The Volkswagen Arena looked different in April sunlight, its angular architecture softened by spring warmth that had finally arrived in Lower Saxony. Luka stepped off the team bus, adjusting the strap of his backpack as photographers clicked away from behind security barriers. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and anticipation.
"Bit warm for April," Dahoud commented beside him, squinting up at the cloudless sky.
"Better than that Bielefeld rain," Luka replied, remembering how his boots had squelched with every step during that miserable away victory.
They filed into the stadium, past the green and white banners proclaiming Wolfsburg's modest ambitions. Eight in the table, safe from relegation but not too far from Europe to dream—the perfect opponents for a rotated squad with bigger battles ahead.
In the away dressing room, Rose had already begun his preparations, tactical board displaying Wolfsburg's expected 4-3-3 formation. Luka found his place among the starters, noting the changes—Ryerson at right-back, Brandt on the right wing, Malen through the middle. Rest for the regular starters with Bayern looming in three days.
"They'll press high early," Rose explained, his marker squeaking against the board. "Arnold and Schlager like to push forward from midfield. When they do—" he drew arrows indicating space, "—we exploit the gaps. Quick transitions, vertical passes. Don't overcomplicate."
Luka nodded along, already visualizing the movements. His position on the left would put him against Mbabu, the Swiss right-back who favored aggression over positioning. There would be space to exploit if he timed his movements correctly.
The warm-up passed in familiar routine—jogging, dynamic stretches, passing drills that grew progressively sharper. The Wolfsburg supporters were already filling their sections, creating pockets of green and white against the concrete. Not the Yellow Wall's intensity, but respectable enough for a Saturday afternoon fixture.
Back in the dressing room for final preparations, Luka pulled on his kit methodically. The fabric felt lighter somehow, as if the proximity to their goal had reduced even the weight of their shirts. One point behind Bayern. Every touch, every decision, every moment carried weight now.
"Lads," Bellingham's voice cut through the pre-match chatter. Even without the armband today—Reus wearing it as captain—Jude commanded attention. "We know what this is about. Do the job, no drama, three points. Save the fireworks for Tuesday."
The tunnel at Wolfsburg was wider than most, allowing the teams to stand side by side rather than single file. Luka found himself next to Maximilian Arnold, the Wolfsburg captain offering a brief nod of acknowledgment.
The stadium announcer's voice boomed as they emerged into afternoon sunshine. Twenty-eight thousand—modest by Bundesliga standards but enough to create atmosphere. Luka jogged onto the pitch, his shadow sharp against the pristine grass.
The opening minutes unfolded exactly as Rose had predicted. Wolfsburg pressed high, their midfield pushing forward to compress space. But Dortmund were ready, their passing sharp despite the rotated lineup.
In the seventh minute, the first real opportunity emerged from Wolfsburg's aggression. Arnold pushed too high chasing a loose ball, leaving space behind. Can recovered possession and immediately found Dahoud, who turned and spotted Luka beginning his run.
The pass arrived perfectly weighted, allowing Luka to receive in stride. Mbabu rushed across to cover, but Luka had already seen the space developing. He let the ball run across his body, using his momentum to glide past the Swiss defender's attempted challenge.
Now driving at the Wolfsburg defense, options opened up. Malen made a diagonal run to his right, dragging a center-back with him. But Luka had already decided—the space between defenders invited a shot.
From twenty-two yards, he struck cleanly with his right foot. The ball flew low and hard, forcing Casteels into a diving save. The Belgian goalkeeper managed to parry it wide, but only just.
"Unlucky," Malen called out as they set up for the corner. "Keeper barely got there."
The corner came to nothing, but the pattern was established. Wolfsburg's aggressive approach left gaps that Dortmund could exploit. It was simply a matter of timing and execution.
The breakthrough came in the nineteenth minute, born from Wolfsburg's own ambition. A corner at the other end, their defenders pushing forward, leaving only three back. When Akanji headed clear, the ball dropped to Can in midfield.
His pass found Luka wide left, with Wolfsburg scrambling to recover their shape. Mbabu was caught upfield, forcing Lacroix to shift across to cover. Luka drove at him, slowing slightly as he approached, letting the defender set his feet.
The drop of his shoulder was subtle but effective—suggesting he would cut inside before suddenly accelerating down the line. Lacroix, wrong-footed, could only watch as Luka burst past him into the penalty area.
