The final whistle hadn't just ended the match—it had unleashed something.
For a few seconds after it blew, the pitch was pure chaos. Frankfurt players were everywhere—running, shouting, falling over each other, arms thrown around shoulders, bodies colliding in celebration. Staff rushed in from the sidelines, substitutes sprinted across the grass, and even the usually composed figures in suits near the technical area had lost all restraint.
Lukas was still on the ground when the first wave reached him.
Hands grabbed him, pulled him up, voices shouting into his ears, laughter mixing with disbelief. Ekitike was the first to wrap an arm around his neck, yelling something incoherent, Larsson right behind him, shaking him by the shoulders like he needed to confirm he was real. Knauff came flying in next, jumping onto the pile as they all crashed together again, the weight of the moment finally hitting them all at once.
