The sting of the recent defeat still lingered in Lucas's heart like a cold wind refusing to die down. Sevilla's loss had weighed heavily not just on the team but on him personally. He had replayed the match over and over in his head, dissecting each pass, each moment he could've done more. But while some players sank under the pressure, Lucas felt something else stir within him—a fire. The setback had not broken him; it had sharpened his resolve.
Sevilla was languishing dangerously close to the bottom of the La Liga table. The whispers in the media had started—talk of relegation battles, failed transfers, and whether the team had what it took to survive. The fans were growing impatient. The pressure was mounting. Sevilla didn't just need a win; they needed a hero. And Lucas, young and untested, dared to believe he could be that spark.
Their next opponents were Levante—mid-table, unpredictable, and capable of brilliance on their day. It was a match Sevilla had to win, and the head coach decided to gamble. He named Lucas in the starting eleven. It wasn't just about rewarding him for his flashes of brilliance in training. The coach was betting on Lucas's hunger—a rare kind that only came from fighting for dreams that once seemed unreachable.
As Lucas stepped onto the pitch at the Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán Stadium, the air was thick with anticipation. The floodlights lit up the field like a stage, and the roar of the home crowd was a thunderous symphony that rattled his bones. For a moment, he paused and closed his eyes, inhaling the charged air, remembering Carlos's words: "Play with joy, Lucas. Let the ball feel your heart."
From the opening whistle, Sevilla played with a sense of urgency and purpose. Lucas was stationed as an attacking midfielder, and he moved like water—fluid, unpredictable, dangerous. His touch was sharp, his awareness sharper. He orchestrated the flow of the attack like a seasoned maestro, finding pockets of space and exploiting gaps in Levante's defensive line.
In the 25th minute, his intuition bore fruit. Lucas drifted centrally and received a pass under pressure. A Levante defender lunged, but Lucas turned smoothly, the ball glued to his feet. He saw Jesús Navas darting down the right flank and, with a perfectly weighted through ball, sliced through the defense like a scalpel. Navas took one touch before whipping in a deadly cross. En-Nesyri was waiting, unmarked. With clinical precision, he buried the ball into the back of the net.
The stadium erupted.
The crowd chanted his name for the first time—not in question, not in doubt, but in celebration. "Luuucas! Luuucas!"
That assist gave Lucas a surge of confidence he hadn't felt in weeks. He played the rest of the half with fire in his boots—threading passes, taking on defenders, and pulling the strings in midfield. By halftime, Sevilla led 1-0, and the fans buzzed with cautious optimism.
In the locker room, the head coach addressed them calmly but firmly. "Good half. We have the lead, but one mistake can cost us. Stay sharp. Keep the intensity."
Lucas sat quietly, his heartbeat steady, his mind focused. He knew the game was far from over.
When the second half resumed, Levante responded aggressively. They upped the tempo, pressing high and committing bodies forward. Sevilla's defense held strong, but in the 70th minute, the pressure cracked them. A quick transition caught them off balance, and Levante's striker fired a low shot that zipped past the outstretched arms of the keeper. 1-1.
A hush fell over the stadium. The cheers faded into tense murmurs. Lucas glanced at the scoreboard, then looked up at the crowd—thousands of expectant eyes watching, hoping, praying. The pressure could have crushed him.
But then he remembered something—Carlos's voice, calm and clear: "Play with joy. When the world tightens, loosen up. Smile. And play."
Lucas took a deep breath. There were still minutes left—time enough to make a difference.
Sevilla kept pushing, searching for the winner, but Levante's defense became a fortress. The minutes ticked by mercilessly. The 90th minute came, and the fourth official held up the board: +3 minutes of added time.
That was when fate intervened.
Levante had a corner, and Sevilla's defenders cleared it desperately. The ball bounced once, then found its way to Lucas, who was positioned just inside his own half. He controlled it instinctively, and in that split second, made a decision.
He ran.
The crowd rose as one. The buzz turned into a deafening roar. Lucas sprinted forward, eyes blazing. One defender closed in—Lucas threw in a step-over and ghosted past him. Another came from the left—Lucas shifted gears and accelerated. The third tried to lunge, but Lucas slipped the ball through his legs with a devastating nutmeg and continued his charge.
Now he was at the edge of the penalty box. The goalkeeper rushed out, trying to cut the angle. Lucas, without breaking stride, lifted the ball with the outside of his right foot, curling it past the keeper in a glorious arc.
Time stood still.
Then the net rippled.
2-1.
The stadium exploded. Fans jumped, screamed, cried. Lucas tore off in celebration, his arms wide, pure joy on his face. His teammates swarmed him, yelling, hugging, pounding his back. "Incredible goal, Lucas!" shouted En-Nesyri, eyes wide with disbelief and admiration.
Moments later, the final whistle blew.
Victory.
Sevilla had won, and Lucas had delivered a moment that would be replayed for years to come. In that instant, he wasn't just a young Brazilian chasing his dream—he was the heartbeat of a club, the hero they had longed for.
After the game, he was called to the center of the pitch. The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium: "Man of the Match – Lucas, for his stunning solo goal and commanding performance!"
The cheers that followed were thunderous. Lucas raised the trophy, his heart full.
Back in the locker room, the coach grinned. "That goal—golazo—was from another world. Well done, Lucas. You lifted the entire team."
Later that night, Carlos called. "Lucas, that… that was magic. Pure joy. That's what I told you, son. You played with your soul. Keep doing that, and you'll go far."
Lucas beamed. "Thank you, Carlos. I'll never forget today."
Then he called home.
His mother, Maria, was in tears. "We saw the goal! Everyone here did. It was… breathtaking."
His father, João, his voice thick with emotion, said, "You've made us proud. That was the goal of a champion."
Sofia yelled through the phone, "Lucas, you're on TV! You're famous!"
They laughed together, and Lucas felt something deep in his chest—fulfillment. Not from the fame, not even from the goal—but from proving to himself that he belonged here. That all the sacrifices had meant something.
That night, as he lay in bed, exhausted but euphoric, Lucas gazed at the ceiling. He thought of Brazil. Of dusty pitches and deflated balls. Of being told he wouldn't make it.
And then he smiled.