SIGNAL IDUNA PARK EXECUTIVE BOX
Nasser Al-Khelaifi's fingers drummed rhythmically against the polished mahogany of his private box's bar counter, his outward composure betraying nothing of the tension coiling within him. The PSG chairman's eyes never left the pitch, narrowing almost imperceptibly as Luka Zorić walked away from the disallowed penalty controversy.
"That was... fortunate," murmured Jean-Claude Blanc, PSG's Chief Executive, the relief evident in his voice despite his attempt at nonchalance.
Al-Khelaifi's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Fortune favors the prepared, Jean-Claude."
Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani, representing Qatar Sports Investments, leaned forward in his plush leather seat. "The boy is dangerous. Look how easily he drew that penalty—slipping through three of our defenders like they were schoolchildren."
"A penalty that no longer exists," Al-Khelaifi replied smoothly, accepting a glass of water from an attendant. "The match continues."
Leonardo Araújo, PSG's Sporting Director, shook his head. "We should have had him in January. I told you—"
"Enough." Al-Khelaifi's voice remained soft, but Leonardo fell silent immediately. "What's important is where he plays next season, not where he could have played last year."
The executives watched as play resumed, PSG immediately pressing forward, Messi orchestrating an attack that forced Kobel into a diving save.
"His contract situation is... complicated," Leonardo ventured after a moment. "The loan from Manchester United, the buy option for Dortmund—"
"There is nothing complicated about money," Al-Khelaifi interjected. "Only differing amounts of it."
The Sheikh's eyes followed Zorić as the teenager tracked back, helping to defend against an overlapping run from Hakimi. "What I find interesting is that he doesn't appear rattled. Most players his age would be shouting, protesting still."
"He's calculating," Al-Khelaifi observed. "Watch his eyes. Always scanning, always planning his next move." He turned to his security chief who stood discreetly by the door. "Where is Mendes?"
"South Terrace box, sir. With the agent from CAA."
Al-Khelaifi nodded. "And the girl? The actress?"
"East Stand premium section, with friends."
"Good." Al-Khelaifi returned his attention to the pitch just as Verratti unleashed a long-range effort that skimmed the crossbar. "Have we prepared the package for after the match?"
Leonardo nodded. "Everything is arranged. The private meeting room, the contract framework, the presentation. If Dortmund is eliminated tonight—"
"When," Al-Khelaifi corrected. "When they are eliminated."
The executives fell silent as another PSG attack unfolded below, Mbappé's blistering pace forcing Dortmund to retreat deeper.
"The right-back is struggling," noted the Sheikh. "Zorić spotted it ten minutes ago—see how he keeps pulling to that side when they counter?"
As if to illustrate his point, Zorić received the ball on the halfway line and immediately drove toward PSG's flank, forcing Hakimi to commit before slipping a pass to Bellingham. The English midfielder's cross was cleared, but the intent was clear.
"Hakimi should have been booked twice already," Leonardo muttered.
Al-Khelaifi's expression remained impassive. "Perhaps. But Oliver seems to have a... balanced perspective tonight."
The faintest smile ghosted across the Sheikh's face as he reached for his coffee. "Indeed. Balance is everything in football."
BBC COMMENTARY BOX
"Thirty-four minutes played here at Signal Iduna Park, and Dortmund will feel aggrieved after that VAR decision," Martin Tyler intoned, his measured voice carrying to millions worldwide. "A decision that, frankly, required microscopic vision to detect."
"Absolutely," Peter Drury agreed, leaning toward his microphone. "If Haaland did touch the ball twice—and the replays suggest the most minimal of double contacts—it's the sort of infringement that goes unpunished ninety-nine times out of a hundred."
"The question now is how Dortmund responds," Tyler continued. "They've put tremendous energy into the opening half-hour, but PSG is growing into this game."
Below them, Messi collected the ball in midfield, immediately surrounded by yellow shirts.
"Look at the respect they're showing Messi," Drury observed. "Three players converging whenever he receives possession."
