High above the pitch in Signal Iduna Park's executive suite, Hans-Joachim Watzke stood motionless against the floor-to-ceiling windows, his knuckles white where they gripped the metal railing. The Dortmund CEO's reflection stared back at him from the glass, a man who had spent decades building something that felt moments away from crumbling.
Below, players disappeared into the tunnel for the half-time break that couldn't heal what had gone wrong in the first forty-five minutes. One goal down. Bayern leading comfortably in Munich. Eleven years of dominance stretching toward twelve.
"Verdammt," he muttered under his breath, the curse carrying all the frustration of watching dreams slip away despite everything they'd invested, everything they'd believed possible.
—
"Right, we're back in three minutes," the floor manager's voice crackled through Derek Morrison's headset as cameras swiveled away from the commentary position. The red recording light dimmed, creating that strange pause between public performance and private conversation.
Morrison loosened his tie slightly, the tension of the first half finally registering in his shoulders. "Christ, Thomas, this isn't going how anyone expected, is it?"
Hitzlsperger shook his head, reviewing his notes that had become increasingly pessimistic as the half progressed. "Kanga's goal was brilliant, but that disallowed goal for Haaland... the margins are so thin at this level. Inches between glory and heartbreak."
"The VAR decision was correct though?"
"Absolutely. But correct doesn't make it any less devastating for Dortmund. They'd found their way back into the match, the crowd was going mental, and then..."
Morrison glanced toward the tunnel where both teams had disappeared. "Hertha are sitting deeper now, aren't they? Content to defend their lead and hit on the counter."
"Smart football. They know they can't match Dortmund for quality over ninety minutes, so they're making it about mentality, about who wants it more when the pressure builds."
—
Damn it.
The thought hit Luka like a physical blow as he walked through the tunnel toward the dressing room, the sound of his studs clicking against concrete echoing in the narrow space. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in harsh white that made the yellow walls look sickly, artificial.
They were losing, actually losing.
The door to the dressing room opened and Jude emerged, his face flushed from exertion and something else. Frustration, maybe. Or fear. Their eyes met for a moment, and Luka saw something there he didn't like, doubt creeping in where confidence should live.
"How bad is it in there?" Luka asked quietly.
Jude shook his head, wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. "Rose is... intense. Really intense."
The dressing room felt smaller when Luka entered, compressed by the weight of what was happening outside. Players sat slumped on wooden benches that had supported countless pre-match preparations, post-match celebrations, and moments like this when everything hung in balance.
Hummels was staring at his boots, unlacing and re-lacing, suggesting his mind was elsewhere. Palmer sat with his head in his hands, still processing the disallowed goal that had felt so real, so final, so perfect until technology intervened.
This is what losing looks like, Luka thought, studying each face, each posture, each small gesture that revealed how his teammates were handling the pressure.
He found his usual spot near the tactical board, leaning against the wall where he could see everything without being in the way.
Observer. Substitute. Someone watching history happen rather than making it.
The water bottles were arranged in perfect rows on the treatment table, each one filled to identical levels by kit staff who understood that details mattered at this level. Luka grabbed one, twisting off the cap and taking a long drink that tasted of nothing but necessity.
Rose's footstep were different from his players', heavier, more purposeful, the sound of someone carrying responsibility for everything that was about to happen.
"Listen to me."
The words cut through the silence like a blade through silk. Every head turned toward Rose, every conversation stopped, every private thought temporarily suspended.
"Listen carefully."
Rose moved to the center of the room, his presence commanding attention in ways that had nothing to do with authority and everything to do with belief. He pointed at Reus first, his finger jabbing the air with emphasis that made each gesture feel personal.
"You. Captain. What does that armband mean to you?"
Reus looked up, meeting Rose's stare directly. "Everything."
"Good. Because right now, everything is what we're fighting for."
Rose's finger moved to Jude, who straightened involuntarily under the scrutiny. "You. You've carried this team when others couldn't. Are you done? Are you finished?"
"No, boss."
"I can't hear you."
