The winter sun hung low over Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán Stadium, casting long shadows across the pitch. The clash against Athletic Bilbao was more than just another La Liga fixture—it was a battle for survival, a crucible in which the spirit of Sevilla would be tested.
Lucas stood near the touchline, stretching, eyes narrowed in concentration. His breath clouded in the cool air, but his heart burned with determination. The recent draw against Valencia had been a moral victory, but in the league table, draws were not enough. Points were needed—precious, life-saving points.
As kickoff approached, Lucas caught a glimpse of his teammates in the tunnel—nervous smiles, clenched jaws, bouncing knees. The tension was almost tangible. Behind them, the crowd roared in growing anticipation, the Sevilla faithful clinging to hope like a lifeline.
Coach Martinez gathered the squad one final time before they took to the field.
"Look around," he said, voice calm but urgent. "These men beside you—these are your brothers. Play for them. Play for yourselves. Play for this badge."
Lucas locked eyes with En-Nesyri, who gave a slight nod. The two had formed an almost telepathic connection on the pitch. If Sevilla was going to break through Bilbao's solid wall, it would be through that bond.
The whistle blew, and the storm began.
Bilbao came out aggressive, pressing high and hard. Their midfielders closed down every pass like predators hunting prey. Lucas barely touched the ball in the first ten minutes. Every time it reached his feet, a Bilbao player was on him within seconds, forcing hurried decisions.
But Lucas was no longer the naive, inexperienced boy from the beginning of the season. He adapted. He dropped deeper, made quicker passes, rotated positions with Navas, and slowly began to pull the strings of the game.
In the 15th minute, he finally broke through. Feinting left and dragging his marker wide, he carved out a narrow channel and threaded a surgical pass through the defense to En-Nesyri, whose low shot was parried out by the Bilbao keeper. A groan echoed through the stands.
It was a warning shot. Bilbao had been given notice—Lucas was awake, and he was hungry.
Fifteen minutes later, the breakthrough came.
Lucas received the ball just outside the box, turned sharply, and danced between two defenders with a touch of samba flair. He unleashed a curling effort that beat the keeper, only to smash against the post. The rebound fell perfectly to Navas, who slammed it home.
1–0.
The roar from the crowd shook the stadium's foundations. Lucas ran to the sideline, fists clenched, screaming with joy and frustration. So close, yet it was Navas who got the glory. But he didn't mind. It was a team game—and they were ahead.
But Athletic Bilbao was nothing if not resilient. Just before halftime, a quick counter-attack caught Sevilla off-guard. A long ball over the top bypassed the midfield entirely. In the scramble that followed, Sevilla's left-back misjudged a header, and Bilbao's striker, Iñaki Williams, pounced. With a clean, ruthless strike, he drove the ball into the bottom corner.
1–1.
Silence descended. Even Lucas stood frozen for a second, his muscles locked in disbelief. The game reset. The pain of conceding just before halftime was a familiar sting—one that cut deep.
In the locker room, Coach Martinez didn't shout. He didn't need to. His disappointment hung heavy in the air.
"We can't afford to switch off—not even for a moment," he said quietly. "You've worked too hard to let this slip. Fight. For every blade of grass."
Lucas sat alone in the corner, jersey clinging to his damp skin, mind spinning. His father's voice echoed in his mind—"You were born to fight, not flee."
The second half opened like a boxing match. Blow for blow, challenge for challenge, tackle for tackle. Lucas felt the weight of the match on his shoulders. Every time he got the ball, three Bilbao players collapsed onto him. He was battered and bruised, his shins stinging, but his spirit refused to yield.
In the 57th minute, he almost turned the game on its head.
Receiving a back-heel flick from Óliver Torres, Lucas weaved past two defenders and flicked the ball over the last man with a cheeky sombrero. The crowd gasped. The goal was in sight. He struck the ball with venom—but it was too central. The keeper palmed it over.
Agony.
Frustration.
But still—hope.
By the 70th minute, Sevilla was beginning to tire. Bilbao grew more confident, their passes more accurate, their build-up more patient. In the 75th minute, they were rewarded. A clever cut-back from the wing found Oihan Sancet unmarked at the penalty spot. He rifled it home.
2–1.
Lucas dropped to his knees.
Everything blurred for a moment—the crowd noise, the players shouting, even the scoreboard. He had given everything. And it wasn't enough.
But then—something shifted.
As he stood up, his eyes scanned the crowd. He found a small group of fans, children wearing Lucas jerseys, holding a handmade sign: "Vamos Lucas, nunca te rindas" — Come on Lucas, never give up.
Something sparked.
Fire in the blood.
With only 15 minutes left, Lucas threw caution to the wind. He roamed free, abandoning defensive discipline in search of salvation. He demanded the ball, dribbled through impossible gaps, shouted at teammates to move forward. He was everywhere.
In the 83rd minute, he almost created magic—again.
Charging down the left, he beat his man and floated a cross to En-Nesyri, whose header skimmed inches wide.
The fans were on their feet, urging, praying, begging for one more moment of brilliance.
89th minute.
Lucas received a pass just past the halfway line. One touch. Turn. He ran.
One defender lunged—sidestepped.
Another approached—nutmeg.
A third tried to block—Lucas tapped it around him and sprinted past.
The penalty box loomed. The angle was tight, his legs screaming for mercy. But he didn't slow down. He shifted the ball to his left, looked up once—and let it fly.
The ball soared.
Time stood still.
And then—
The net bulged.
2–2.
Lucas ran to the corner flag, arms outstretched like wings, eyes wide in disbelief. His teammates swarmed him. Even the goalkeeper sprinted the length of the pitch to join the celebration.
The stadium quaked under the roar of 40,000 voices.
He had done it again.
When the final whistle blew, the players sank to the ground—exhausted, spent, but proud. Another point earned. Another lifeline grasped.
In the locker room, Coach Martinez could barely speak. He looked at Lucas and simply said, "You are becoming something special."