"Which creates space elsewhere, and—yes, here's Di María exploiting that gap on the right."
The Argentine cut inside, curling a shot that Kobel parried away for a corner.
"PSG turning the screw now," Tyler noted. "This is perhaps their best spell of the match."
"And that's the concern for Dortmund," Drury replied. "For all their endeavor, for all their attacking threat—particularly through young Zorić—there's a fragility about their defensive structure."
"Particularly down that left side. Guerreiro's clearly struggling with what looks like a hamstring issue. Remarkable that Rose hasn't made that change yet."
The camera panned to the Dortmund manager, engaged in intense conversation with his assistant.
"You wonder if they're waiting for halftime," Drury suggested. "But that could be fifteen costly minutes against an attack of this caliber."
"Speaking of attacks," Tyler said as PSG's corner was cleared and Dortmund launched a counter. "Here's Zorić again, driving from deep."
The teenager accelerated past Verratti, drawing applause from the crowd as he navigated through midfield.
"He's such a graceful runner," Drury observed. "Reminds me of Kaká in his prime—that same upright posture, the same balance at high speed."
"And the same magnetic relationship with the ball," Tyler added as Zorić's advance was finally halted by a cynical tug from Paredes. "That should be a booking—no, Oliver does not reach for his pocket."
"Third foul on Zorić by Paredes," Drury noted. "There's clearly a tactical instruction there—don't let the boy build momentum."
"Smart but cynical from PSG," Tyler agreed. "But dangerous to give Dortmund set pieces in this position..."
PREMIUM HOSPITALITY SECTION
"That's absolute rubbish!" David Beckham exclaimed, his usual composure momentarily abandoned as he watched the VAR review unfold on the luxury box's private screen. "He never touched it twice. That's a perfectly good penalty."
Beside him, Gary Neville nodded grimly. "Welcome to modern football, Becks. Where we've managed to make the game both more accurate and less fair simultaneously."
"It's not even about fairness," Beckham replied, running a hand through his immaculate hair. "It's about consistency. If they're examining millisecond double-touches for penalties, they should be doing it for every free kick, every throw-in."
"Exactly," Neville agreed, reaching for his water. "But they don't, because the game would never finish."
"The kid's special though, isn't he?" Beckham said, his irritation giving way to admiration as they watched Zorić track back to make a crucial interception. "The way he glides with the ball—reminds me a bit of Giggsy."
"Higher ceiling than Giggs," Neville replied without hesitation. "Don't get me wrong, Giggsy was a legend, but this lad's operating at a different level. Seventeen, away at PSG in a Champions League knockout game? Fearless."
Beckham nodded thoughtfully. "United need to get that deal resigned. Whatever it takes."
"Might be too late," Neville said, lowering his voice despite their private box. "Word is Mendes is fielding offers from everyone. City's supposedly ready to break a record."
Beckham's expression darkened. "City can afford to break records for depth signings. This kid needs to play every week."
"Like he would at Inter Miami?" Neville asked with a wry smile.
"Don't think I haven't considered it," Beckham laughed. "But even I'm not delusional enough to think he'd consider MLS at his age."
Their attention returned to the pitch as PSG mounted another attack, Neymar dancing through challenges before being dispossessed.
"PSG's going to score before halftime," Neville predicted, his analytical mind in full flow. "Dortmund's left-back is a liability right now. Look—he can barely track back."
"Rose needs to make that change," Beckham agreed. "It's one thing to gamble on fitness, another to risk the entire tie."
"The problem for Dortmund," Neville continued, "is they're completely reliant on individual brilliance going forward. It's either Haaland's power or Zorić's dribbling. There's no sustained pattern to their attack."
"While PSG just keep coming in waves," Beckham observed as Mbappé accelerated down the left wing, cutting inside before firing just wide. "Relentless pressure."
"That's the difference between a state-funded project and a club, even one as well-run as Dortmund," Neville said, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from his voice. "One bad transfer window doesn't derail PSG. One injury crisis doesn't end their season."
