The Players Walk Out
The tunnel transformed them. All that remained human—doubt, fear, calculation—was burned away in those final steps toward the light.
The Champions League anthem swelled over the stadium speakers, yet remained almost inaudible beneath the primal roar. Television cameras panned across players' faces, capturing the moment when focus narrowed to a razor's edge. Messi, eyes downcast, performing the ritual sign of the cross. Mbappé, jaw clenched, shoulders rising with each deep breath. Haaland, wild-eyed, veins prominent on his forehead.
And Luka—the static charge at the center of this gathering storm—staring straight ahead.
The referee, Michael Oliver, held the match ball like a sacred object. The linesmen unfurled their flags. A final equipment check.
Then the whistle—piercing, definitive—and chaos birthed from order.
The ball rolled.
From the first touch, the caution was palpable. Both teams circling each other like prize fighters, probing for weakness rather than lunging for glory. PSG, despite playing away, held possession with deliberate patience, recycling the ball through their backline—Mendes to Marquinhos to Kimpembe to Hakimi—while Dortmund settled into their new formation, two disciplined banks of four punctuated by the floating presence of Luka and Palmer tucked in behind Haaland.
"Slow," Bellingham muttered as he passed Luka during a momentary pause in play. "They're trying to put us to sleep."
Luka nodded, recognizing the tactic. The deafening noise of the stadium made on-field communication nearly impossible except at these closest ranges. He tapped his temple, indicating understanding. In Paris, PSG had been frantic, pressing high, gambling on an early goal. Now they sought control, psychological dominance.
Seven minutes passed in this chess-like state, the ball circulating with precision but little purpose. The crowd's initial frenzy began to simmer with frustration. A banner unfurled in the Yellow Wall: KÄMPFEN UND SIEGEN. FIGHT AND WIN.
Then, without warning, the match exploded.
Veratti, previously content with sideways passes, suddenly accelerated the tempo. A vertical ball split Dahoud and Bellingham, finding Di María between Dortmund's defensive lines. The Argentine controlled with a single touch and pivoted toward goal, his left foot already cocked.
Akanji raced to close, but Di María had found the pocket of space he needed. His shot—a curling, wicked attempt—forced Kobel into a full-stretch save, the Swiss goalkeeper's fingertips just enough to divert the ball around the post.
A collective gasp rippled through the stadium. First blood to PSG, though not drawn.
"Corner!" Oliver signaled, pointing to the flag.
Players converged in Dortmund's penalty area, a tangle of yellow and blue bodies jostling for position. Luka found himself matched against Kimpembe—the same defender who had split his lip in Paris with a deliberate elbow that went unpunished.
"Remember me, little boy?" Kimpembe murmured, his French-accented English carrying a sneer. "You got lucky in Paris. Not tonight."
Luka maintained his position, eyes fixed on Di María preparing to take the corner.
"Tonight you go home crying to your girlfriend," Kimpembe continued, his elbow pressing into Luka's back. "I saw her in the stands. Pretty. Maybe she needs a real man after—"
The whisper transformed into a deliberate shove as Di María's corner swung in. Off-balance, Luka stumbled forward, unable to challenge for the header. The ball sailed over both of them, finding Marquinhos at the far post, but the Brazilian's header was deflected.
As play reset, Kimpembe smirked, deliberately knocking shoulders with Luka.
Something cold and precise settled in Luka's chest. Not anger—he had felt plenty of that in his young career—but something closer to clarity. He turned, meeting Kimpembe's eyes, then placed his hand on the Frenchman's neck in a gesture that looked almost fraternal but carried unmistakable intent.
Kimpembe's reaction was immediate and theatrical. He collapsed backward, clutching his throat, face contorted in exaggerated agony.
"Referee!" Marquinhos shouted, rushing over. "He choked him! Did you see? Red card!"
Oliver blew his whistle sharply, approaching the scene with the weary expression of a man who had seen every theatrical performance the game could produce. Around him, players from both teams converged in a cacophony of accusation and defense.
"He barely touched him!" Bellingham protested, placing himself between Luka and the gathering PSG players.
Reus arrived, captain's armband a badge of authority as he addressed Oliver directly. "He's diving, Michael. You know this."
Oliver raised his hand for silence, then beckoned Luka away from the group.
"I didn't do anything," Luka said immediately, the words emerging with the defensive quickness of youth.
