Become A Football Legend-Chapter 172: Stuttgart [2]

Chapter 172: Stuttgart [2]
As Lukas jogged back into position after the celebration, Stuttgart wore the expressions of a team suddenly aware of the size of the mountain now in front of them. Down to ten men. A goal down. Away from home. Against a side whose confidence now bordered on frightening.
On the pitch, Karazor and Stiller tried to reorganise, gesturing to the defensive line to compress the spaces. Chabot pointed, Dakhil long gone in the tunnel after his red card, leaving Stuttgart’s back-line stretched thin.
The match restarted with Stuttgart’s kick-off. But something had changed.
Eintracht smelled blood.
They pressed as a unit, moving in synchronised waves — Larsson stepping up, Bahoya shadowing passing lanes, Koch squeezing the space where Demirović wanted to drop.
"Frankfurt look hungry," the commentator said. "They look like a team that wants to end this right now."
Stuttgart tried to keep possession, attempted to slow the tempo — but every touch felt rushed now, every pass one heartbeat too fast or too slow.
And the entire stadium sensed it too.
The noise didn’t drop for even a second.
Lukas drifted inward, exactly as Toppmöller wanted from the start — a playmaker, a controller of rhythm.
When the ball came to him, he didn’t rush. He took a touch. Lifted his head. And everything slowed.
Even the Stuttgart players seemed to hesitate, unsure whether to close him down or back off — because closing him down meant humiliation, and backing off meant danger.
He threaded passes where there shouldn’t have been space.Outside-of-the-boot.Threaded.Measured.
And every time he received the ball, the fans leaned forward in their seats.
"Brandt is conducting," the analyst breathed.
Larsson, who understood Lukas better than anyone, moved instinctively around him — playing off the small half-turns and feints.
Bahoya, confidence skyrocketing after winning the foul for the free-kick, made run after run down the left.
Ekitike kept dropping between lines, pinning Chabot and Jeltsch simultaneously.
Frankfurt were dictating everything.
Football, though, is rarely one-sided — even when it seems like it should be.
In the 65th minute, Stuttgart finally found a breath of life.
A long ball from Karazor found Leweling wide on the right, who took on Brown in a rare moment where Frankfurt were a step slow. Leweling managed to whip a dangerous ball toward the six-yard box.
Kaua — calm as ever — punched it away with authority.
But it served as a reminder: A one-goal lead is never safe.
Stuttgart regrouped. They tightened. They fought.
Stiller began closing spaces better. Chabot started stepping into tackles more aggressively. Millot, quiet all game, finally got his foot on the ball.
And for a brief moment, it felt like Stuttgart might just wrestle itself back in.
But every time it felt like momentum was shifting, the ball inevitably found its way to one player.
Lukas.
And Stuttgart’s hope evaporated with the sound of one touch.
Frankfurt weren’t frantic. They didn’t rush to score a second.
They held the ball. They moved. They kept Stuttgart chasing shadows.
Larsson and Tuta rotated possession comfortably in midfield.
Koch and Theate pushed up, condensing the pitch.
Kristensen and Brown offered support on the flanks.
And Lukas simply weaved everything together.
Stuttgart were exhausted — physically and mentally.
The stadium sang.
"EINTRACHT! EINTRACHT! EINTRACHT!"
Sensing the emotional peak was near, Toppmöller called for one final push.
"Control it," he shouted. "Control the moment."
The players did just that.
The whistle blew for full-time:
Eintracht Frankfurt 1 – 0 VfB Stuttgart
A slender scoreline, but one that felt definitive as they solidified their third position in the league.
"Another game, another moment of brilliance from the 16-year-old," the commentator said as the camera zoomed in on Lukas exchanging shirts with Karazor. "The free kick will dominate the headlines — but his control of the rhythm, the space, the tempo... that is what separates him."
Fans stayed behind long after the whistle, scarves swaying, children lifted onto shoulders to see their rising star.
Lukas applauded them all, a tired but genuine smile on his face.
He didn’t need to shout to be heard.
He was already everywhere.
Toppmöller hugged him lightly — nothing dramatic — but the look said everything.
You’re mine for now.We’re building something here.
Ekitike slapped the back of Lukas’s head playfully.Larsson whispered something only they would understand.Kaua gave him a quiet nod, the respectful kind between equals.
The stadium announcer ended the afternoon with:
"Man of the Match...