"No, boss!" Jude's voice carried more conviction now, the doubt Luka had seen in the tunnel beginning to burn away.
Rose continued around the room, making eye contact with each player, demanding acknowledgment, requiring response. Haaland. Can. Palmer. Each one forced to declare themselves, to choose between accepting defeat and fighting for something larger.
"If you are not a footballer," Rose continued, his voice rising with each word, "then don't go back out on that pitch. If you are not willing to fight for this shirt, for this club, for the people who've believed in you when nobody else would, then stay here and watch on television like everyone else."
"Nobody here wants to lose." Rose's voice dropped to just above a whisper, forcing everyone to lean in, to hang on every word. "I hope to God nobody here wants to lose. But wanting isn't enough anymore. Hoping isn't enough. You cannot lower your heads like beaten dogs."
He slammed his fist against the tactical board, the sound echoing off concrete walls like a gunshot. "You raise them up! You fight! You remember that eleven years is long enough! You remember that this might not come again!"
Luka stirred, feeling something ignite in his chest despite being on the outside of this.
Rose moved to the tactical board, grabbing a blue marker and drawing quick, angry lines that illustrated his points with mathematical precision. "Hertha scored one goal. One. From a counter-attack that we gifted them because we got lazy in transition. That's fixable. That's completely fixable."
The X's and O's took shape on the whiteboard, formations, movement patterns, tactical adjustments that looked simple when drawn but required perfect execution under pressure. Luka found himself nodding along, understanding the logic even as he remained unused.
"They're sitting deep now, playing for time, hoping to catch us when we get desperate and leave space behind." Rose drew arrows showing Hertha's counter-attacking routes, the spaces they would try to exploit. "Fine. We press higher. We force them out of their comfort zone."
More lines, more arrows, tactical chess played out in blue marker on white board. "Palmer, Malen, you stay wide, stretch their defensive block, make them choose between marking you and covering space. Jude, Can, you get between their lines, make their midfield turn, make them uncomfortable."
Rose stepped back from the board, studying his handiwork before looking around the room again. "And remember this, they're the ones protecting something now. They're the ones playing scared. We have nothing to lose and everything to gain."
Hertha are defending now, not attacking. That changes everything.
"Questions?" Rose asked, though his tone suggested he wasn't really expecting any.
Silence.
"Good. Then let's go win a title."
—
The second half felt different from the bench—more urgent, more desperate, like watching a car accident happen in slow motion. Luka sat forward, his jacket unzipped despite the evening chill that was starting to bite through Signal Iduna Park's concrete bowl.
Come on.
He watched Jude collect the ball in midfield and immediately look forward.
Just one. Just one goal to get back in this.
Jude's pass found Palmer on the right wing, the ball driven with pace that suggested urgency. Palmer's first touch was clean, taking him away from Plattenhardt who was closing distance with purpose. But the cross that followed was too close to Schwolow, easily gathered by the goalkeeper who was playing the game of his life.
Luka's jaw worked methodically on the piece of gum that had lost all flavor twenty minutes ago.
The pattern repeated over the next four minutes, Dortmund creating half-chances, Hertha defending with increasing desperation, the clock becoming everybody's enemy or friend depending on which color shirt they wore.
Then Hertha's left winger—Lukébakio, Luka remembered from the pre-match briefing—collected a pass near the halfway line. Meunier was positioned slightly too high, caught between supporting the attack and covering his defensive responsibilities.
Lukébakio's first touch was perfect, the ball rolling through Meunier's legs with insulting ease. The nutmeg was so clean, so casual, that for a moment nobody processed what had happened.
Then Lukébakio was through, driving toward the penalty area with only Akanji tracking back to cover. The Swiss defender was fast, but Lukébakio had the angle and the momentum. The cross came early, driven hard across the six-yard box where Kanga was making his run.
Hummels read the danger perfectly, sliding in to cut out the pass with a tackle that was precisely timed, perfectly executed, and caught Kanga's trailing leg as the striker tried to hurdle the challenge.
"No."