"I saw what happened," Oliver replied, his voice level but firm. "And I saw what he did to provoke it. But this—" he mimicked the hand-to-neck gesture, "—this is dangerous territory. You understand me? Next time it's a card, no matter the provocation."
Luka nodded, surprised by the fairness. In the background, Kimpembe had made a miraculous recovery, now standing upright and arguing with Hummels.
"Good. Now play football," Oliver concluded, turning back toward the restart.
The corner was retaken, this time sailing long beyond the far post. Can reacted first, rushing out to collect the loose ball before driving forward. His eyes scanned the field, spotting Luka making a diagonal run into space.
The pass was perfect—weighted just enough to lead Luka into stride but stay within his reach. He controlled it instantly, the ball seeming to adhere to his foot as he accelerated past midfield. Mendes tracked him step for step, matching his pace.
Luka felt the familiar calculation taking place in his mind—the trigonometry of space, movement, and opportunity that happened without conscious effort. He spotted Bellingham making a parallel run and played a quick one-two, receiving the return pass in stride.
Now he was racing along the edge of the penalty area, Hakimi closing fast from his right, Mendes still at his shoulder. He feinted left, then cut right, creating just enough separation to attempt a cross toward Haaland.
Hakimi lunged, his shoulder connecting with Luka's chest at the precise moment of delivery. The impact sent Luka sprawling onto the turf, the air forced from his lungs in a painful rush. He clutched at his ribs, genuine pain overriding any thought of embellishment.
"Referee!" Bellingham shouted, arm raised in appeal.
Oliver waved play on, his expression unmoved.
The loose ball rolled toward Donnarumma, who had rushed off his line to claim it. The Italian goalkeeper gathered it safely, then immediately looked to launch a counter-attack, his throw finding Mbappé in space.
Luka pushed himself to his feet, lungs burning as he gasped for air. The pain in his side throbbed with each breath, but there was no time to recover—not with Mbappé now bearing down on Dortmund's defense.
The stadium held its collective breath as the Frenchman accelerated, the ball seemingly magnetized to his feet as he glided past Dahoud with insulting ease. This was the moment that every Dortmund fan had feared—Mbappé in full flight, space ahead of him, Dortmund's defensive line in retreat.
Hummels stepped forward, attempting to close the space, but Mbappé simply shifted direction, a fluid movement that left the German defender grasping at air. Now only Akanji remained between him and Kobel.
The Swiss defender held his ground, refusing to commit, forcing Mbappé wider than he wanted. It was textbook defending—patient, positional, perfect.
Until it wasn't.
Mbappé, seemingly trapped, executed a move of such balletic precision that a audible gasp rippled through the stadium. The ball disappeared beneath his feet in a blur of movement, reappearing on the opposite side as he pivoted sharply, leaving Akanji stumbling.
Now with a clear sight of goal, Mbappé shaped to shoot. Kobel advanced off his line, narrowing the angle, arms spread wide to make himself as large as possible.
The shot—when it came—was not the expected power drive but a delicate chip that looped toward the far corner. Kobel, already committed to his advance, could only watch as the ball sailed over his outstretched fingers.
For a heartbeat, the stadium fell silent, seventy thousand pairs of eyes tracking the ball's arc toward the empty net.
Then, from nowhere, Guerreiro appeared—a desperate, full-stretch lunge that sent him crashing into the post but allowed his foot to make the faintest contact with the ball, diverting its path just enough to send it inches wide.
The stadium erupted. Not with relief but with something closer to religious fervor—a collective release of tension that felt like salvation.
Guerreiro lay crumpled against the base of the post, body curled around what appeared to be a painful impact to his ribs. Medical staff rushed onto the field as Oliver signaled for a PSG corner.
Mbappé stood with hands on hips, disbelief etched on his features. He had done everything right—the skill, the finish, the execution.
On the touchline, Rose paced like a caged animal, barking instructions that couldn't possibly be heard over the stadium's renewed roar. He gestured frantically toward Palmer, indicating a positional adjustment that would provide more cover for the flank.
After a minute of treatment, Guerreiro rose gingerly to his feet, waving away the stretcher. The Portuguese defender limped back into position, grimacing but determined, as Di María prepared to take another corner.
This time, Dortmund was ready. Haaland, positioned at the near post, rose highest to meet the delivery with a powerful header that cleared the danger and found Luka in space near the halfway line.