Beckham's eyes followed Zorić as the teenager dropped deep to collect the ball from his defenders. "Football finds a way though, Gary. Money buys talent, but it doesn't buy moments. And knockout football is all about moments."
VIP TERRACE
"Absolutely scandalous," Didier Drogba declared, his powerful frame leaning against the VIP terrace railing. "If that penalty stood, the whole complexity of this tie changes."
"The game's gone," Rio Ferdinand agreed, shaking his head. "VAR was supposed to fix the obvious errors, not create new controversies."
A waiter discreetly offered champagne, which both former players declined.
"The boy's special though," Drogba continued, his eyes tracking Zorić's movement. "Reminds me a bit of Eden at that age—same low center of gravity, same ability to ride challenges."
"I agree, might be a bit better in the future," Ferdinand countered. "Eden was brilliant, but this kid has that killer instinct earlier."
"What would you value him at now?" asked Patrice Evra, joining the conversation. "After the hat-trick in Paris?"
Ferdinand whistled softly. "If he was English? £150 million. Minimum."
"Croatian premium is different," Drogba noted. "But after tonight... even with the loss, he's proving it wasn't a one-off performance."
Their conversation halted momentarily as PSG came close, Messi's free-kick curling just wide of the post.
"That left-back's finished," Evra said with the authority of a former defender. "His positioning's all wrong—look how he's compensating for that hamstring. Messi's going to destroy him if he stays on."
"It's a tough balance for Rose," Drogba reflected. "Make the change now and disrupt your shape, or gamble on reaching halftime."
"Too risky," Ferdinand replied firmly. "Against this PSG attack? One mistake and the tie could be over."
"Speaking of risks," Evra said, nodding toward a private box across the stadium. "There's your friend Jorge, Rio."
Ferdinand followed his gaze to where Jorge Mendes stood by the glass partition, phone pressed to his ear, eyes never leaving the pitch.
"Working even during the match," Ferdinand chu
Ferdinand followed his gaze to where Jorge Mendes stood by the glass partition, phone pressed to his ear, eyes never leaving the pitch.
"Working even during the match," Ferdinand chuckled. "That's why he's the best in the business."
"You think he already has a deal lined up for summer?" Drogba asked.
Ferdinand shrugged. "With Jorge? Always. The question is whether it's the deal he wants or just leverage for a better one."
"The boy should sign and stay another year at Dortmund," Drogba said decisively. "Continue his development somewhere he's guaranteed to play."
"That's what the boy should do," Evra agreed. "But what Jorge will advise? That depends on the numbers, my friend."
FRENCH GOVERNMENT BOX
Jean-Pierre Chevènement, CEO of Total, swirled champagne in his glass, satisfaction evident on his face as the VAR decision was confirmed.
"Justice," he declared to appreciative murmurs from the assembled French dignitaries. "These Germans think they can intimidate officials with their famous 'Yellow Wall.' But technology doesn't feel pressure."
"A fortunate decision," agreed the French Minister of Sport, her diplomatic training evident in her measured tone. "Though perhaps the right one by the strictest interpretation of the laws."
"Laws are meant to be interpreted strictly," replied the Finance Minister with a thin smile. "Particularly when they benefit French interests."
Polite laughter rippled through the box.
"The boy is still dangerous," observed an older gentleman from the corner, his voice carrying the weight of authority despite its softness. "This Zorić. Even without the penalty, he draws too much attention."
"A moment of brilliance in Paris," Chevènement dismissed with a wave. "Lightning doesn't strike twice."
"Perhaps not," the older man conceded. "But talent tends to be persistent. And his talent is... considerable."
"Which reminds me," Chevènement said, setting down his glass. "Our offer to his agent—for the sponsorship deal. Should we reconsider the numbers?"
"After tonight?" The Finance Minister raised an eyebrow. "I would wait. If PSG advances, his stock falls. Business 101, my friend."