The word escaped Luka's lips as a whisper, but it might as well have been a scream. The contact was minimal but undeniable. Kanga went down like he'd been shot, his arms raised in appeal that was unnecessary because the referee's whistle was already cutting through the stadium noise.
Penalty to Hertha Berlin. Yellow card to Hummels.
Luka looked up at the stadium lights, at the concrete roof that seemed to press down like the sky falling.
The penalty was struck cleanly, Jovetic stepping up with the composure of someone who'd been here before. Low, hard, into the bottom left corner where Kobel had no chance despite guessing correctly.
2-0 to Hertha Berlin.
Luka stared straight ahead, his face set in stone that betrayed nothing of the fire raging behind his eyes. Around him, the bench was silent except for the sound of Sebastian Geppert muttering prayers in Austrian-accented German.
This is it. Feeling something shift inside his chest. This is when everything gets decided.
Rose turned from the touchline, his eyes finding Luka immediately. No words were necessary, just a pointing gesture that contained everything: urgency, belief, desperation, hope, the accumulated weight of a season's worth of dreams.
Luka nodded once, spitting his gum into the waste bucket beside the bench before beginning his preparation routine. His fingers worked the laces of his boots, checking each knot twice. The elastic of his socks, pulled up to exactly the right height. The hem of his shorts, adjusted to sit perfectly on his hips.
Details.
At this level, everything was details.
Sebastian Geppert appeared at his side with a water bottle, the Austrian's face flushed with stress that made his usual composure look forced.
"Drink," Geppert instructed, his accent thick with tension. "You'll need every drop of energy for what's coming."
Luka drained half the bottle in one go, feeling the cold liquid hit his stomach like a shock. Then he poured the rest over his head, the water running down his face and neck, washing away the last traces of doubt.
Three weeks, he thought, wiping his face with his shirt sleeve. Three weeks in Romania, rebuilding everything, making myself better than I was before. For this moment. For exactly this moment.
Around him, the fourth official was preparing the substitution board, checking the numbers twice before raising it toward the center circle.
Number 27 coming off. Number 37 going on.
The crowd saw it first, that ripple of recognition that spread through Signal Iduna Park like electricity through water. Eighty thousand voices finding their power again, believing that salvation might come in the form of a seventeen-year-old who'd spent three weeks rebuilding his body in Romanian mountains.
"Heja BVB! Heja BVB! Heja BVB Borussia!"
The song erupted from the South Stand, spreading around the stadium like wildfire. Luka stood up, rolling his shoulders, feeling every muscle in his body respond with precision that hadn't existed before his injury.
"Von der Südtribüne mit Liebe, Borussia Dortmund!"
"Von der Südtribüne mit Liebe, Borussia Dortmund!"
The chant built to crescendo as Malen jogged toward the touchline, disappointment etched in every line of his body but understanding in his eyes. He slapped Luka's hand as they passed, leaning close to be heard over the noise.
"Get us back in this," Malen said quietly, his Dutch accent carrying genuine belief. "Show them what you can do."
Rose grabbed Luka's arm before he could step onto the pitch, leaning close so his words would carry over the crowd noise that was building to religious intensity.
"Listen to me carefully." Rose's eyes were bright with something that might have been madness or might have been genius. "Forget everything we worked on in training. You see weakness, you work it. If it's their fullback, destroy him. If it's their center-back, run at him. If it's space between their lines, exploit it."
Luka nodded, the tactical instruction exactly what he'd needed to hear.
Freedom. License to trust his instincts, to play the game the way he'd learned it before coaches started telling him what was possible.
"Get us on the scoresheet," Rose continued, his grip tightening on Luka's arm. "However you have to do it."
"That's all I needed to hear," Luka replied, already stepping toward the touchline.
Time to fly.
…
The Signal Iduna Park turf felt different beneath Luka's boots as he jogged onto the pitch, springier somehow, more alive, each blade of grass distinct under the floodlights that turned evening into artificial day. His Puma Future Z 1.2s, gripped the surface with mechanical precision. The boots felt like extensions of his feet, the synthetic upper molding perfectly to his foot shape after months of wear.
