Luka exhaled slowly, centering himself as the referee prepared to restart play. The scoreline hung in perfect balance—Dortmund's early goal through his strike matched by Mbappé's equalizer midway through the second half. The tie remained delicately poised.
The yellow wall of the Südtribüne resumed its relentless chorus, the cacophony washing over the pitch in waves. For a moment, Luka allowed himself to absorb it—this was why he played. This feeling. This moment.
"Focus now," Bellingham murmured as he jogged past. "They're rattled."
Luka nodded, adjusting the tape around his wrist. The Jude was right—PSG's composure had frayed during the confrontation. Their technical superiority remained, but something primal had been awakened in this contest.
The referee's whistle pierced the stadium's roar. PSG's throw-in, deep in their own territory. Hakimi received the ball, immediately looking to transition into attack. The Moroccan's movements were deliberate, measured—the calm after the storm.
Luka tracked back, positioning himself between Hakimi and the advancing Mbappé. The tactical instructions echoed in his mind—deny the passing lane, force them wide, maintain defensive shape. Yet beneath these programmed responses, a deeper instinct stirred. An awareness that transcended system.
When the ball arced toward him from a misdirected PSG pass, time seemed to compress. One moment it was spinning through the night air; the next, it was caressing the outside of his boot as he executed a perfectly weighted trap. The transition from defense to attack happened in a heartbeat—muscle memory taking over before conscious thought could form.
A quick glance up. The pitch opening before him. Hakimi already adjusting his position, anticipating the confrontation.
Luka felt his teammates shifting around him, creating options, but the electricity in his veins demanded expression. The crowd sensed it too, a collective intake of breath as he faced Hakimi one-on-one.
There was wisdom in recycling possession, in maintaining the careful equilibrium of midfield control. But football wasn't merely a chess match of calculated moves. It was art. It was instinct. It was the courage to attempt what reason said you shouldn't.
"When your team works to put you in the one-v-one, you take it," Modric had told him while he had joined the Croatian team on international duty for the first time. "You don't end up back at the halfway line with the ball. Either beat your man or lose the ball trying."
Luka accelerated, the ball seemingly magnetized to his boots as he charged down the flank. Hakimi mirrored his movement, the defender's reputation as one of the world's best fullbacks well-earned. For a heartbeat, they assessed each other—predator and prey, though it wasn't yet clear which was which.
The shoulder drop came first—a feint left, shifting Hakimi's weight momentarily before Luka pushed the ball right. The defender recovered with impressive quickness, positioning himself perfectly to block the path.
Luka executed a deft dribble, the Cruyff turn almost materializing before he abandoned it, sensing Hakimi anticipating the move. Instead, he improvised—a hip fake suggesting an inside cut before exploding down the line.
Hakimi lunged, desperation replacing calculation. His boot connected not with the ball but with Luka's shin, the impact sending Luka sprawling onto the turf in a tangle of limbs.
The referee's whistle sounded instantly. Free kick to Dortmund.
Luka pushed himself up, wincing slightly at the sting where Hakimi's studs had raked his skin. He turned toward the Moroccan, their eyes meeting in silent acknowledgment of the battle they were waging.
"Problem?" Hakimi asked, extending a hand that was more challenge than assistance.
Luka ignored it, rising under his own power. "Not for me," he replied, voice level despite the adrenaline coursing through him.
The free kick positioned Dortmund just outside the PSG penalty area—prime territory for an attempt on goal. Reus approached, gesturing to Luka.
"Fancy it?" the captain asked, nodding toward the ball.
Luka measured the distance with his eyes. Twenty-two yards, perhaps. Angle slightly acute but workable. The wall was forming—Kimpembe, Marquinhos, Paredes, and Di María creating a blue barrier between the ball and Donnarumma's goal.
"Yes," he answered simply.
Reus clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that conveyed both encouragement and expectation. As the captain retreated, Haaland approached.
"Far post," the Norwegian muttered, tapping his temple. "Donnarumma cheats to his right on free kicks."