"And if they don't?" the Minister of Sport asked quietly.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the box, broken only when cheers erupted from the PSG supporters as Mbappé broke through, forcing Kobel into a spectacular save.
"You see?" Chevènement gestured triumphantly toward the pitch. "Class always tells in the end. Our French prince will settle this matter."
"Our Qatari-funded French prince," the older gentleman corrected softly, his eyes drifting toward the Qatari ownership box across the stadium.
Chevènement's smile faltered slightly. "An investment that benefits all parties."
"Of course," the older man agreed. "As long as we remember which party must be served first."
SAUDI DELEGATION BOX
"The penalty was never going to stand," Yasir Al-Rumayyan observed calmly, the Chairman of Saudi Arabia's Public Investment Fund and Newcastle United showing no reaction as play resumed below. "Too much at stake for certain interests."
The small gathering of Saudi businessmen and officials nodded in understanding, their expressions equally impassive.
"The boy is impressive nonetheless," said Mohammed Al-Jadaan, Saudi Minister of Finance. "Even without the penalty, he creates danger consistently."
"Newcastle would benefit from such talent," another official suggested, carefully watching Al-Rumayyan's reaction.
"Newcastle will benefit from many talents," Al-Rumayyan replied diplomatically. "Our project is comprehensive, not built around any single player."
"Still," pressed Prince Abdullah, who had gifted Zorić the Royal Oak after the Paris match, "imagine the statement such a signing would make. The footballing world would have to acknowledge the seriousness of our ambitions."
Al-Rumayyan sipped his coffee, considering. "The boy is special," he conceded. "But rushing risks overpaying. Patience has its rewards."
"Qatar won't be patient," Prince Abdullah noted, nodding discreetly toward the PSG executive box. "Nasser is already preparing his approach. My sources confirm a meeting is arranged for after the match—regardless of the result."
A flicker of annoyance crossed Al-Rumayyan's typically stoic expression. "Bold. But premature."
"Perhaps we should consider a more substantial gesture than last time," suggested Al-Jadaan. "The watch was elegant but modest by our standards."
Prince Abdullah leaned forward. "What about property? A villa in Riyadh or Jeddah?"
"Too presumptuous," Al-Rumayyan replied. "And impractical for a boy who will be based in Europe."
"Cars, then," another official proposed. "Young men appreciate fine automobiles."
"He already drives a BMW, so I've heard." Prince Abdullah noted.
"Then something unique," Al-Jadaan suggested. "Something he cannot acquire elsewhere."
Prince Abdullah's eyes lit up. "I have contacts at Koenigsegg. The Jesko—their new hypercar. Only 125 will be made. I could secure an allocation."
"A three-million-dollar car for a seventeen-year-old footballer?" Al-Rumayyan raised an eyebrow. "Excessive, perhaps."
"Not for the future face of Saudi football," Prince Abdullah countered. "An investment, not a gift."
Al-Rumayyan watched as Zorić received the ball again, drawing three defenders before releasing Bellingham into space.
"Let's see how the match concludes," he said finally. "If he performs well, even in defeat... arrange it. But discreetly. These transactions are better conducted away from Qatari eyes."
The Saudis nodded, their attention returning to the pitch where PSG was mounting another attack, their pressure building as halftime approached.
CELEBRITY SECTION
"So wait—why exactly didn't the penalty count?" Zendaya asked, leaning closer to hear Tom Holland's explanation over the stadium's rumbling noise.
"Because they're saying Haaland touched the ball twice when he took the shot," Tom explained, mimicking a kicking motion. "It's one of those super technical rules—you can't touch the ball again after you've kicked it until someone else touches it."
"But did he actually touch it twice?" she pressed, squinting at the replay on a nearby screen.
Tom shrugged. "Maybe? The replays aren't conclusive. It's literally down to fractions of millimeters if he did."
"Seems harsh," Zendaya concluded, shaking her head.
"That's football for you," Tom replied, his attention returning to the pitch where Zorić was attempting to orchestrate another Dortmund attack. "Especially at this level. Margins are incredibly thin."
