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Every Dortmund player hit the turf like they'd been shot.
Luka's knees buckled first, then his whole body followed, palms flat against grass that felt too real to be real. His chest was heaving, lungs burning, but the sound coming out of him was pure joy.
"YESSSSS!"
"YESSSSS!"
The noise from the stands was beyond anything human. Eighty thousand people losing their minds at exactly the same moment.
Rose had lost it completely, sprinting across the pitch, arms windmilling, screaming something in German that was probably profanity. His usually perfect hair was everywhere, his tactical clipboard thrown somewhere behind him, forgotten.
Reus was crying. Face buried in his hands as he knelt near the center circle. The captain who'd stayed through relegation battles and near-misses and endless second places, finally holding the thing he'd chased his whole career.
Then the barriers gave way.
"COME ON DORTMUND!"
A kid in a too-big yellow shirt vaulted the advertising boards, security grabbing for him but missing.
Then another.
Then fifty more.
The pitch was flooding with supporters, stewards completely overwhelmed as fans poured over railings like water through a broken dam.
Luka was still on his knees when someone jumped on his back.
"WE DID IT! WE REALLY DID IT!"
He spun around, grabbing this random supporter he'd never seen before, both of them jumping up and down like maniacs. The fan was maybe nineteen, face painted yellow and black, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"I can't believe it." the kid was saying over and over.
More bodies pressed in. Hands everywhere, pulling at his shirt, trying to lift him. Luka found himself in the center of twenty supporters, all of them screaming, all of them crying, all of them trying to touch him at once.
Then they lifted him.
Up he went, crowd-surfing over a sea of yellow shirts and painted faces, everyone shouting his name. The stadium lights blurred as they passed him from hand to hand, and for a moment he was flying, suspended above pure chaos.
"LUKA! LUKA! LUKA!"
He could see Jude fighting through the crowd toward him, the midfielder's shirt already torn, his face split by the biggest grin Luka had ever seen. They crashed into each other like colliding planets.
"GET IT!" Jude screamed, chest-bumping him so hard they both stumbled.
"WE DID IT!" Luka roared back, pounding his fist against his chest.
Haaland was nearby, somehow having acquired his own fan to lift and spin around. The Norwegian was laughing maniacally as he whirled this middle-aged man in circles, both of them screaming incomprehensibly.
Security was everywhere now, trying to restore order, but it was hopeless. For every supporter they pulled away, three more appeared. The pitch had become a yellow sea, thousands of people who'd dreamed of this moment finally living it.
In the commentary booth, voices were cracking with emotion:
"Dortmund... they've finally done it! After eleven long years, Bayern Munich's stranglehold on German football is broken!"
DORTMUND STREETS - SAME TIME
Emmanuel Okonkwo burst through his front door like his house was on fire, running down Nordstrasse with his shirt already off, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"WE WON! WE WON! WE WON!"
A door opened three houses down. Klaus Hoffmann, who'd lived on this street for thirty years, stuck his head out.
"Did we—?"
"WE WON!" Emmanuel bellowed, not slowing down.
Klaus's face broke into a massive grin. "WE WON!"
Both men were suddenly hugging in the middle of the street, complete strangers bonding over shared ecstasy. Within minutes, the entire neighborhood had emptied onto the pavement. Kids on bicycles, parents with babies, elderly couples who probably should have been in bed hours ago.
Everyone was outside. Everyone was screaming. Everyone was crying.
BIERHAUS RITTERGUT
The ancient pub exploded like a grenade had gone off inside it.
Beer flew everywhere as grown men threw their drinks into the air, soaking everyone within ten feet. Jakub Kowalski was on a table, leading a chant in Polish-accented German while his twin boys danced below him.
Friedrich Weber, seventy-three years old and crying like a child, was being hugged by people half his age who didn't know his name but knew his pain. Everyone had lived through this drought together. Everyone had earned this moment.
Face paint was smeared across every surface—yellow and black handprints on windows, on shirts, on faces. Someone had started a conga line that snaked between tables, picking up participants who didn't care that they were knocking over chairs and stepping on toes.
The noise was inhuman. Singing, screaming, crying, laughing, all of it blending into one massive wall of sound that probably violated every noise ordinance in North Rhine-Westphalia.
Nobody cared.