Luka nodded, filing away the observation. He placed the ball precisely, adjusting its position until it sat just so on the grass. Around him, the stadium's noise receded, his focus narrowing to the task at hand.
He stepped back, measuring his run-up. The referee was ensuring the wall stood the regulation distance away, PSG players attempting to inch forward with each moment of inattention. Donnarumma positioned himself in the goal, his massive frame reducing the available target area.
Luka raised his hands slightly, a deliberate signal to his teammates crowding the penalty area. Haaland had positioned himself at the far post, exactly where Luka intended to deliver the ball. Their eyes met briefly—an unspoken communication that needed no words.
A deep breath.
The whistle.
Luka's approach was smooth, gathering momentum with each stride. His right foot connected with the ball, technique perfect as he struck through it with precision rather than raw power. The ball rose over the wall, its trajectory bending away from Donnarumma's reach, destined for the top corner.
For a suspended moment, the stadium held its collective breath. Then Donnarumma launched himself across the goal, his fingertips just brushing the ball, altering its path enough to send it fractionally wide of the post.
Haaland lunged desperately, stretching his considerable frame to its limit, but couldn't make clean contact. The ball skimmed off his boot and spun behind for a goal kick.
"So close!" the commentator exclaimed as Luka placed his hands on his head in disbelief. "Centimeters away from a spectacular free kick!"
The game settled into a more measured rhythm after this flurry of activity. Both teams, perhaps sensing the knife-edge upon which the match balanced, adopted a more cautious approach. Possession cycled between them—probing attacks followed by strategic retreats, the midfield becoming congested as spaces disappeared.
Dortmund knocked the ball around the final third, seeking openings in PSG's well-organized defense. Bellingham received a pass twenty-five yards from goal, space opening before him as the PSG midfield momentarily lost their shape.
Jude, bold and confident, didn't hesitate, unleashing a powerful drive that beat Donnarumma's outstretched hand but struck the post with a resounding thud. The ball ricocheted across the face of goal before spinning out of play.
The crowd's collective groan was still reverberating around the stadium when PSG restarted play. Luka, anticipating the quick transition, had already positioned himself to intercept a hurried clearance. He collected the ball deep in PSG territory, turning to find Paredes bearing down on him with predatory intent.
Time slowed.
Paredes expected him to shield the ball, to play the percentage pass back to safety. Instead, Luka saw the minutest gap between the Argentine's legs and made an instantaneous decision.
The nutmeg was executed with surgical precision—the ball slipping through Paredes' stance before Luka accelerated past him, recollecting possession on the other side. The crowd erupted, the humiliation of their tormentor bringing particular satisfaction.
Now in the penalty area with space to exploit, Luka looked up to find Haaland making a diagonal run across the box. The cross was instinctive—a whipped ball with enough pace to reach its target but not so much that it couldn't be controlled.
Haaland met it perfectly, his volley struck with characteristic power. Yet somehow Donnarumma reacted, flinging himself across goal to palm the ball away at full stretch.
"Extraordinary save!" the commentator exclaimed. "The Italian giant is truly defying all expectation in these past two legs and keeping PSG alive!"
As the game approached the seventieth minute, the pattern of play had established itself—Dortmund probing, PSG countering, neither side able to land the decisive blow. The initial furious pace had given way to something more strategic, both teams conscious of the consequences of overcommitment.
—
At the CBS Sports desk positioned at the sideline, the analysis team was deep in discussion during a brief lull in play.
"Just a quick update for our viewers," Kate Abdo said, turning to the camera. "Luka Zorić has now completed thirteen successful take-ons tonight—the most by any player in a Champions League knockout match this season."
Thierry Henry nodded appreciatively. "What impresses me most is not just the quantity but the quality of these dribbles. He's not doing it in safe areas—he's taking risks in the final third, creating real danger."
"But tactically," Henry continued, shifting forward in his seat, "Dortmund need to play wider. PSG's central defenders are winning everything in the air. They need to stretch this defense horizontally, create spaces between the center-backs and fullbacks."