Casteels rushed out, trying to narrow the angle, but Luka had already made his decision. A quick glance showed Malen arriving at the far post, but the near corner was there for the taking. He struck low and hard, the ball sliding under Casteels' dive and into the net.
1-0.
Luka's celebration was measured—a fist pump toward the away section before jogging back to position. There was satisfaction in the goal but also awareness that the job was far from complete.
Wolfsburg responded with increased intensity, their press becoming almost frantic. Passes that had been finding their mark now went astray under pressure. For ten minutes, Dortmund found themselves pinned back, defending desperately as Wolfsburg sought an equalizer.
The storm passed without damage, and gradually Dortmund reasserted control. In the thirty-fourth minute, another chance materialized. This time it was Brandt who initiated, receiving from Ryerson and driving infield. His pass found Dahoud, who had ghosted into space between Wolfsburg's lines.
Dahoud's first touch was exquisite, killing the ball dead despite pressure from behind. He turned, saw Luka making another run, but this time chose differently. His shot from eighteen yards was struck with venom, rising slightly before dipping viciously. Casteels got fingertips to it, but the power was too much. The net bulged.
2-0.
Now Wolfsburg's heads dropped slightly, their early intensity impossible to maintain. Dortmund began to control possession more comfortably, moving the ball with patience, making their opponents chase.
Just before halftime, the third goal arrived. A Wolfsburg attack broke down when Nmecha's pass was intercepted by Can. The German midfielder, reading the game perfectly, immediately launched a long ball over the top for Malen.
The Dutchman's pace took him clear of the defense. One-on-one with Casteels, he showed composure that had sometimes been lacking earlier in the season, rounding the goalkeeper before rolling the ball into the empty net.
3-0 at halftime. Job half done.
The second half brought changes from both sides. Wolfsburg introduced fresh legs, seeking to salvage something from the match. Dortmund, conscious of Tuesday's challenge, began to manage the game more carefully.
But Luka wasn't finished. In the fifty-eighth minute, he received the ball near the halfway line with his back to goal. Schlager pressed tight against him, trying to prevent the turn. Luka felt the contact, used it to his advantage, letting the defender's momentum carry him past as he spun in the opposite direction.
Now facing forward with space to run into, Luka accelerated. The Wolfsburg defense, already demoralized, backed off rather than engaging. It was all the invitation he needed.
From twenty-five yards, he unleashed a shot that seemed to gather pace as it flew. Casteels, perhaps unsighted by the crowd of players, reacted late. The ball was already nestling in the top corner by the time he moved.
4-0. Luka's second of the afternoon.
Rose made substitutions shortly after, withdrawing Luka to preserve him for Tuesday. As he walked off, accepting the applause from the away section, his mind was already shifting forward. Wolfsburg had been dealt with efficiently. Now came the real test.
The match finished 6-0, Brandt adding two more late goals. But in the dressing room afterward, celebration was muted. This had been the appetizer. The main course awaited in Munich.
—
Tuesday arrived with the weight of history.
Luka woke early in his Munich hotel room, the Bavarian capital already stirring beyond his window. 6:23 AM, according to his phone. Too early to be awake on match day, but sleep had become elusive when stakes reached these heights.
He moved to the window, looking out at the city that would host tonight's battle. Somewhere across town, Bayern's players were waking to their own routines, their own preparations for what both teams understood was more than just another match. This was the Bundesliga title race distilled into ninety minutes. Maybe more.
The group chat was already active despite the early hour:
Jude: Anyone else awake?
Erling: Been up since 5. 💪
Marco R: That's why you're always bouncing off the walls
Gio: Breakfast opens at 7. Meet downstairs?
Luka: 👍
He showered, letting the hot water work through muscles that had recovered well from Saturday's exertions. The physios had done their work—massage, ice baths, careful management of every minor ache. His body felt good. Sharp. Ready.
Breakfast was a carefully orchestrated affair. The hotel had sectioned off a private area for the team, nutritionists overseeing options that balanced energy provision with digestive comfort. Luka loaded his plate methodically—porridge with honey, scrambled eggs, whole grain toast. Fuel for what lay ahead.
"Sleep well?" Reus asked, settling beside him with his own carefully curated plate.
"Few hours," Luka admitted. "You?"
"Same. Always like this before Bayern." Reus smiled slightly. "Fourteen years I've been doing this, still can't sleep properly the night before Der Klassiker."