COLOGNE - RHEINENERGIESTADION
The Bayern Munich supporters' section looked like a funeral.
Three thousand people sitting in stunned silence, scarves hanging limp in their hands, the defeat still processing in their minds. Some were crying as the reality settled in.
Eleven consecutive titles.
Over.
On the pitch, Bayern's players stood around like lost children. Müller was staring at the scoreboard that showed the Dortmund result, his usual smile completely absent. Neuer was talking to no one, hands on his hips, processing the first title race he'd lost in over a decade.
In the stands, a middle-aged man in a Bayern scarf was explaining to his young son why everyone looked so sad.
The boy didn't understand.
How could the best team in Germany lose?
His father didn't have an answer.
SIGNAL IDUNA PARK
Security had finally managed to clear most of the pitch, supporters reluctantly returning to the stands under the promise that the trophy presentation would begin soon. Players were being corralled toward the tunnel, their celebration temporarily paused for the formalities that would make this official.
Luka sat on the bench, legs dangling, staring at the scoreboard that still showed the final result. His heart was still hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
They did it. They actually did it.
He pinched himself. Hard. The skin on his forearm turned red under his fingers.
He wasn't dreaming.
Wow," he whispered to nobody. "We really won the league.
The music was already pumping when they walked in,a song with a bass line that vibrated through the floor and into their bones. Someone had found speakers from somewhere, and the volume was turned up to levels that would probably damage hearing permanently.
Shirts were flying everywhere as players changed into special championship jerseys, black with gold trim:
"BUNDESLIGA CHAMPIONS 2023"
Emblazoned across the chest, the club's founding year stitched in elaborate script below the badge.
Rose appeared in the doorway, his own championship shirt pristine, clipboard tucked under his arm. "FIVE MINUTES!" he shouted over the music. "LINE UP! EVERYONE LINES UP!"
But nobody was listening. Haaland had started a conga line that included two kit managers. Reus was FaceTiming someone, holding the phone so they could see the chaos around him.
Staff members were everywhere, directors, administrators, people in suits who'd probably never set foot in a dressing room before tonight. Watzke was there, the usually composed CEO grinning like a teenager as players dragged him into photos.
Even the board members were down here, pressed against the wall but beaming, some of them getting impromptu bear hugs from players who were too happy to care about corporate hierarchy.
The line formed gradually—players first, then staff, then board members, everyone who'd been part of this journey. Luka found himself within in the middle, between Guerreiro and Can, his championship shirt feeling strange against his skin.
His heart was doing something irregular in his chest, not quite beating normally, like his cardiovascular system couldn't decide between exhaustion and adrenaline. The tunnel felt different walking through it this time.
It was so wide. So bright. Like a thousand stars being shown upon him at once.
The noise from outside was getting louder with each step toward the pitch. Not the aggressive roar of a match, but a deeper feeling that was weighty—yet, light at the same time.
How was that even possible.
Sustained celebration that had been building for an hour and showed no signs of stopping.
The enery was shared and endless.
Despite partched throats, aching stomachs, heavy eyes—jubilation prevailed.
"Ready?" Can asked, nudging his shoulder.
Luka nodded, though he wasn't sure anyone could be ready for what waited outside
They emerged from the tunnel to fireworks.
Exploding overhead in yellow, gold and black, raining sparks down onto the pitch like confetti made of light.
"DORTMUNDDDDD!"
The roar hit them like a physical force, eighty thousand people finding their voices again as the champions walked onto their pitch for the official coronation.
The podium was set up at the center circle, draped in Bundesliga branding, the trophy gleaming under floodlights that made everything look like a movie set.
Officials in suits waited with medals, trying to look dignified while chaos erupted around them.
Luka walked down the line of medal presenters, accepting the gold disc with hands that were still shaking slightly. A little girl in a wheelchair was there to present his medal, too young to be a teen, wearing a Dortmund shirt that was too big for her tiny frame.
He was so pumped up that he didn't even notice her presence, the excitement making him move without thinking.
Then he stopped, really seeing her for the first time, her huge smile and bright eyes.
He knelt down to her level and gently ruffled her hair. She giggled, reaching up to touch his face with small fingers.
"We won the league." he told her quietly.
"I know," she whispered back. "I was watching."