"You're predicting a PSG goal before the eightieth minute," Kate reminded him. "Still standing by that?"
Henry smiled knowingly. "With Messi on the pitch? Always."
—
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Lionel Messi collected the ball in midfield, shrugging off Can's challenge with that familiar low center of gravity. The Argentine advanced, defenders converging like moths to a flame.
Messi accelerated, slaloming between yellow shirts with the effortless grace. One defender beaten, then another, then a third—each one left trailing in his wake as he approached the penalty area.
The fourth challenge—Akanji with a desperate lunge—finally brought him down, the Swiss defender catching Messi's ankle just outside the box. The referee immediately signaled for a free kick in a dangerous position, twenty yards from goal, slightly left of center.
"Perfect Messi territory," the commentator observed as players from both teams crowded around the referee.
Luka watched from the edge of the wall as the referee meticulously measured the distance with his vanishing spray, the white foam marking a precise ten yards from the ball. Neymar and Messi stood over the free kick, engaged in conversation that looked more like negotiation than discussion.
Finally, Neymar stepped away. Messi alone would take responsibility.
The stadium hushed as the Argentine sized up the opportunity. Kobel arranged his wall carefully—Haaland, Can, Akanji, and Bellingham creating a human barrier, each of them knowing all too well the magic of which Messi was capable.
The referee's whistle pierced the silence.
Messi's run-up was minimal—just three quick steps before his left foot connected with the ball. The trajectory seemed impossible—over the wall yet dipping viciously, curling away from Kobel's desperate dive.
The net rippled as the ball nestled in the top corner.
2-1 to PSG.
The away section erupted in ecstasy as Messi wheeled away in celebration, arms outstretched in that iconic pose that had become so familiar yet never lost its impact. His teammates swarmed him, the significance of the away goal apparent to everyone in the stadium.
Luka stood motionless, watching the celebration unfold with a curious detachment. There was no anger, no despair—only acknowledgment of witnessing something extraordinary. Some goals transcended rivalry. This was one of them.
As play restarted, Dortmund's response was immediate and urgent. Reus drove them forward, the captain's determination setting the tone for those around him. The ball found its way to Luka in midfield, his touch instantly bringing it under control.
Before he could advance, Hakimi charged into his back, the force of the challenge sending Luka sprawling face-first onto the turf. The referee's whistle sounded immediately.
Luka sprang to his feet, pain forgotten as indignation took over. He confronted Hakimi directly, pushing into the defender's space.
"What the hell, bro?" he demanded, shoving the Moroccan's chest.
Hakimi raised his hands in mock innocence. "I got the ball," he claimed, despite the obvious nature of the foul.
Players from both teams converged, sensing another flashpoint developing. The referee intervened quickly, producing a yellow card for Hakimi while physically separating the protagonists.
"That's enough," Oliver warned, pointing firmly at Luka. "Next time, you're joining him in the book."
The free kick provided momentary respite, allowing tempers to cool. Dortmund recycled possession patiently, probing for openings in the PSG defense, which had dropped deeper since taking the lead.
When the ball found Luka again near the halfway line, Paredes immediately moved to close him down. The Argentine's expression was smug, his body language conveying absolute confidence in his ability to contain the teenager.
Luka welcomed the challenge. He wasn't interested in just playing anymore; he was expressing himself through the medium of the game.
The first touch was deliberate, inviting Paredes to commit. The Argentine lunged, anticipating a move inside that never came. Instead, Luka executed a perfect drag-back, leaving Paredes grasping at shadows.
Now facing Hakimi once more, Luka slowed deliberately, almost taunting the defender. The small adjustments of weight, the subtle shifts of his shoulders—each movement designed to create uncertainty, to plant seeds of doubt in the defender's mind.
A quick salsa step, feet dancing over the ball, then the audacious flourish—the rainbow flick executed with such precision that it seemed choreographed rather than improvised. The ball arced perfectly over Hakimi's head as Luka accelerated around him, recollecting possession on the other side.
