Koch fizzed a pass into him right on the edge of Frankfurt's box, Garnacho snapping at his heels. Lukas took the ball on the half-turn, felt the pressure coming from behind, and rolled away in one smooth motion, shoulder dipping just enough to throw Garnacho off balance. The crowd groaned. Goldbridge cursed.
"Oh for fuck's sake — why are you diving in there?"
Before Ugarte could clamp down, Lukas looked up and hit it. Not a hopeful clearance, but a measured, slicing ball that arced diagonally across the pitch toward Chaibi. It landed perfectly into his stride. Chaibi didn't hesitate, cushioned it once and laid it inside for Ekitike, who had peeled off the shoulder of his marker. The shot came early, low, skidding across the turf—just wide, close enough to shave the outside of the post before rattling the advertising boards behind Onana's goal.
A collective inhale. Then release.
"Thank. Fuck," Goldbridge muttered. "That's the warning. Don't let that happen again."