"You seem to know him," Zendaya observed. "The kid everyone's talking about."
"Zorić? Met him briefly at that thing in LA last December," Tom confirmed, watching as the teenager's pass was intercepted. "Super quiet, super tensed. Seem like the average shy seventeen-year-old off the pitch."
"The new Messi, I keep hearing people say."
Tom shook his head. "Different type of player. More direct, more physical. Reminds me a bit of Zidane in how he uses his body to shield the ball."
Zendaya laughed. "Listen to you, sounding all expert."
"Hey, I've been playing FIFA since I was ten," Tom protested with a grin. "That practically makes me a football scholar."
Their banter was interrupted by a collective gasp as PSG broke forward, Mbappé bursting past three Dortmund defenders before firing a shot that cannoned off the crossbar.
"That was close," Tom muttered, tension evident in his voice.
"Too close," Zendaya agreed. "Your boy's team is under pressure."
"They're overcommitting on counterattacks," Tom analyzed, eyes never leaving the action. "And that left-back is clearly injured. Should have been substituted fifteen minutes ago."
"Look at you, should be managing the team," Zendaya teased.
"If only," Tom laughed. "Actually, I did tell Zorić I'd come see him play sometime when we met. Didn't expect it would be in a Champions League knockout game."
"Life comes at you fast," Zendaya observed as another PSG attack unfolded below.
SIGNAL IDUNA PARK
Unaware of the political machinations unfolding in the luxury boxes above, Luka settled back into the rhythm of the match. The disallowed penalty still lingered like a bitter taste, but he'd compartmentalized it—filed it away with all the other injustices too small to matter in the grand scheme.
The clock showed thirty-nine minutes. The temperature on the pitch had risen several degrees, not from the mild March evening but from the intensity crackling between twenty-two men navigating the razor's edge between controlled aggression and chaos.
Luka tracked back, positioning himself to intercept a potential PSG counter. Across the field, Guerreiro still labored, his movements increasingly restricted by whatever injury he'd sustained earlier. The Portuguese defender winced with each pivot, each acceleration.
They're targeting him, Luka realized, noticing how PSG consistently directed their attacks down Dortmund's left flank.
Messi received the ball in midfield, immediately initiating one of those mesmerizing dribbling sequences that had defined his career. Three Dortmund players converged, but the Argentine navigated through them with deceptive ease, his center of gravity impossibly low, the ball seemingly magnetized to his left foot.
Bellingham lunged, attempting to dispossess him, but Messi simply shifted direction, accelerating past him with a deceptive burst. Now he faced Guerreiro, the last defender before a clear path to goal.
The Portuguese defender planted his feet, determined despite his discomfort. Messi feinted right, drawing Guerreiro's weight in that direction before suddenly pulling the ball back with the outside of his foot, executing a move so fluid it appeared choreographed rather than improvised.
Guerreiro's injured body betrayed him. As he attempted to pivot and recover, his legs folded beneath him like paper in a storm. He slid to his knees before collapsing backward, sprawled on the turf as Messi accelerated past.
A collective "Ooohhh" rippled through the stadium, the sound of witnessing a defender's soul being extracted in real-time.
Messi drove forward, now with open field before him. Akanji rushed across, attempting to cover the gap, but Messi had already assessed his options and begun his attack. He danced through two more challenges, the ball never more than inches from his control despite the chaos surrounding him.
Just as he prepared to shoot, Akanji executed a desperate lunge, somehow extending his leg at an impossible angle to send the ball away. The clearance lacked direction, skidding toward the center circle where both Luka and Mbappé reacted simultaneously.
Luka reached it first, his first touch immediately taking him diagonally away from goal, toward the space that would allow him to build momentum. He felt rather than saw Mbappé in pursuit—the rush of air, the faint disturbance in the atmosphere that signaled an elite athlete operating at maximum capacity.