All the players and staff were on the podium now, two dozen people crowded onto a platform that was meant for half that number. The trophy sat on its pedestal in the center, catching the light from every angle.
Reus approached it slowly, like he was afraid it might disappear if he moved too quickly. The captain's hands were shaking as he reached for the handles, his fingers wrapping around metal that was warm from the floodlights.
He looked at his teammates, at the staff, at the board members who'd backed this dream when it seemed impossible.
His eyes were wet, tears he wasn't bothering to hide anymore.
"This is for everyone," he said, though only the people closest to him could hear. "Everyone who believed."
He gripped the trophy with both hands, took a deep breath, and lifted it toward the sky.
"YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The stadium erupted like a volcano, the noise so intense it seemed to warp the air around them. Fireworks exploded overhead in patterns that painted the night in a rich gold.
Confetti cannons firing from every corner of the stadium, covering the pitch in metallic rain.
The ground beneath their feet was literally shaking, the concrete structure of Signal Iduna Park vibrating from the force of collective celebration that had been eleven years in the making.
Luka threw his head back and screamed at the sky, adding his voice to the chaos, feeling like his chest might explode from pure joy.
They'd done it.
They'd actually done it.
The drought was over.
Reus was still holding the trophy aloft when the team began its victory lap around Signal Iduna Park. Players spread out across the pitch's perimeter, some jogging, others walking slowly to savor every second. The crowd hadn't stopped singing since the final whistle, voices hoarse but relentless.
"Heja BVB! Heja BVB! Heja BVB Borussia!"
The song rolled around the stadium like thunder, each section picking it up as the players passed. Luka found himself walking behind Can, clapping his hands above his head, tears streaming down his face that he didn't bother wiping away.
The Yellow Wall was a sea of movement, scarves spinning overhead, flares sending golden smoke into the night air. Every face he could see was crying, laughing, or both.
A massive banner dropped from the upper tier, unfurling slowly:
FINALLY
Luka stopped walking and just stared up at it, letting the moment wash over him. The words blurred as fresh tears filled his eyes. Incredible. Just incredible.
"Luka! LUKA!"
A section near the corner flag was chanting his name specifically, hands reaching down from the stands like they wanted to pull him up into the crowd. He jogged over, high-fiving as many outstretched palms as he could reach, his face split by a grin that was starting to hurt his cheeks.
An elderly man in the front row grabbed his hand with both of his and wouldn't let go, shouting something in German that Luka couldn't quite hear over the noise but understood perfectly from the man's expression. The old supporter was crying properly, tears streaming down weathered cheeks, and Luka felt his own emotions threatening to overwhelm him again.
"We did it!" Luka shouted up at him in German.
The old man nodded frantically, finally releasing his hand to wipe his eyes with a yellow scarf that looked like it had been through decades of matches, dozens of disappointments, hundreds of hopes that had never quite materialized until tonight.
The victory lap continued, players gradually converging back toward the center circle where a small army of officials was setting up. Bundesliga photographers with massive cameras, media coordinators with headsets, trophy presentation staff arranging the official backdrop with proffessionality despite the intoxicating feeling of celebration present within the stadium.
"Team photo first!" called Marcus Kurz, Dortmund's head of media, his voice carrying over the noise through a small megaphone. "Players and coaching staff only for the official shot!"
They gathered in rows with the kind of organized chaos that comes from experience. Reus in the center holding the Meisterschale, Rose beside him with his arm around the captain's shoulders. Taller players like Haaland and Hummels in the back, shorter ones like Guerreiro and Malen in front. Luka was 5'10 so he found himself in the back row between Akanji and Can, both teammates grinning so wide their faces looked like they might split.
The photographers worked quickly, professional flashes exploding every few seconds. "Look at the trophy!" one shouted. "Now at camera three!" called another. "Big smiles, champions!"
"BUNDESLIGA CHAMPIONS!" they all yelled together on cue, the words erupting from twenty-five throats simultaneously as the final official shots were captured for history.
But that was just the beginning.
"Right," announced Dr. Braun, the club's head of medical, stepping forward with an authority that surprised everyone. "Trophy protocol. Everyone gets their moment. Players first, then coaching staff, then medical and fitness, then administration. You can all get your individual moments with it afterward."