For the first time since kickoff, Dortmund had genuine transition opportunity. Luka controlled the clearance with a cushioned header, then immediately spotted Haaland sprinting into the channel between Marquinhos and Mendes.
The pass—a perfectly weighted ball that split PSG's central defenders—sent Haaland clear. The Norwegian striker's long strides devoured the green expanse between him and Donnarumma, his focus absolute as he bore down on goal.
Kimpembe recovered with remarkable speed, cutting across to close the angle, forcing Haaland wider than he wanted. The shot, when it came, was powerful but straight at Donnarumma, who parried it away with strong hands.
The rebound fell to Palmer, arriving late into the box. His first-time effort was goal-bound until Hakimi threw himself into its path, the ball cannoning off his body for a corner.
As Bellingham prepared to take the set piece, Luka found himself again matched against Kimpembe in the penalty area. This time, the Frenchman kept his distance, his earlier aggression tempered by caution.
"Scared now?" Luka murmured, the words emerging with surprising coldness.
Kimpembe's expression darkened but he remained silent, focus fixed on the incoming delivery.
Bellingham's corner arced toward the near post, where Haaland had created space with a subtle push on Mendes. His header flashed across goal, narrowly missing the far corner before going out for a goal kick.
Fifteen minutes had passed.
"Echte Liebe! Echte Liebe!" The Yellow Wall chanted in rhythmic unison, scarves raised overhead, a hypnotic pendulum of black and yellow.
From the PSG section, a counter-chorus erupted: "Ici c'est Paris! Allez Paris!" A pocket of blue amid the sea of Dortmund colors.
Donnarumma collected the ball from Haaland's missed header, bouncing it twice before launching a goal kick. The Italian's distribution found Paredes in space, the Argentine midfielder controlling with a deft touch before swiveling to survey his options.
"Pressure! Pressure!" Rose shouted from the touchline, his voice barely cutting through the wall of noise.
Bellingham responded, advancing from his position to close down Paredes, forcing the midfielder to play backward to Marquinhos. The Brazilian center-back took no chances, immediately dispatching the ball upfield toward Mbappé, who had drifted into the channel between Akanji and Guerreiro.
The Portuguese defender, still favoring his side from the earlier collision, lunged to intercept but arrived a fraction late. Mbappé controlled with his first touch, the ball seemingly attached to his foot by invisible thread.
"Mbappe in space, dangerous territory for Dortmund," Martin Tyler's voice carried through television broadcasts worldwide. "The Frenchman looking to capitalize on Guerreiro's discomfort."
Mbappé glided forward, accelerating with that deceptive ease that made him appear to be moving in a different time signature than everyone else. Akanji retreated, careful not to commit, maintaining the delicate geometry of containment.
"C'mon Swiss, don't dive in," Hummels urged from his central position, orchestrating Dortmund's defensive shape.
Mbappé feinted right, then cut sharply left, the ball dancing between his feet as he evaded Akanji's attempt to shepherd him wide. Now with a clear sight of goal, the Frenchman prepared to unleash a shot.
Hummels arrived with impeccable timing, a sliding challenge that was all calculation and courage. The ball spun away toward the touchline where Neymar, anticipating the deflection, collected it with balletic control.
"Brilliant from Hummels!" the commentator exclaimed. "The German defender showing why he's still one of the best readers of the game."
Neymar, now facing Ryersom, initiated his hypnotic dribbling sequence—the trademark shoulder drops and weight shifts that had bamboozled defenders across Europe for a decade. Dahoud maintained his position, refusing to be drawn into the web of deception.
"Neymar looking for options," Tyler continued. "Dortmund staying compact, forcing PSG to play around the block rather than through it."
Neymar, finding no path forward, recycled possession to Verratti. The midfielder perpetually appearing to have more time than the physics of football should allow, pivoted away from Bellingham's pressing and threaded a disguised pass between Dortmund's lines.
The ball found Messi in that pocket of space that seemed to exist for him alone—not quite midfield, not quite attack. His first touch was subtle perfection, the ball settling exactly where he needed it.
Guerreiro, grimacing through his discomfort, moved to close down, but Messi had already processed the entire tableau before him. A simple drop of the shoulder sent the defender stumbling, his injured ribs hampering his recovery.
"Messi, making it look effortless as always," the commentator observed. "Guerreiro struggling after that collision with the post."
With Guerreiro now compromised, Messi accelerated into the vacated space, drawing Can out of position. The stadium inhaled collectively, recognizing the danger unfolding.