The Frenchman closed ground with alarming speed, his legs churning like pistons as he sought to recover the ball. Luka adjusted his angle, cutting across Mbappé's path to use his body as a shield.
He's way faster, Luka acknowledged internally. But speed isn't everything.
As Mbappé drew alongside, Luka felt the full weight of the confrontation—the Frenchman's shoulder pressed against his, legs battling for position, hands grappling for leverage. He sensed Mbappé preparing to make his move, the slight shift in pressure that telegraphed his intention.
Luka executed a feint, allowing the ball to roll across his body as if preparing to cut right. Mbappé committed, his weight shifting to intercept. In that fractional moment of commitment, Luka reversed direction, taking the ball left instead.
The move created separation, but Mbappé's recovery was instantaneous. The PSG forward lunged desperately, his boot catching Luka's trailing leg. Their limbs entangled, sending both players stumbling but not falling, still fighting for control.
Luka's right arm extended outward, creating distance as Mbappé's hand pressed against his back. The Frenchman's fingers caught in his jersey, pulling the fabric taut. Luka countered by lowering his center of gravity, using his hips to maintain position between player and ball.
Oliver's whistle cut through the commotion, signaling the foul. The brief pause in play didn't immediately separate the players, their bodies still locked in physical confrontation, neither willing to concede the psychological battle that undergirded the physical one.
Mbappé remained pressed against him even after the whistle, his competitive instinct overriding the referee's intervention. Luka felt the pressure and responded with a firm push, creating space between them.
"Watch yourself," Mbappé muttered, stepping forward again until their chests almost touched.
Luka didn't back away, instead leaning slightly forward himself until they were separated by nothing but shared breath and competing wills.
"Problem?" he asked, his voice level despite the adrenaline coursing through his system.
Before Mbappé could respond, Paredes materialized beside them, shoving Luka backward with enough force to require a compensating step.
"Enough, kid," the Argentine spat, thrusting an accusatory finger inches from Luka's face. "You think you're something special? You're nothing."
Luka batted the finger away with a sharp movement of his hand. "Stop grabbing my shirt then," he retorted, his voice carrying just far enough for nearby players to hear. "If you want it that badly, I'll give it to you after the game."
Something dangerous flashed in Paredes' eyes—the look of a veteran who recognized mockery and wouldn't tolerate it from a teenager. He stepped forward again, but Luka had already turned away, walking toward the spot where the free kick would be taken.
The confrontation, though brief, had attracted attention. Players from both teams converged near the touchline, the tension pulling them like gravity toward a potential flash point. Pochettino emerged from his technical area, ostensibly to calm the situation but his words suggested otherwise.
"Good, Leandro," the PSG manager said as Paredes passed him. "Get in his head. Don't let him breathe."
The words weren't meant for Luka's ears, but they carried just far enough. He paused, then changed direction, walking directly toward the PSG manager.
"Maybe try coaching your team instead of teaching them to foul," Luka said, his voice calm despite the fire behind it. "Seems like a weakness."
Pochettino's expression darkened as members of the PSG bench surged forward, creating a barrier between Luka and their manager. Suddenly, the teenager found himself surrounded by a wall of blue shirts, hands pushing against his chest, voices raised in multiple languages.
The Dortmund bench responded immediately, rushing to their player's defense. Within seconds, what had begun as a momentary confrontation evolved into a seething mass of bodies—coaches, substitutes, and staff members from both teams pushing and shoving while officials attempted to restore order.
Oliver forced his way through the scrum, physically separating the main protagonists before the situation could escalate further. After consulting with his assistants, he issued warnings rather than cards—a diplomatic solution that satisfied neither side but prevented the need for formal disciplinary action.
Luka, however, received a second official warning of the match. He opened his mouth to protest the double standard but caught Bellingham's warning glance from a few yards away.
Not worth it. Not now.
He swallowed his objection and walked away, forcing his breathing to steady as he positioned himself for the free kick.