Rose laughed, shaking his head. "Braun, only you would have a protocol for celebrating."
"Someone has to keep order," the doctor replied with mock seriousness, though his smile betrayed how emotional he was. "I've been here twelve years. I've earned my moment with that trophy."
The trophy began its journey through the squad. Jude was first after Reus, the teenager's hands shaking slightly as the weight of it settled in his arms. He lifted it overhead, and another massive cheer erupted from the stands, but this time he held it longer, really feeling the weight of it, the reality of what they'd accomplished.
Next came Palmer, who immediately kissed the rim before lifting it up. "Get that photo!" he called to the official photographers, his Manchester accent thick with emotion. "This is going straight on my wall!"
Haaland's turn came, and something interesting happened. He'd who'd been bouncing with energy since the final whistle, suddenly went very quiet as Jude handed him the trophy. He just stared at it for a moment, this physical manifestation of everything they'd worked toward.
"My first big trophy," he said quietly, almost to himself. Then louder, looking around at his teammates: "My first, but not my last!"
He lifted it high, muscles straining with the effort, and the crowd responded with renewed energy. But Luka was watching from a few feet away when he realized something had been nagging at him. With all the chaos after the whistle, all the celebrating and photo-taking, Haaland hadn't actually had a quiet moment, he'd been frantically going all day, perhaps a moment to let it settle was being missed out on.
Without thinking, Luka stepped forward as Haaland passed the trophy to the next player in line. "Wait," he said, taking it from Guerreiro's hands. "Erling, hang on."
The Norwegian turned, confused. "What's up?"
"Here," Luka said, walking straight to him and holding out the trophy. "Take it again. Properly this time. You've earned this more than anyone."
Haaland's expression did something complicated - surprise, gratitude mixingwith the exhaustion that was finally starting to show. "I already held it—"
"Not like you deserved to," Luka interrupted. "Take it. Feel it. This is yours too."
Haaland took the trophy again, but this time he cradled it against his chest like it was precious, fragile. The photographers caught the moment from every angle - the goal scorer who'd carried them through crucial matches finally getting his moment of private celebration in the middle of very public chaos.
"Thanks," Haaland said quietly, just for Luka. "That... that meant something."
The trophy continued its rounds. Can held it with the reverence of someone who'd captained his country but never won a league title. Akanji FaceTimed his family in Switzerland, holding the phone so they could see him with the trophy. Hummels, the veteran who'd been through everything with this club, just stood there holding it and shaking his head like he couldn't quite believe it was real.
Sebastian Geppert, the assistant coach, actually kissed it before lifting it up. The fitness coaches, the analysts, even the kit manager, Emery, got his moment, the old German's face splitting into the biggest grin anyone had ever seen from him.
"Forty-three years I've been with this club," Emery shouted over the noise, holding the trophy like it was made of gold - which, Luka realized, parts of it actually were. "Forty-three years, and this is the sweetest moment of all of them!"
Luka's phone had been buzzing constantly in his pocket throughout all of this, but he'd ignored it completely. Now, during a brief lull as the medical staff took their turns with the trophy, he pulled it out to see dozens of missed calls and texts. One name kept appearing over and over: Dad.
He answered on the next ring.
"LUKA!" His father's voice was so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear. "Son! You did it! You actually did it!"
"Dad!" Luka could barely hear himself over the stadium noise, which somehow hadn't diminished at all in the last hour. "Where are you? Are you watching?"
"We're here! We're in the stadium! Your mother is crying, Emma's screaming!"
Through the phone, Luka could hear his family's voices mixing together - his mother saying something emotional in Croatian, Emma's distinctive laugh, other voices he couldn't identify but that sounded joyful and celebratory.
"Wait, you're here? In Dortmund? You didn't tell me—"
"Upper tier, section 23! We flew in this morning to surprise you! Emma insisted we had to be here for this!"
Luka spun around, scanning the upper tiers, trying to spot them among thousands of yellow shirts. The task seemed impossible until—
"Hold on! Emma, wave the Croatian flag! Do you see it, Luka?"
There, in the upper tier, hands being waved frantically above the heads of the surrounding crowd. Luka waved back with his free hand, not entirely sure they could see him but hoping they'd know he was looking.
"I can see you guys!"
