"Exactly," Rose agreed, clapping him on the shoulder before sending him back into the fray.
The play resumed with deliberate pace, both teams settling back into their tactical rhythms. Donnarumma's goal kick sailed high over midfield, where Verratti outjumped Can to flick the ball toward Neymar. The Brazilian controlled with a delicate touch, drawing two Dortmund players toward him before releasing a perfectly weighted pass to Messi.
Luka tracked back, recognizing the danger unfolding. Messi, now with space to operate, scanned the field with that characteristic calm that made even the most chaotic situations appear choreographed. The Argentine initiated a quick give-and-go with Di María, creating a triangular passing sequence that disoriented Dortmund's defensive shape.
"They're pulling us apart," Bellingham warned, voice strained as he rushed to close a passing lane.
The ball eventually found its way back to Verratti, who had drifted into a pocket of space between Dortmund's defensive and midfield lines. The Italian pivoted sharply, evading Can's challenge before delivering a reverse pass that split Dortmund's center-backs.
Mbappé accelerated into the vacated channel, but Hummels had anticipated the move, stretching out a leg to intercept just before the Frenchman could reach it. The German's clearance lacked power, however, bouncing toward the edge of the box where Luka and Paredes converged upon it simultaneously.
Luka reached it first, his first touch guiding the ball away from the Argentine midfielder. He glanced up, spotting Haaland making a run behind Marquinhos, and prepared to launch a counter-attack.
Paredes, caught out of position, lunged desperately. His challenge missed the ball entirely, catching Luka's ankle with enough force to send him sprawling. Oliver, positioned perfectly, immediately whistled for the foul.
"Clear free kick," the commentator noted as Luka picked himself up, brushing grass from his shorts.
With PSG's defensive line still disorganized, Luka recognized the opportunity for a quick restart. He placed the ball and played it immediately to Bellingham, who had maintained his position high on the right flank.
Bellingham controlled with one touch before cutting inside, drawing Mendes toward him. Luka, anticipating the space this would create, began a diagonal run through the center.
Bellingham spotted the movement and delivered a perfectly weighted pass into Luka's path. The ball seemed to hang in the air just long enough for Luka to calculate his next move—the positions of approaching defenders, the angles of support.
As the ball descended, Luka's first touch was immaculate, cushioning it into his stride while simultaneously changing direction to evade Kimpembe's approach. The defender, committed to his original angle, stumbled slightly as Luka glided past.
Now with space to accelerate, Luka drove toward the heart of PSG's penalty area. Hakimi moved across to close him down, but Luka executed a lightning-quick step-over that sent the Moroccan lunging in the wrong direction.
Verratti arrived next, sliding in with characteristic precision. Luka anticipated the challenge, dragging the ball back with his right foot before pushing it forward with his left—a move executed with such fluid grace that it appeared effortless.
"Magnificent from Zorić!" Martin Tyler exclaimed. "The teenager dancing through PSG's defense like they're not even there!"
With three defenders beaten, Luka found himself in the penalty area with only Marquinhos between him and Donnarumma. The Brazilian center-back held his ground, refusing to commit as Luka approached.
Luka feinted right, then quickly shifted left, creating just enough separation to attempt a shot. As he drew his foot back, he felt a violent shove from behind—Paredes, having tracked back in desperation, pushed him with both hands.
Luka stumbled forward, losing balance as Paredes' momentum carried them both to the ground. The Argentine, falling awkwardly, planted his boot directly on Luka's back as they collapsed in a tangle of limbs.
The sharp pain shot through Luka's spine, eliciting an involuntary cry that was drowned by the stadium's collective gasp. Oliver's whistle cut through the chaos immediately, the referee pointing decisively to the penalty spot.
"PENALTY TO DORTMUND!" the commentator shouted, his professional composure momentarily abandoned. "Paredes with a disgraceful challenge from behind, and there's absolutely no question about this one!"
The PSG players surrounded Oliver immediately, protesting with theatrical gestures. Neymar led the charge, arms waving emphatically as he argued against the decision. Paredes maintained his innocence despite the obviousness of his foul, jabbing a finger toward Luka who still lay on the turf.
Haaland pushed through the cluster of blue shirts, reaching Luka and extending a hand to help him up. The Norwegian's face was a mask of controlled fury as he pulled the teenager to his feet.
"You good?" he asked, eyes never leaving Paredes who continued to protest.
Luka nodded, the pain in his back already subsiding into a dull throb. He reached behind to touch the spot where Paredes' boot had connected, feeling the tender area through his jersey.
The situation escalated quickly as Paredes turned his attention from Oliver to Haaland. The Argentine approached with aggressive intent, shouting something inaudible over the stadium's roar. Haaland stepped forward to meet him, towering over the midfielder, jaw set in defiance.
"What are you gonna do?" Haaland growled, his voice carrying just far enough for Luka to hear.
Paredes responded by shoving Haaland's chest with both hands—a calculated provocation that achieved its intended effect. The Norwegian retaliated with a push of his own, triggering an immediate convergence of players from both teams.
"It's kicking off here!" the commentator exclaimed as bodies collided in a chaotic scrum, shirts pulled and words exchanged that would never make it past broadcast censors.