The set piece itself was underwhelming—a simple pass to Can, who returned it to Luka as Dortmund opted to retain possession rather than risk another PSG counter. Luka recycled the ball to Akanji, recognizing the need to reset both tactically and emotionally.
For several minutes, Dortmund circulated the ball methodically, drawing boos from the impatient sections of their own support who craved more direct attacking play toward the end of the first half. Luka understood the strategy, though—the need to establish control, to weather the emotional storm before launching another assault.
Eventually, the ball found its way back to him in midfield. He received with his back to goal, taking a touch that allowed him to turn and face forward. The pitch opened before him, inviting advancement.
Three quick strides brought him into PSG territory, where Paredes awaited, positioned perfectly to intercept his progress. The Argentine launched into a sliding challenge that caught more ankle than ball, sending Luka tumbling to the turf.
"Foul!" he called instinctively, looking toward Oliver whose expression remained impassive as he waved for play to continue.
What? Luka pushed himself up, disbelief momentarily overriding his focus. That was clear as day.
His protests went unacknowledged as PSG countered, forcing Dortmund to scramble back defensively. Kobel saved comfortably from Di María's speculative effort, immediately looking to distribute the ball while PSG's attack was disorganized.
The goalkeeper found Luka, who had positioned himself in space between PSG's lines. As he received the ball, something shifted in his perception—that familiar sensation of time dilating, the game slowing around him while his mind accelerated.
They weren't going to give them anything he realized with sudden clarity.
Without hesitation, he drove directly at Paredes, the man who had been his tormentor throughout the match. The Argentine braced himself, anticipating another physical confrontation, but Luka had already processed the geometry of the situation.
A subtle drop of the shoulder suggested movement to the right, drawing Paredes' weight in that direction before Luka executed a sharp cut to the left. The move, so precise, left the Argentine off-balance, his footing betraying him as he slipped trying to recover.
The path forward now clear, Luka accelerated, the ball seemingly glued to his foot as he entered the final third. PSG's defense collapsed inward, multiple blue shirts converging to halt his progress.
With his peripheral vision, he tracked the positioning of each defender—Kimpembe stepping up, Marquinhos shifting across, Hakimi recovering from his advanced position. Each movement registered in Luka's mind as data points, variables in an equation he was solving in real-time.
Quick feet. Quicker mind. A feint, then another, followed by a sudden change of direction that created just enough space to operate in a gap that most players wouldn't even recognize as a possibility.
When the shot came, it was struck with clinical precision rather than power—a low drive that skimmed across the turf, beyond Donnarumma's despairing dive, and nestled perfectly in the bottom corner of the net.
The stadium exploded in sound.
Luka's first thought was not of celebration but of vindication. The goal felt like justice materialized—a correction to the universe's ledger after the disallowed penalty.
This one they can't take away.
As he turned toward the corner flag, Jenna's request floated into his consciousness—that silly Fortnite celebration she'd demonstrated in the hotel lobby.
Why not? he thought, the combination of adrenaline and defiance overriding his usual restraint. You want to cheat us? Remember this.
He executed the celebration directly in front of the PSG supporters' section, forming the L with his fingers against his forehead before hopping from side to side. The gesture was childish, perhaps, but in that moment it felt like the perfect expression of everything he couldn't articulate—about the officiating, about Paredes, about the bias he'd sensed from the opening whistle.
His teammates engulfed him seconds later, a yellow wave crashing over his solitary figure, roars of triumph drowning out the indignant protests from the PSG contingent. Bellingham was particularly animated, pointing toward the away fans, words that wouldn't survive broadcast censorship flowing freely.
A banana arced from the crowd, landing near Bellingham's feet—a despicable gesture from some nameless coward in the stands. His friend, rather than reacting with anger, calmly picked it up, tore off a piece, and ate it before tossing it aside, defusing the hatred with contemptuous indifference.
As the team jogged back for the restart, Luka felt a strange calm settling over him. The goal hadn't just changed the scoreline; it had shifted something fundamental in the match's psychology.
"Keep underestimating us," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Football doesn't care about your plans.