The celebrations from Lucas's sensational goal against Levante still echoed in Sevilla's dressing room days later. That strike, so beautifully timed and executed, had not only secured three vital points but had also reignited belief within a squad teetering on the edge. For a club proud of its heritage, fighting relegation was a painful reality—but Lucas's moment of magic had served as a lifeline.
Yet football, like life, is unrelenting. The euphoria of one match soon gave way to the cold pressure of the next. Sevilla's next test? Getafe. A fellow struggler, equally desperate, equally dangerous. These weren't just matches—they were battles for survival.
Lucas stood alone in the tunnel before the game, his eyes fixed ahead. The roar of fans was muffled by the pounding in his chest. He thought of the journey that had brought him here—the dusty streets of Brazil, the loneliness of Madrid, the uncertainty, the hunger. Every time he stepped onto the pitch now, it was not just for points, not just for glory—it was to prove he belonged.
The whistle blew, and the game erupted into chaos.
Getafe came out like warriors—aggressive, physical, uncompromising. Every touch was contested, every pass hounded. The midfield turned into a battlefield, and Lucas found himself pressed tightly by two markers every time he touched the ball. The opposition had clearly studied his last performance—they weren't giving him space to breathe.
Still, he tried. Darting into channels, turning swiftly, spraying passes wide. In the 30th minute, he won a free kick just outside the box. The ball was placed down, the wall lined up. Lucas took a deep breath and struck with clean precision. The ball curled over the wall, heading for the top corner—but Getafe's keeper, at full stretch, got the slightest of touches. The stadium gasped as the ball skimmed over the bar.
He clenched his jaw in frustration. That close.
Then came the sucker punch. A defensive lapse. A misjudged back pass. And Getafe capitalized. 1-0.
The groans from the home crowd stung like needles, but Lucas didn't drop his head. Not now. Not ever.
At halftime, the Sevilla dressing room was a mixture of frustration and fire. Coach Ramos paced back and forth, his voice firm but calm. "We've been here before. This isn't the first time we've been down. But how many times have we gotten back up? Now go out there and fight like your careers depend on it. Because they do."
The second half began with Sevilla pressing high, desperate to break Getafe's rhythm. Lucas took the coach's words to heart. He began to move with greater urgency, pulling defenders with him, opening spaces, playing one-twos.
Then, in the 60th minute, he spotted En-Nesyri making a sharp run behind the lines. Lucas's pass was inch-perfect—threaded through two defenders and into the striker's path. En-Nesyri didn't hesitate. He struck the ball low and hard into the bottom corner. Goal.
The Sánchez-Pizjuán roared to life, banners waving, voices rising in one unified chant: "LU-CAS! LU-CAS!"
But celebrations were short-lived.
Just five minutes later, Getafe responded with brutal efficiency. Another defensive lapse. Another goal. 2-1.
Lucas could feel the frustration surging in the stands again. Teammates glanced at each other, unsure. But not him. His eyes never left the ball.
Time ticked on. Sevilla pushed, desperate, but Getafe defended like their lives depended on it. The 90th minute approached, and the clock was merciless.
Then came a corner. Sevilla's last chance.
Lucas moved into the box, jostling for position. The ball came in high and fast. He rose above his marker and met it cleanly with his forehead. The ball cannoned off the crossbar and bounced down… but didn't cross the line.
He fell to his knees, hands in his hair. So close.
But it wasn't over.
In the final minute of stoppage time, with the referee checking his watch, Lucas received the ball deep in his own half. The crowd held its breath.
He turned and ran.
One defender—gone. Another—skipped past with a deft feint. He surged forward, legs pumping, lungs burning. The goal loomed ahead. He could pass… but the gap was there. Tiny. A whisper of a chance.
He struck.
The ball curled with precision and grace, a shot born not just of skill, but of sheer will. The Getafe keeper didn't move. He couldn't. The ball hit the net.
2-2.
The stadium exploded. The ground shook. Lucas ran toward the corner flag, arms wide, his face a mixture of disbelief and joy. Teammates swarmed him.
"Again, Lucas! Again!" En-Nesyri shouted, grabbing him in a bear hug.
When the final whistle blew, it felt like a win. A draw on paper, yes—but a statement in spirit. Sevilla would not go down without a fight.
In the locker room, the energy was electric. Coach Ramos looked around the room, then fixed his gaze on Lucas.
"That goal," he said, "was not just about talent. It was about heart. We need more of that. From all of you."
Later that night, Lucas received a call. Carlos.
"I saw the whole match," he said. "And I've never been prouder. That goal… Lucas, that was something special. Don't let the weight of expectation steal your joy. Keep playing with freedom."
"I will," Lucas replied, voice soft. "I promise."
Then came a video call from home. His parents, his sister, all beaming.
"Meu filho," João said, eyes glistening, "you are strong. You were born to fight."
"Lucas, I screamed so loud I think the neighbors thought I was on fire," Sofia giggled.
Maria just smiled. "Keep shining, meu amor. Keep believing."
Lucas ended the call and sat in silence, staring out his window at the Sevilla night. The city was calm now, but his heart was still racing. In a league of stars, he was beginning to find his light.
The season was far from over. The threat of relegation still loomed, and every match would be a war.