"My son," his father's voice was getting emotional now, the celebration noise in the background quieting slightly as the family moved to a less chaotic area. "My son is a Bundesliga champion. I'm so proud I can't even find words."
"We did it, Dad. We actually broke Bayern's streak."
"Excuse me," came a voice through the phone that clearly wasn't family. "Is that really Luka Zorić?"
Luka could hear his father's proud response: "Yes, that's my son!"
The reaction was immediate and explosive. "YOUR SON IS LUKA ZORIĆ?! THE LUKA ZORIĆ?!"
"That's him!"
"MEIN GOTT! LUKA! THE BEST PLAYER IN THE WORLD!"
Suddenly, through the phone, Luka could hear what sounded like half his father's section crowding around, everyone wanting to shake hands with Luka Zorić's father. His dad was laughing, clearly loving every second of being the center of attention.
"Best player in Germany!" someone was shouting in accented English, clearly performing for the phone. "Tell him he's the future Ballon d'Or winner!"
"Future? He's already there!" came another voice.
"The boy is only seventeen! Seventeen and already a champion!"
Luka was laughing so hard he could barely hold the phone steady. His father was surrounded by complete strangers who were treating him like royalty.
"Dad, I need to go!" Luka called into the phone. "There's still more celebrating to do!"
"Go! Celebrate! We love you! We're so proud!"
Luka hung up and gave an exaggerated peace sign toward the upper tier, hoping his family could see it through the crowd.
He was still grinning when someone tapped his shoulder. Rebecca Williams from Sky Sports, with her cameraman already rolling, both of them having to shout to be heard over the sustained celebration that showed no signs of dying down.
"Luka!" she called, gesturing for him to come closer to the mobile interview setup they'd managed to establish. "Quick word for Sky Sports?"
"Yeah, sure!" He jogged over, still buzzing from the call with his family, champagne stains on his special championship shirt making him look like he'd been in a food fight.
"Luka, you've just won your first Bundesliga title, broken Bayern Munich's eleven-year dominance, and you're heading to a Champions League final. How do you even begin to describe what you're feeling right now?"
Luka stared at her for a second, trying to organize thoughts that were jumping around like caffeinated squirrels. "I... honestly? I don't think words exist for this feeling. Three weeks ago I was wondering if my season was over. Now we've done something people said was impossible."
"There's already talk of you winning Bundesliga Player of the Season, even Ballon d'Or consideration at just seventeen. What's your reaction to—"
"WE WON THE LEAGUE!" Luka suddenly shouted, throwing both arms up toward the sky. "WE ACTUALLY WON THE BLOODY LEAGUE!"
Rebecca was laughing despite herself, trying to maintain professional composure while chaos erupted around them. "Any thoughts on what this means for German football, for Dortmund's future—"
SPLASH
Ice-cold champagne hit Luka square in the back of the head with the force of a small waterfall, soaking through his championship shirt instantly and dripping down his neck. He spun around, gasping from the shock, to see Jude and Reyna standing there with empty bottles, both of them cackling like absolute maniacs.
"Come on!" Jude screamed, already reaching for another bottle from what appeared to be a small arsenal they'd assembled. "CHAMPIONS GET THE FULL TREATMENT!"
"This is what winning feels like!" Reyna was shouting, popping the cork on his second bottle. "Welcome to the big time!"
Luka was completely drenched, champagne dripping from his hair and running down his face, but he couldn't stop laughing. The expensive stuff tasted sweet on his lips, and the shock of the cold liquid was actually refreshing after an hour of nonstop celebration in warm night air.
He wiped his face with his soaked shirt, trying to clear the champagne from his eyes while still grinning like an idiot. "Great day, isn't it?" he said to Rebecca, who was trying to protect her microphone from the spray while her cameraman adjusted to keep them all in frame.
"We'll leave you to celebrate!" she called back, already backing away from what looked like it might turn into an all-out champagne war.
Luka turned to face the camera directly, champagne still dripping from his hair, the biggest smile of his life plastered across his face, his special championship shirt clinging to him like a second skin.
"ECHTE LIEBE!" he shouted at the lens, throwing his fist toward the sky.
Then he was sprinting away from the interview area, chasing after Jude and Reyna who were already targeting their next victims, his laughter echoing across a pitch that had become the center of the football universe for one perfect night.