The crowd's roar hit him like a physical force, eighty thousand voices merging into something that vibrated through his chest cavity, through his bones, through whatever part of the nervous system responds to mass human devotion. He raised one arm briefly, acknowledging the wall of sound that seemed to lift the concrete roof, before settling into position on the left wing.
He could feel exactly where every Hertha player was positioned without looking, could sense the spaces between their defensive lines with computer-like precision.
Haaland stood over the ball at the center circle, waiting for the referee's signal to restart play. Around him, Dortmund's players had spread into their attacking shape, the urgency visible in every body position, every quick glance toward goal.
"And here comes Luka Zorić," Morrison's voice carried over the broadcast as cameras tracked his movement into position. "The seventeen-year-old making his return after three weeks. Thomas, this is exactly the moment Dortmund needed."
"The timing couldn't be more perfect, Derek. Two goals down, needing something special, and you bring on a player who's already proven he can produce magic in the biggest moments. Look at the way he's moving, there's a confidence there, a sharpness that suggests the layoff might have done him more good than harm."
"The crowd certainly thinks so. Listen to that noise, it's like the stadium itself has come alive again."
"And watch Hertha's defensive shape, Derek. They're already adjusting, already showing Zorić the respect his reputation demands. That's half the battle won before he's even touched the ball."
The referee's whistle cut through the atmosphere like a blade. Haaland knocked the ball back to Reus, who immediately played it square to Can in the center circle. The German midfielder's touch was clean, his head already up and scanning for forward options as Hertha's press began to organize.
Can's pass found Akanji on the right side of defense, the Swiss defender controlling possession with typical composure despite the urgency radiating from every yellow shirt around him. His first touch was perfect, setting up the pass that would restart Dortmund's hunt for salvation.
The ball traveled thirty yards to Guerreiro on the left flank, struck with enough pace to beat Richter's closing challenge. The Portuguese fullback's control was good, his body already turning toward the attacking half as Pekarik approached with purpose.
Luka felt his muscles respond with precision he hadn't experienced before his injury. Every fiber seemed connected to conscious thought, every movement economical and purposeful.
He dropped deeper as Guerreiro received possession, creating a passing angle while drawing Pekarik away from his defensive position. The movement was instinctive, reading the game's flow without conscious calculation.
Guerreiro's pass found him perfectly, the ball arriving at his feet just as Pekarik committed to the challenge. Luka's first touch, his first competitive touch in three weeks, was sublime. The ball stuck to his right foot like it was magnetized, controlled with the outside of his boot while his body turned to shield possession.
Pekarik's challenge came hard and fast, the defender recognizing the danger immediately. But Luka had already seen what was coming. He rolled the ball inward of the field with his left foot, away from Pekarik's stretched leg.
Luka sent his entire body weight to the right, selling the movement completely while the ball remained on his left foot. Pekarik bought it completely, his momentum carrying him toward the touchline as Luka accelerated in the opposite direction.
Suddenly he was in space, thirty yards of green grass opening ahead of him like a highway to goal. His stride lengthened as he found his rhythm, each step eating up precious ground while the crowd found its voice again.
The space was intoxicating. Luka could feel every muscle fiber firing in perfect sequence, his cardiovascular system operating at optimal efficiency despite three weeks away from competitive football.
Tousart was sliding across to cover, the French midfielder's approach angled to force Luka wide where options would be limited. But Luka had already read the defender's intention, his movement toward the touchline deliberate misdirection that masked his true plan.
At the last second, Luka cut inward, driving directly at Tousart with pace that forced the midfielder to commit. The chop that followed was executed with perfect timing, right foot across his body, sending the ball wide again while his momentum carried him past the wrong-footed defender.
Still at speed, still in control, still with options developing around him.
"Zorić is away!" Morrison's voice rose with excitement as Luka accelerated past Tousart. "Look at that pace, that control! The Romanian treatment appears to have enhanced rather than just healed!"