They ate in comfortable silence, the dining room gradually filling as more players arrived. Conversation remained muted—not from nerves but from focus. Everyone understood what tonight represented.
After breakfast, the team meeting. Rose had booked a conference room, tactical boards already prepared. The players filed in, finding their usual seats, attention immediately focused as their manager began.
"Gentlemen," Rose began, his voice carrying its usual authority. "I'm not going to stand here and tell you what this match means. You know. They know. The world knows." He clicked a remote, bringing up Bayern's expected lineup on the screen behind him.
"Neuer. Pavard, Upamecano, Hernández, Davies. Kimmich, Goretzka. Sané, Müller, Coman. Lewandowski." Each name carried weight, represented problems to solve. "This is what we expect. Nagelsmann might surprise us, but our preparation remains the same."
The tactical discussion that followed was detailed but not overwhelming. They'd been preparing for this all season, really. How to handle Bayern's positional play. How to exploit the spaces Davies left when bombing forward. How to prevent Müller from finding pockets between the lines.
"Luka," Rose addressed him directly. "Pavard will try to force you inside where they can compress space. Stay wide initially, stretch them, then pick your moments to come central. When you do—" he drew arrows on his tablet, mirroring onto the main screen, "—be ready for immediate combination play. Don't hold the ball. Touch and go."
Luka nodded, visualizing the movements. He'd studied hours of footage showing Pavard's defensive tendencies. The Frenchman was solid, but not the fastest right back, sometimes slow to react to sudden changes of direction. There would be opportunities.
"One more thing," Rose said as the meeting concluded. "Enjoy this. Nights like this are why we play football. The pressure is a privilege. Embrace it."
The afternoon passed in carefully managed routine. Light training at Bayern's auxiliary facility—nothing strenuous, just enough to activate muscles and sharpen touch. Then back to the hotel for lunch and mandatory rest period. Some players slept. Others watched Netflix or played video games. Luka lay on his bed, earbuds in, visualizing what was to come.
The journey to the Allianz Arena began at 5:15 PM. The team bus pulled away from the hotel, police escort clearing their path through Munich traffic. Luka sat in his usual spot, three rows from the back, watching the city pass by through tinted windows.
As they approached the stadium, the crowds thickened. Red and white dominated, but pockets of black and yellow appeared—Dortmund fans who'd made the journey, their songs already audible through the bus' insulation.
"Look at that," Palmer said from across the aisle, pointing to a group of young fans holding a banner: "HAALAND > LEWANDOWSKI" in massive letters.
Erling, headphones on and eyes closed in his pre-match meditation, remained oblivious to the tribute.
The Allianz Arena loomed ahead, its distinctive facade already beginning to glow in the early evening light. Luka had played here before, but the sight still impressed. Seventy-five thousand would pack inside tonight, creating an atmosphere that few stadiums could match.
Inside, the away dressing room was spacious but deliberately neutral—gray walls, standard fixtures, nothing to inspire or comfort. Luka found his designated spot, his kit already hanging perfectly prepared. The familiar pre-match routine began—strapping ankles, adjusting shinpads, each action performed with mechanical precision while his mind sharpened its focus.
Sky Deutschland had set up their coverage area near the tunnel. Luka caught glimpses on the dressing room monitor as he prepared. Lothar Matthäus and Dietmar Hamann dissecting the tactical battle to come, their analysis interspersed with historical footage of previous classics between these rivals.
"This is more than three points," Matthäus was saying. "This is about momentum, about belief. If Dortmund win here, the title race transforms. Bayern knows this. They'll come out aggressive, try to impose themselves early."
Rose gathered them for final instructions at 6:30. The team huddled close, his words meant only for their ears.
"First fifteen minutes, they'll come at us like a hurricane. Weather it. Stay compact, stay calm. Our moments will come." He looked around the circle, making eye contact with each player. "Trust each other. Trust the plan. Trust yourselves."
The knock came at 6:40. Time for the tunnel.
Luka pulled on his jersey, the number 37 feeling lighter than usual despite the weight of expectation it carried. He bounced on his toes, shaking out his limbs, feeling the energy building within contained channels.
The tunnel at the Allianz was long and gradually ascending, designed to build anticipation with each step. Luka could hear the crowd now, their songs filtering through concrete and steel. The Bayern players were already lined up, their red jerseys vivid under the tunnel lights.
