The referee caught the coin, revealing its verdict to the watching captains. Bellingham nodded solemnly, accepting the outcome with quiet dignity. PSG would shoot first—a statistical advantage in a discipline where psychology so often trumped technique.
Signal Iduna Park had fallen into that peculiar hush that accompanies moments of highest tension. Previously a cacophony of passionate noise, now reduced to a collective murmur, rippling across the stands like wind through summer wheat.
The stadium announcer's voice echoed across the pitch, informing the crowd of the coming proceedings—a formality in a moment where everyone understood precisely what was at stake. This was football stripped to its bare essentials: human will against human will, mind against mind.
Luka gathered with his teammates, a tight circle of exhausted bodies. Their yellow shirts, darkened with sweat, clung to them like second skins. Legs trembled from 120 minutes of sprinting, tackling, stretching. Yet their faces showed only determination—the body might protest, but the mind commanded absolute focus.
Rose moved between them, offering final instructions, his voice steady despite the monumental pressure bearing down on them all.
"We've decided the order," the coach said, maintaining eye contact with each player in turn. "Erling, you'll go first. Then Jude, Donyell, Julian, Luka, Cole, Dahoud, Hummels, Ry…."
Haaland nodded, jaw set with determination. The disallowed penalty from earlier—that cruelly spotted double touch—had clearly left its mark. Here was his chance at redemption.
"Remember," Rose continued, "Donnarumma tends to dive early. Wait for his movement if you can."
Bellingham stepped forward, the captain's armband that had been Reus's now worn with natural authority. "We've fought too hard to fail now," he said simply. "Whatever happens, we face it together."
The circle tightened, arms interlocking, heads bowed toward the center. A moment of silent communion passed between them—players from different nations, cultures, backgrounds, unified now in singular purpose.
"BORUSSIA!"
"DORTMUND!"
As they broke apart, Kobel approached Luka, resting a gloved hand on his shoulder.
"Fifth," the goalkeeper said simply. "That tells you what the coach thinks of you."
Luka nodded, understanding the weight of responsibility. Fifth meant either unbearable pressure—the kick that could end everything—or the opportunity for glory, the decisive moment. It was a position for the mentally strongest.
The players arranged themselves along the halfway line as Oliver whistled for the proceedings to begin. On the opposite side, the PSG players formed their own line—Mbappé at its head, looking relaxed despite the tension evident in the set of his shoulders.
The Frenchman was to take first, naturally. Football's golden boy, carrying the hopes and investments of an entire petrostate on his young shoulders. He collected the ball from Oliver with practiced nonchalance, placing it carefully on the spot.
Martin Tyler's voice carried across global airwaves, his tone measured despite the drama. "Kylian Mbappé to take the first penalty for Paris Saint-Germain. The world watching as perhaps the game's greatest talent faces Swiss international Gregor Kobel."
"It's fascinating to observe his demeanor, Martin," Peter Drury added. "The absence of obvious nerves is almost unnerving in itself. Such self-assurance at these defining moments separates the merely talented from the truly great."
Mbappé retreated, measuring his run-up with meticulous care. His ritual was minimal—three deep breaths, a brief glance at the goal's top corner, then absolute focus on the ball. Kobel's stance was wide, arms extended, making himself as imposing as possible.
The referee's whistle cut through the silence.
Mbappé's approach was smooth, almost casual. Three steps, then the slight lean of the body that signaled his intention a fraction before his foot connected. Kobel guessed correctly, diving to his right, fingers extended toward the corner.
Not enough. The ball rocketed past his outstretched hand, striking the inside netting with such velocity that it rebounded nearly to the penalty spot.
1-0 to PSG.
There was no elaborate celebration from Mbappé, just a raised fist as he jogged back to his teammates. The job was only beginning.
"Clinical from Mbappé," Tyler observed. "Placed perfectly beyond Kobel's reach despite the goalkeeper going the right way."
Haaland was already moving forward, collecting the ball before Oliver needed to beckon him. The Norwegian's face was a study in concentration—features locked in an expression of absolute determination. This was personal now, a chance to erase the earlier injustice.