Messi spotted Di María's diagonal run and delivered a perfectly weighted pass that split Dortmund's defensive line. The winger collected it in stride, cut inside onto his favored left foot, and curled a shot toward the far corner.
Kobel, anticipating the trajectory, launched himself full-stretch, fingertips just managing to divert the ball around the post.
"What a save from Kobel!" the commentator exclaimed. "Di María thought he'd scored, but the Swiss goalkeeper had other ideas!"
The resulting corner came to nothing, Haaland again clearing with authority. The header found Can, who immediately looked for the outlet pass to alleviate pressure.
Luka had positioned himself intelligently, drifting into the half-space where PSG's midfield and defensive lines met. Can spotted him and delivered a firm pass into his feet.
"Zorić now, with a chance to turn," Martin Tyler noted, as the Luka received with his back to goal, Paredes pressing tightly behind him.
Luka felt the Argentine's presence—the pressure against his back, the breath on his neck, the anticipation of a challenge. He shielded the ball, feeling the familiar calculations spinning in his mind: the positions of teammates, the angles of support, the space to exploit.
With a subtle shift of weight, Luka pivoted while rolling the ball, allowing the ball to run across his body rather than controlling it. The movement, executed with fluid precision, left Paredes committed to a challenge that no longer existed, the midfielder grasping at empty air as Luka spun away.
"Brilliant from Zorić!" the commentator exclaimed. "The teenager leaving Paredes for dead with that turn!"
Now facing forward with space to attack, Luka accelerated. The pitch opened before him, PSG's defensive shape momentarily disorganized by his unexpected escape from pressure.
Hakimi moved to close down, Luka spotted the defender's approach from his peripheral vision and adjusted his run, angling slightly wider to maintain the buffer of space he needed.
Calm now, make the right choice
Hakimi closed the gap with alarming speed, now just steps away. Luka, feeling the pressure building, executed a sudden change of direction—a sharp stop followed by a reverse elastico that sent the ball between Hakimi's legs before recovering it on the opposite side.
"Nutmeg!" the commentator cried. "Zorić embarrassing Hakimi there!"
The Moroccan, professional pride wounded, immediately grabbed a fistful of Luka's shirt, yanking him backward with enough force to send him sprawling onto the turf. Oliver's whistle cut through the stadium's roar.
"Clear foul, but no card for Hakimi," the commentator noted. "The Moroccan perhaps fortunate there after being so comprehensively beaten."
Players from both teams converged around him. Bellingham arrived first, extending a hand to help Luka to his feet while simultaneously gesturing toward Oliver for a booking.
"You okay?" he asked, concern evident beneath the competitive intensity.
Luka nodded, brushing grass from his shorts. His back stung from the fall, but the adrenaline coursing through his system dulled the sensation to background noise.
"That should be yellow!" Rose shouted from the touchline, his face flushed with indignation.
Oliver remained unmoved, simply indicating for play to continue once Luka had regained his feet. The free kick would be punishment enough.
As Luka prepared to deliver the set piece from wide on the right, players jostled for position in PSG's penalty area. Haaland, marked closely by both Marquinhos and Kimpembe, used his formidable frame to create space, subtly backing into the Brazilian defender.
"Borussia Dortmund with a chance to deliver here," Peter Dury observed. "Bellingham over the ball, looking for the run of Haaland or Can."
The delivery, when it came, was whipped in with precision, curling away from Donnarumma toward the cluster of players at the far post. Can rose highest, meeting the ball with a powerful header that seemed destined for the top corner until Donnarumma launched himself across his goal, producing a spectacular save that sent the ball looping upward.
"Magnificent from Donnarumma!" the commentator exclaimed as the Italian goalkeeper crashed back to earth, landing heavily but maintaining focus on the descending ball.
The rebound fell into the crowded penalty area, triggering a frantic sequence of attempted clearances and blocks. Palmer, lurking at the edge of the box, reacted quickest to a half-clearance, controlling the ball with his thigh before attempting a volley that deflected off Mendes.
"Still alive for Dortmund!" the commentator noted as the ball ricocheted to Luka, who had maintained his position at the edge of the area.
With the goal now exposed and Donnarumma still regaining position, Luka shaped to shoot. Verratti recognized the danger, throwing himself into a desperate sliding challenge that arrived just as Luka pulled the trigger.
