficult to get over the wall and down."

"Maybe a delivery," came the reply.

Kimmich leaned in, speaking quickly. "I’ll take it. Float it in."

Lukas looked at him.

Then leaned in.

Whispered something back.

Kimmich paused.

Studied him.

Then nodded.

And stepped away.

"What has he said?" Matthäus asked, disbelief creeping in. "Kimmich is leaving it..."

"To him?" came the stunned reply.

"A 16-year-old... in this moment?"

On the touchline, Nagelsmann gestured urgently, shouting instructions, but Kimmich turned slightly and motioned for calm.

Lukas stood alone over the ball.

He looked at the wall.

At the goal.

At the space.

Then down at the ball.

The referee blew the whistle.

A short run-up.

Compact.

Controlled.

He struck it.

Not over the wall.

Around it.

With the edge of his big toe, shaping the ball with precision, sending it bending low and fast around the far edge of the wall.

Dean Hujsen at the end of the wall felt it — the rush of air as the ball whipped past him, just beyond his reach.

He tried moving his head towards the ball but it buzzed past his hair as it curled around him.

Unai Simón dived.

Full stretch.

Fingertips chasing.

Too late.

The ball curled.

CLANG*

Clipped the inside of the post.

And buried itself in the net.

For a heartbeat—

silence.

Then—

detonation.

Matthäus completely lost composure. "UNBELIEVABLE! UNBELIEVABLE! A SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD—ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"

His voice cracked as he kept shouting over the noise. "WHAT A STRIKE! WHAT A MOMENT! THIS IS HISTORY!"

Fàbregas was half laughing, half shouting in disbelief. "No, no, no, you cannot do that here, not in a final, not like this! That is outrageous! That is absolutely outrageous!"

Matthäus kept going, not even trying to rein himself in. "They’ve won it! They’ve won it with the last kick! Germany have won it! Lukas — remember the name — Lukas Brandt has just written his name into football history!"

The roar of the Allianz Arena swallowed everything after that, but the commentators were still shouting over it, voices overlapping, words tumbling into each other as the reality of the moment hit all at once.

The Allianz Arena exploded.

A/N: You can support on ko-fi(.)com/writ1 and your extra Chapter will be released ASAP.

After a bit of thinking, the extra Chapters terms have been improved: 1 minimum tip for 1 extra Chapter. And no limit on the amount of extra Chapters possible (Here’s to hoping someone tips a million dollars!)

You guys are really helping me get by and I am really grateful.

Love you all.

Writ.