Paredes, finding himself face-to-face with Haaland again, spat deliberately on the ground between them, then mimicked wiping tears from his eyes.
Bellingham wrapped his arms around Haaland from behind, physically restraining his teammate as Oliver attempted to separate the warring factions. The referee's assistants joined the effort, inserting themselves between the most aggressive confrontations.
Through the chaos, Luka stood apart, watching the scene unfold with detachment. Unlike his teammates caught in the emotional maelstrom, his mind was already processing the opportunity before them—a penalty, a chance to level the tie.
The melee continued for nearly a minute before Oliver finally established enough control to address the instigators. He approached Paredes first, yellow card raised.
"For the foul and the provocation," he explained curtly, making note in his book.
Haaland received the same punishment for his role in the confrontation, accepting the card with a curt nod.
As the players dispersed, Luka's gaze drifted upward to the VIP boxes. In one, he could make out the PSG directors—a cluster of immaculately dressed men leaning forward in their seats, faces tense with concern.
In another section, Jenna sat perched on the edge of her seat, surrounded by friends but utterly isolated in her focus. She clutched the armrests, knuckles white with tension as she watched Haaland collect the ball and place it on the penalty spot.
The stadium fell into that peculiar hush that accompanies moments of highest drama.
Haaland went through his deliberate preparation ritual, placing the ball with meticulous care before stepping back. His face betrayed nothing as he stared down Donnarumma, the Italian goalkeeper who had established himself as one of the world's best penalty-stoppers.
"Haaland versus Donnarumma," Peter Dury intoned, voice hushed with respect for the moment. "The Norwegian who's been clinical from the spot all season against the Euro champion."
Luka positioned himself at the edge of the area, muscles tensed in anticipation of a possible rebound. From his perspective, Haaland appeared utterly calm—a predator confident in its killing stroke.
The referee's whistle signaled for the penalty to be taken.
Haaland's run-up was measured and deliberate, building speed with each step. His right foot connected with awesome power, sending the ball rocketing toward the top left corner.
Donnarumma guessed correctly, launching himself toward the ball with explosive extension, but the shot's velocity and placement left him no chance. The net bulged as the ball struck it with concussive force.
"GOAL!" the commentator roared as the stadium erupted in primal joy. "HAALAND MAKES NO MISTAKE! BORUSSIA DORTMUND LEVEL THE TIE!"
The Norwegian turned away from the goal, arms outstretched in his meditation celebration. Teammates rushed to embrace him, a yellow wave of euphoria washing across the pitch.
Luka joined the celebration, relief and vindication coursing through him. As he reached the group surrounding Haaland, he noticed Oliver with his hand pressed to his earpiece, expression suddenly troubled.
The referee raised his arm, signaling a pause in play. The celebration faltered as Oliver jogged toward the sideline, where the VAR official was calling him to review the penalty.
"There appears to be a VAR check happening here," the commentator noted, confusion evident in his tone. "It's not clear what they're reviewing... the foul seemed obvious."
The stadium's giant screens displayed the replay review graphic, triggering a cascade of whistles and jeers from the Dortmund faithful. Luka watched as Oliver reached the monitor and bent to examine the footage.
The referee studied several angles, face impassive as he assessed whatever infraction had been spotted. After what seemed an eternity but was likely less than thirty seconds, he straightened and jogged back onto the field.
His whistle cut through the tense atmosphere, followed by the dreaded signal—arms extended, hands crossed in front of his chest.
The penalty was disallowed.
"Penalty invalid," Oliver announced to the closest players. "Haaland touched the ball twice during the kick."
The stadium exploded in outrage.
"I can't believe it!" Martin Tyler exclaimed. "The laws of the game are clear, but you need microscopic vision to have spotted that in real-time. Cruel, cruel fortune for Dortmund!"
The Dortmund players converged on Oliver, protesting with furious gestures. Reus, face flushed with indignation, led the charge, captain's armband giving his arguments extra weight. Bellingham and Can joined him, surrounding the referee in a semicircle of yellow outrage.
"The game is rigged!" someone shouted from the Dortmund bench, the words carrying across television microphones worldwide.
PSG players intervened, defending the decision while further inflaming tensions. Marquinhos positioned himself between Oliver and the most aggressive Dortmund players, assuming the role of peacekeeper while simultaneously ensuring the decision stood.
Through this chaos, Luka remained apart. He hadn't joined the circle of protest, instead walking slowly back toward the halfway line, mind already recalibrating. The disappointment was acute but strangely clarifying—a reminder that football, like life, rarely followed the expected script.
For a moment, he allowed himself to feel the collective anguish of the stadium, to acknowledge the injustice of the moment.
Then, as quickly as it had come, he released it. The game wasn't over. The tie wasn't decided. Everything remained possible.
As his teammates continued their futile protests, Luka positioned himself at the center circle, waiting for play to resume. His hands adjusted the bracelet beneath his tape, a small ritual of refocusing.
The referee finally extracted himself from the scrum of players, issuing a final warning to both captains before signaling for a PSG goal kick to restart play.
The match clock showed thirty-two minutes. Everything was still to play for.