Haaland's run was perfectly timed, pulling Boyata and Stark toward the penalty area as the Norwegian striker threatened to get in behind their defensive line.
"This is what we've been missing, Derek. The directness, the willingness to take players on, the ability to create something from nothing. Watch Haaland's movement now, he's reading Zorić's run perfectly."
The movement created exactly the space Luka needed, drawing defenders away from his path toward goal.
"And Hertha are in trouble here. They've been sitting deep all match, but suddenly they're having to make decisions under pressure."
Luka shaped to pass, his body language selling the intention completely. Stark took a half-step toward Haaland, preparing to cut off the through ball that seemed inevitable. That microsecond of hesitation was all Luka needed.
Instead of passing, he went across the edge of the penalty area, his right foot pushing the ball laterally while his left foot planted for the shot that was surely coming. Schwolow was already shifting his weight, anticipating the strike toward the near post.
But Luka had one more fake in him. His right foot lifted as if to shoot, the movement so convincing that both Stark and Schwolow committed completely. The defender lunged forward to block, the goalkeeper dove toward his near post, and suddenly the goal was half-empty.
The actual shot then came, driven low toward the bottom corner with enough pace to beat any goalkeeper from that distance. The ball flew true, kissing the inside of the post before nestling in the side netting with the soft whisper of dreams becoming reality.
Goal.
"WHAT A GOAL! WHAT AN ABSOLUTELY SENSATIONAL GOAL FROM LUKA ZORIĆ!" Morrison's voice broke with excitement as the replays began to roll. "Thomas, that is why he's considered one of the most exciting talents in world football!"
The stadium erupted like a volcano. Luka was already running before the net had stopped moving, his arms spread wide as he sprinted toward the Yellow Wall that was losing its collective mind in scenes of pure ecstasy.
The knee slide came naturally, turf burning against his shins as he slid across the grass with arms raised toward the supporters who'd never stopped believing. His right fist pumped toward the Yellow Wall, acknowledging the devotion that had carried them through darker moments.
"Come on!" he screamed, his voice audible even over the noise that seemed to shake the stadium's concrete foundations.
Reus reached him first, leaping onto his back with the exuberance of a man ten years younger. The captain's weight drove them both toward the advertising boards where photographers captured the moment that would define careers and seasons.
Others followed in a yellow wave, Jude with tears in his eyes, Palmer screaming incomprehensibly, Can with the relief of someone who'd seen salvation arrive exactly when needed most. They piled on top of each other in front of the supporters who were reaching down to touch their heroes, to share in the magic that made football the world's most beautiful game.
"Yes!" Luka roared again, turning toward the camera that had found him in the chaos. His face was flushed with exertion and pure adrenaline, every emotion written in the lines around his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his whole body seemed to glow with possibility.
"Look at this, Derek, watch the way he reads the space, the way he uses Haaland's run to create confusion in Hertha's defense. This isn't just pace and skill, this is football intelligence at the highest level."
"The fakes, the body movement, the finish, everything about that goal was world-class. And to think he's been out for three weeks with injury!"
"The eagle has landed, Derek. Luka Zorić is back, and he's back with talons as sharp as ever. That's what individual brilliance looks like, one moment of magic that can change everything."
The celebration seemed to last forever but was probably only ninety seconds. When Luka finally emerged from the pile of teammates, his face was flushed but determined, already thinking about what came next.
He walked slowly back toward the center circle, acknowledging the crowd's continued adoration with raised fists and nods of appreciation.
"Let's go!" he called to his teammates as they took their positions for the restart. "This is what we do! Let's go!"
The scoreboard read 2-1 to Hertha Berlin.
Hertha kicked off with noticeably less confidence, their passing more cautious as they absorbed the psychological impact of conceding to a player who'd been on the pitch for exactly two minutes. Jovetic rolled the ball back to Dardai, who immediately looked for the safe option rather than trying to restart their attacking rhythm.