He found his position in line, directly behind Bellingham. Across the narrow space, Joshua Kimmich stood with characteristic intensity, his jaw set, eyes focused straight ahead. These moments before battle—close enough to touch your opponents yet separated by invisible walls of competitive intent.
The officials emerged, Champions League referee Daniele Orsato leading them out. The Italian had overseen some of European football's biggest matches. His appointment signaled the game's importance beyond mere domestic concerns.
Then came the kids—local youth players chosen to walk out with the teams, their eyes wide with barely contained excitement. Luka's partner couldn't have been older than eight, his small hand trembling slightly as he reached up.
"Nervous?" Luka asked in German, smiling down at the boy.
"A little," came the whispered reply.
"Me too," Luka confided, winking. "But that's what makes it fun."
The signal came. The line began to move. The noise grew with each step, building from distant roar to immediate assault on the senses. Then they emerged.
The Allianz Arena erupted. Seventy-five thousand voices united in passion, the noise physically pressing against them. Red and white filled every section save one—the away corner where Dortmund's faithful created their own pocket of defiance.
The prematch ceremonies unfolded with typical German efficiency. League anthem. Handshakes. Team photos. Luka went through the motions automatically, his focus already narrowing to the rectangle of grass that would host the next ninety minutes of their season.
During the coin toss, he studied the pitch. The grass was immaculate, cut to Bayern's preferred length—short enough to facilitate their quick passing but not so short as to speed the game beyond control. The evening was cool but not cold, with no wind to affect ball flight. Perfect conditions for football.
Lewandowski won the toss, choosing to kick off. The teams dispersed to their positions, Luka taking his place on the left, already eyeing Pavard's positioning. The Frenchman looked focused but relaxed—the demeanor of someone who'd played in countless big matches.
The stadium noise reached crescendo as Orsato checked his watch, raised his whistle. Luka took one deep breath, feeling his heartbeat steady despite the electricity in the air. This was it. The match that could define their season. Maybe their careers.
The whistle blew.
Lewandowski tapped to Müller, who immediately played back to Kimmich. Bayern's intent was clear from the first pass—control, possession, dominance. They moved the ball across their back line, probing, waiting for Dortmund's press to reveal its patterns.
Luka held his position initially, tracking Pavard's movements while maintaining awareness of the space behind. The Frenchman pushed higher than expected, clearly instructed to provide width in Bayern's buildup.
For three minutes, Bayern circulated possession without truly threatening. Then Kimmich, spotting an angle, played a diagonal ball to Sané on the right. The German winger received on the half-turn, Guerreiro immediately closing him down.
Sané's acceleration was explosive, burning past Guerreiro's attempted challenge. Suddenly Bayern had momentum, players flooding forward in support. Luka tracked back, trying to cover the space Guerreiro had vacated.
The cross came in low and hard, Lewandowski attacking the near post. Hummels read it perfectly, getting across to block, but the ball ricocheted dangerously around the penalty area before Can hooked it clear.
"Wake up!" Bellingham shouted, organizing the midfield shape. "Sharper! They can't have that much time!"
Dortmund responded, pressing higher, forcing Bayern to play quicker than they wanted. In the eighth minute, a misplaced pass from Upamecano gave them their first real possession in Bayern's half.
Reus collected, immediately looking for movement ahead. Luka made his run, peeling off Pavard's shoulder, but the pass was slightly behind him. He had to check back, allowing the defender to recover position.
With Pavard tight against him, Luka couldn't turn immediately. He felt the Frenchman's hand on his back, the subtle pushes that referees rarely punished. Instead of fighting it, Luka used the contact, letting Pavard's momentum carry him past as he spun the opposite way.
Now facing goal with a yard of space, Luka drove forward. Upamecano stepped out to meet him, trying to show him wide. Luka feinted right, then left, his close control keeping the ball glued to his feet. The center-back couldn't commit, wary of the pace that could take Luka past him.
Palmer made a run to his right, calling for the pass. Luka shaped to play it, causing Upamecano to shift his weight, then suddenly struck for goal from twenty yards. The shot was clean, flying toward the bottom corner, but Neuer read it perfectly, diving to his left to palm it away for a corner.
The away section erupted in appreciation, their songs growing louder. That was more like it. That was the Dortmund they'd come to see.
The corner produced nothing, but the psychological effect was evident. Bayern's players looked at each other, recognizing they were in a genuine contest. The next ten minutes saw the game's intensity ratchet higher, tackles flying in, every loose ball contested with desperation.