The ball skewed wide of the post, prompting a collective groan from the Dortmund faithful. Luka glanced down at his feet, noting the slight scuff mark on his boot where Verratti's challenge had made contact—millimeters of difference between heroism and frustration.
"So close for Dortmund!" the commentator remarked. "Their first real chance of the match, and Verratti's intervention proves crucial."
Donnarumma took his time with the goal kick, much to the displeasure of the Yellow Wall, who responded with a cacophony of whistles and jeers. The Italian goalkeeper remained unmoved, methodically preparing his distribution, using the opportunity to allow his defenders to reset.
His eventual kick found Mbappé, who had drifted into a pocket of space on the left. The Frenchman controlled with his chest, letting the ball drop to his feet as he assessed his options.
Across the field, Neymar had begun a diagonal run, cutting from left to right across Dortmund's defensive line. Mbappé spotted the movement and delivered a perfectly weighted pass into the Brazilian's path.
"Neymar in behind!" the commentator exclaimed as the Brazilian accelerated past Akanji, now bearing down on goal with only Kobel to beat.
The Swiss goalkeeper advanced, narrowing the angle, making himself as large as possible. Neymar, with the composure that defined his career, shaped to shoot before suddenly cutting the ball back to his right foot.
Kobel, unmoved by the fake, primed himself as Neymar shifted the ball to his side. Winding his foot back as the shot turreted toward the bottom right corner.
The Swiss goalkeeper was quick on his feet, diving heroically and sending the ball spiralling in the box with the stretch of his hand.
Before Mbappé, who was prowling in the box, could get to the ball, Hummels with quick thinking, reached the loose ball and booted it as far as the midfield.
The clearance found Dahoud, who immediately looked to transition. The midfielder spotted Haaland making a run into the channel and delivered a searching ball over PSG's high defensive line.
Haaland's pace allowed him to reach the pass just before it crossed the touchline. The Norwegian controlled with a poor touch, the ball bouncing before he truly brought it under his spell while simultaneously holding off Kimpembe with a powerful arm.
As Haaland advanced into the penalty area, Marquinhos arrived with a perfectly timed sliding challenge, taking the ball cleanly despite the high-risk nature of the intervention.
PSG recycled possession through their midfield, Verratti dictating the tempo with his metronomic passing. The Italian found Messi in space, the Argentine immediately turning to face Dortmund's defense.
The stadium tensed, anticipating Messi's next move with the collective anxiety of those who had witnessed his magic too many times to remain complacent. The Argentine glided forward, the ball seemingly attached to his foot by invisible thread, his head up, scanning for options.
Bellingham moved to close down, but Messi simply accelerated past him with that deceptive burst that had undone defenses many times. Now approaching the penalty area, he shaped to shoot.
Can threw himself into the path of the shot, blocking it with his chest. The ball rebounded directly back to Messi, who, without hesitation, attempted a first-time chip over the advancing Kobel.
The goalkeeper, caught in no-man's land, could only watch as the ball floated toward the unguarded net. The stadium held its collective breath.
Guerreiro, still moving gingerly from his earlier collision, somehow summoned the energy to race back, leaping to head the ball clear just as it was crossing the line.
"Unbelievable from Guerreiro!" Peter Dury exclaimed. "How many times can Dortmund escape?"
The Portuguese defender collapsed to the ground immediately after his clearance, clutching at his injured ribs, face contorted in pain. The medical staff signaled to the bench, indicating a substitution might be necessary.
Rose paced the technical area, consulting with his assistants while watching Guerreiro receive treatment. After a brief examination, the defender insisted on continuing.
"Guerreiro wants to continue," the commentator noted. "Showing tremendous heart after what must be an extremely painful injury."
As Dortmund prepared to restart with a goal kick, the stadium clock showed twenty-five minutes had elapsed. Neither team had broken the deadlock, but both had created chances worthy of the occasion.
In his technical area, Rose called Luka over during the brief pause in play. He jogged to the touchline, listening intently as his coach delivered instructions.
"They're leaving space behind when they press," Rose explained, voice raised to carry over the stadium's ambient roar. "Look for the diagonal when we win it back. Bellingham will find you."
Luka nodded, eyes scanning the tactical configuration before him analyticaly. "Hakimi's pushing too high," he observed. "I can exploit that."
"Exactly," Rose agreed, clapping Luka on the shoulder before sending him back into the fray.