The crowd roared its appreciation, the collective celebration of pure footballing artistry transcending the scoreline for a brief, transcendent moment.
Now with space to exploit, Luka drove toward the penalty area, PSG defenders scrambling to close him down. The obvious play was the shot.
Instead, he faked the shot, drawing the nearest defender into a committed block before executing a precise chip over the defense. The ball floated perfectly into Palmer's path, the English winger having timed his run to perfection.
Time seemed to slow as Palmer shaped to shoot, the goal at his mercy. His technique was flawless, his body shape perfect as he struck the ball cleanly—perhaps too cleanly. The shot sailed agonizingly over the crossbar, the collective groan from the Dortmund faithful giving voice to the team's frustration.
The game opened up as it entered its final fifteen minutes, both sides creating moments of danger without finding the clinical edge required. Luka continued to probe, his energy seemingly boundless despite the intensity of the contest.
Then, with the clock showing eighty-four minutes, the moment presented itself. Bellingham won possession in midfield, immediately looking for the forward pass. Luka had already anticipated, his run between PSG's center-backs timed to perfection.
The through ball was exquisite, weighted precisely into the space behind the defense. Luka accelerated onto it, suddenly one-on-one with Donnarumma, the goal opening before him.
Hakimi, demonstrating the recovery pace that had made him one of the world's elite fullbacks, managed to get back into the contest. He ran alongside Luka, shoulders touching as they approached the penalty area.
Luka prepared to execute a chop, shifting his weight to cut inside onto his favored right foot. As he made the movement, he felt the slightest clip on his trailing leg—not enough to send him sprawling, but sufficient to disrupt his balance at the crucial moment.
He stumbled, the ball rolling away from him and out to the touch line. Immediately, Luka's arm shot up in appeal, eyes fixed on Oliver in disbelief.
The referee waved play on, his expression suggesting the contact had been minimal, within the bounds of acceptable physical competition.
Frustration boiled over. Luka sprinted toward Oliver, the accumulated injustice of the match—the endless small decisions favoring PSG, particularly when Hakimi challenged him—finally breaking through his composure.
"What the hell are you watching?" he demanded, gesturing emphatically toward where the incident had occurred. "How is that not a foul?"
Oliver's expression hardened. "Back away, now."
"How much did they pay you?" Luka continued, unable to contain himself. "Are you blind or just stupid?"
The referee sighed, reaching for his pocket with the weary inevitability of someone who had seen this scene play out countless times before. The yellow card appeared, held aloft toward Luka with finality.
"Get out of here," Luka muttered, turning away in disgust.
"One more word and you're off," Oliver warned, his patience visibly thinning. "Now get back in position."
The PSG throw-in restarted play quickly. Soon enough a long ball found Neymar, the Brazilian receiving with his back to goal before spinning away from Ryerson with balletic grace. He accelerated into the space, drawing defenders before slipping a perfectly weighted pass to Di María on the overlap.
The Argentine looked up, assessing his options before cutting the ball back toward the edge of the area. Paredes arrived unmarked, meeting the pass with a first-time drive that skimmed across the turf with vicious speed.
Kobel dived full-stretch but could only graze the ball with his fingertips as it flew into the bottom corner.
3-1 to PSG.
Paredes sprinted toward the Dortmund supporters, sliding on his knees before rising to his feet with his tongue out, arms spread wide in triumphant mockery. His teammates joined him, their celebration pointed and provocative in front of the Südtribüne.
The Yellow Wall responded with a shower of projectiles—cups, scarves, anything within reach raining down toward the celebrating PSG players. Security personnel moved quickly to form a barrier, preventing the situation from escalating further.
As the away fans erupted in delirious celebration and the home supporters seethed with indignation, the referee glanced at his watch, then toward his assistant on the sideline.
Six minutes of stoppage time.
An eternity and an instant.
--
I have another story as well as this if you're interested