The pass went square to Ascacibar, but Dortmund's press was immediate and coordinated. Jude closed from the right, Palmer from the left, forcing the Argentinian midfielder into a hurried decision that sent the ball spinning far away.
Luka was there first, his anticipation perfect as he collected. But instead of playing it safe, instead of recycling possession through the defense, he turned forward immediately.
Richter was closing quickly, trying to prevent Luka from getting his head up and picking a pass. The Hertha midfielder's approach was aggressive, designed to force a mistake through sustained pressure.
Luka waited until the last possible moment before releasing the ball, his pass finding Guerreiro who had made an inverted run toward the center of the pitch. The Portuguese fullback's first touch was clean, taking him away from Pekarik's challenge while opening up his body for the cross.
Guerriero's delivery was whipped in with pace, curling toward the penalty spot where Haaland was timing his run. But Stark had read the danger, heading the ball clear.
The clearance fell to the edge of Hertha's penalty area, where Palmer was arriving at perfect timing. His knee brought the ball under control with delicate touch, his movement already setting up what came next.
Palmer's skill was sublime. a delicate loop over Zeefuik's head that left the fullback grasping at air. Suddenly Palmer was through, driving toward goal with only Schwolow to beat.
The goalkeeper came off his line, making himself big while cutting down the angle. Palmer shaped to shoot with his right foot, selling the movement before cutting back onto his left. The shot was well-struck, aimed for the bottom corner, but Schwolow's positioning was perfect. The save was comfortable, gathering the ball at the second attempt.
Schwolow held the ball for several seconds, feeling no pressure from Dortmund's forwards who were still recovering their positions. When he finally released it, the goal kick was aimed long toward Kanga who was challenging Akanji for the header.
Akanji won it easily, nodding the ball back toward Can who was already scanning for his next option. Luka was calling for it from wide left, pointing to the space behind Pekarik where he could receive possession and begin another attack.
Can's pass was perfect, driven hard along the ground with enough pace to reach Luka before any Hertha player could intervene. Luka's control was instant, the ball sticking to his left foot as he turned to face the goal that was seventy yards away but somehow felt much closer.
Two defenders converged on him, Pekarik from behind, Tousart sliding across from central midfield.
Luka's first movement was subtle, a half-step to his right that drew both defenders toward the touchline. Then, just as they committed, he executed a perfect reverse elastico, the ball rolling back across his body while his momentum carried him past the wrong-footed defenders.
The nutmeg on Tousart was almost accidental, the ball passing between the Frenchman's legs as he tried to adjust his position. Suddenly Luka was through, yards of space opening ahead of him like a green carpet rolled out for royalty.
Guerreiro was making an overlapping run down the left, calling for the pass with both hands raised. The easy option was there, the safe choice that would maintain possession while building toward something more dangerous.
But Luka had felt something shift during that dribble, something primal awakening in his chest. This was about taking what he wanted through pure, unadulterated skill.
He drove forward, each stride perfect, each touch purposeful. Stark was backpedaling frantically, trying to delay while defensive help arrived. But Luka could see everything, Palmer making a run down the right, Haaland checking toward the ball, space opening and closing like breathing.
The fake that sent Stark the wrong way was devastating, a drop of the shoulder followed by acceleration that left the defender on his heels. Suddenly Luka was at the edge of the penalty area, the goal visible through a forest of legs and bodies.
Palmer was screaming for the ball, completely unmarked on the right side of the box. The pass was obvious, simple, almost guaranteed to result in a shot. But he went alone, cutting inside where the danger was greatest but the rewards most spectacular. Boyata was there, the experienced defender positioning himself perfectly to cut off the shooting angle.
The fake was subtle this time, just a lift of his right foot that suggested the shot was coming. Boyata planted his left foot to block, his weight shifting exactly as Luka intended. The actual shot came from his left foot, struck low toward the bottom corner with enough pace to beat any goalkeeper in the world.
Schwolow's dive was desperate, spectacular, his fingertips brushing the ball but lacking the strength to divert its path. The net bulged again, and Signal Iduna Park erupted for the second time in five minutes.