Number 49... Lukas Brandt!"
The roar that followed was identical to the one after the goal.
Another man of the match performance, another day putting in a solid shift. The match wasn’t the most glamorous match Lukas ever had; there were no dizzying runs through the pitch and a finish in the top corner, but he had done his job and had done it almost perfectly.
The hallway outside the dressing rooms buzzed with ers and footsteps, but inside Eintracht’s locker room, it was warm, loud, and alive.
Boots unlaced. Shirts swapped. Tape ripped from ankles.A chorus of exhausted sighs echoed as the players sank into the benches.
Kaua was still laughing about his save.Larsson was going over some moments with Brown.Ekitike was sulking in silence until Tuta tossed a towel onto his head.
The atmosphere was victorious, but grounded — the way a working team celebrates. Not wild. Just
earned
.
Lukas entered a few seconds behind the others.
As soon as he stepped in, Bahoya shouted loud enough for the entire room to hear:
"BOW TO THE PRINCE!"
Everyone clapped once, twice, then the room burst into cheers.
Lukas just smiled shyly and lifted both hands.
"Alright, alright, please," he said, half-laughing. "Let me breathe."
Koch walked past him and gave him a firm shoulder tap.
"Well done," he said simply. And that — from the captain — meant something.
Toppmöller stepped forward then, clapping his hands once, sharply.
The room quieted almost instantly.
"That," he began, voice steady, "is how you fight."
He looked around the room at the tired players, sweat-soaked shirts, flushed cheeks.
"We didn’t start perfectly. We didn’t dominate every stretch. But when the game demanded control, responsibility, intelligence—" he nodded toward Lukas, "—someone gave it. And the rest of you followed."
No one cheered.They absorbed the words.
"We are not done. We are building something. And every win like this moves us toward that."
He paused.
"But," his tone lightened, "I am also not blind. You’re dead on your feet."
A couple of players laughed.
"So... Sunday is off."
More laughter and relief.
"Rest. Sleep. Eat. Be with your people. You return Monday morning. Sharp. No excuses."
Players nodded, already dreaming of warm blankets and silence.
He clapped once more.
"Good work today."
The room broke into stretching and slow-moving around again.
But then:
"Lukas, with me. Interview room."
He didn’t flinch, just nodded and rose to his feet, twisting the cap back onto his water bottle.
"Yeah," he said simply.
A few of the boys still chimed in, out of habit more than teasing.
Bahoya grinned, nudging Ekitike. "Man of the Match again. I’m tired of this guy."
Ekitike threw his hands up. "Bro is farming trophies at sixteen. Save some for the rest of us."
Lukas smirked as he picked up his jacket.
"If you want them, take them off me on the pitch," he replied calmly, and that earned a chorus of laughs and claps.
Toppmöller didn’t even have to shush anyone; the room respected that line.
He started walking, Lukas falling into step beside him.
The hallways were quiet, just the soft hum of ceiling lights and distant camera chatter.Toppmöller spoke without looking at him.
"You handled the match well. Especially after the red card. You took responsibility."
Lukas exhaled — not from nerves, but from the
effort
still lingering in his muscles.
"That’s what I’m here for," he answered.
"You keep showing that," Toppmöller replied. "And everything else will fall in line. Club. Country. Future."
They stopped outside the media room.Lukas rolled his shoulders once — loosening, centring.
Toppmöller placed one steady hand on his back.
"No need to perform. Just speak how you always do."
Lukas nodded, already switching into the calm, articulate mode that had become familiar in front of cameras.
He pushed open the door, stepping into the bright lights and microphones.
"Alright," he said, settling into the chair, mic clipped to his collar. "Let’s get started."
The lights brightened slightly as the cameras focused. A Sky Germany er leaned forward with a friendly smile.
"Lukas, first of all, congratulations on the victory — and
what
a free-kick. Beautiful technique. How are you feeling after a performance like that?"
Lukas adjusted the mic and sat back, relaxed, answering without hesitation.
"Thank you," he said with a small nod. "It was a good moment. I think overall we controlled the game well, especially after the red card. Of course... personally, I would’ve liked to score one or two more," he added with a faint grin, "I had the chances. But the important thing is the three points. So I’m happy with the win."
The er chuckled.
"Only sixteen and already disappointed not to score
more
goals. Your standards are high."
"They have to be," Lukas replied simply. "This club deserves nothing less than the best version of me."