Kimmich began to impose himself, his passing range creating problems. One ball over the top nearly released Lewandowski, only Akanji's pace saving Dortmund. Another found Davies in space on the left, his cross fizzing across the six-yard box with no one able to apply the finishing touch.
The physicality increased. Pavard, frustrated by Luka's movement, began grabbing his shirt more obviously. When Luka spun away from another challenge in the nineteenth minute, Pavard's trailing leg caught him, sending him tumbling. Orsato played advantage as the ball ran to Bellingham, but Luka felt the sting on his ankle where the studs had raked.
"Every time," Luka muttered, pushing himself up. Pavard offered a hand, which Luka took, jogging back into position.
The game's pattern was establishing itself—Bayern dominating possession but Dortmund looking dangerous every time they won the ball. In the twenty-third minute, another transition nearly brought reward.
Goretzka's pass toward Müller was intercepted by Can, who immediately found Bellingham. The captain turned, surveying options, then played a perfectly weighted through-ball for Haaland.
The Norwegian burst clear, his pace taking him away from Hernández. The angle was tight, but Haaland had scored from worse. His shot was powerful but too close to Neuer, who beat it away with strong hands.
"Unlucky!" Luka called out, but Haaland was already pressing the Bayern defense as they tried to play out.
The half-hour mark brought the game's most controversial moment. Coman, receiving on the left, cut inside past Ryerson's challenge. As he shaped to shoot, Palmer slid in desperately, getting the ball but catching the Frenchman's follow-through.
Bayern's players appealed en masse, surrounding Orsato. The referee took his time, consulting with his assistant, before pointing to the spot.
The away section howled in protest. On the replay screens, it looked like Palmer had gotten the ball first, but the contact afterward was undeniable. Orsato stood by his decision.
Lewandowski placed the ball, his routine methodical as ever. Kobel bounced on his line, trying to put doubt in the striker's mind. The stadium fell silent, seventy-five thousand people holding their breath.
Lewandowski's run-up was measured. His strike was perfect—low to the keeper's right, unsaveable. 1-0 to Bayern.
The home crowd erupted, "Super Bayern" ringing around the arena. Luka felt the deflation in his teammates, saw shoulders drop slightly. But Bellingham was immediately among them, clapping hands, demanding focus.
"Long way to go!" he shouted. "Stay in this! We're still in this!"
Dortmund pushed for an immediate response. Luka found himself receiving the ball more often, Bayern sitting slightly deeper to protect their lead. In the thirty-fifth minute, he produced a moment that almost brought the equalizer.
Collecting a pass from Dahoud near the left touchline, Luka was immediately confronted by both Pavard and Goretzka. The space seemed non-existent, but Luka saw the narrow corridor between them. He threaded the ball through with the outside of his boot while spinning around Pavard, collecting it on the other side.
The skill drew gasps from the crowd and left both Bayern players wrong-footed. Now driving at the defense, Luka had options developing. Haaland peeled off to the right, Palmer made a run near post, and Reus arrived late from midfield.
Luka chose power over placement, striking from the edge of the box. The ball flew past Neuer's dive but crashed against the crossbar, bouncing down and away. The away section thought it had crossed the line, their appeals desperate, but Orsato waved play on.
"So close!" Rose shouted from the technical area, his frustration evident.
The final minutes of the half saw Bayern reassert control. Müller, finding space between the lines, began to orchestrate their attacks with typical intelligence. One clever backheel released Sané, whose cross found Lewandowski. The header was powerful but straight at Kobel.
As halftime approached, the intensity remained unrelenting. Every pass was contested, every touch crucial. Luka found himself tracking back constantly, helping Guerreiro deal with Sané's pace. The defensive work was exhausting but necessary.
The whistle for halftime brought relief and frustration in equal measure. 1-0 to Bayern, but Dortmund had shown they belonged in this contest. Everything remained possible.
As they walked toward the tunnel, Luka caught Kimmich's eye. The Bayern midfielder nodded—professional respect between competitors. These were the matches that defined careers, that separated the great from the good.
In the dressing room, Rose was calm but forceful. "We're in this," he emphasized. "They're sitting deeper because they respect our threat. Keep moving the ball quickly. Their press will tire. Our chances will come."
Luka sat quietly, sipping an energy drink, his mind already on the second half. Forty-five minutes to save their season. Forty-five minutes to prove they belonged at the summit of German football.
The title race hung in the balance.
To be continued...