"Erling Haaland," Drury intoned, "looking to respond for Dortmund. A man mountain with the technical precision to match his physical attributes."
Haaland placed the ball with ceremonial care, adjusting it slightly before stepping back. Unlike Mbappé's abbreviated run-up, the Norwegian retreated a full twelve yards, creating the space he needed to generate his awesome power.
The stadium fell silent as Haaland began his approach—slow at first, then building momentum with each stride. Donnarumma's stance shifted almost imperceptibly, weight favoring his right side.
Haaland noticed. In the millisecond before striking the ball, he adjusted—not his target but his technique. Rather than place it, he hammered it, a thunderbolt launched from his right boot that exploded toward the top left corner.
Donnarumma had no chance. The ball struck the underside of the crossbar before bouncing decisively over the line. The net bulged with satisfaction.
1-1.
This time, there was emotion. Haaland pumped both fists before turning to his teammates, roaring his defiance. The Yellow Wall responded, their collective voice rising in approval.
"HAALAND!" Tyler exclaimed. "Absolutely unstoppable! That's not just a penalty, that's a statement!"
Messi was next for PSG. With characteristic humility, head slightly bowed as if apologetic for what he was about to do. This was the difference between Messi and other superstars—even in moments of highest tension, he carried himself with unassuming grace.
"Lionel Messi," Tyler said, his voice carrying the reverence the name commanded. "Perhaps the greatest player to ever grace a football pitch, now tasked with restoring PSG's advantage."
"It's remarkable to think," Drury mused, "that for all his achievements, Messi still experiences these moments with the same tension as any player. Look at his face—the concentration, the awareness of consequence."
Messi's preparation was minimal—a single deep breath, then three steps backward. No theatrical rituals, no elaborate routines—just the quiet confidence born from thousands of hours of practice.
The whistle sounded. Messi's run-up was short, almost truncated. The magic was in the execution—the slight pause that sent Kobel committing early, then the precise placement into the opposite corner.
2-1 to PSG.
A simple smile crossed Messi's face as he turned back toward his teammates. This was business, not personal.
"Masterful deception," Tyler observed. "The slight hesitation that creates that moment of goalkeeper uncertainty."
Bellingham was already striding forward, the captain's armband heavy with responsibility. At just eightteen, he carried himself with a maturity that defied his years. This was a player born for these moments, his entire career a preparation for nights like this.
"Jude Bellingham," Drury noted, "captain for tonight following Reus's injury. A teenager tasked with adult responsibilities, and how magnificently he's shouldered them."
As Bellingham placed the ball, he glanced briefly toward the Dortmund bench where Reus sat, leg elevated, watching with pained intensity.
Bellingham's approach was deliberate—no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourish. His technique was textbook: head steady, shoulders square, eyes never leaving his target.
The shot was struck with perfect weight—not blasted, not dinked, but driven with purpose toward the bottom right corner. Donnarumma guessed correctly but couldn't quite reach it, fingertips brushing the ball as it nestled in the net.
2-2.
Bellingham's celebration was understated—a quick fist pump toward the Dortmund, then back to his position, ready for whatever came next.
"Bellingham delivers," Tyler said simply. "The responsibility of the armband worn as lightly as his talent."
"There's something almost preordained about certain footballers," Drury reflected. "As if the script was written long before they stepped onto the stage. Bellingham has that quality—the inevitability of excellence."
Neymar sauntered forward for PSG's third kick, a study in contrasting body language to Bellingham's dignified approach. The Brazilian radiated both confidence and tension—shoulders loose but jaw tight, eyes bright but focused.
"Neymar Jr.," Tyler announced, "a player who divides opinion but whose talent commands universal respect."
"The showman faces his audience," Drury added. "But behind the flamboyance lies cold calculation. Don't be deceived by the smile—there's steel beneath."
Neymar's preparation was elaborate—a series of stutter steps as he backed away, eyes never leaving Kobel's. This was psychological warfare, an attempt to establish dominance before ball met boot.
The run-up maintained this psychological aspect—slow, then quick, then a slight pause before contact. Kobel remained centered until the last possible moment before diving left.
Neymar went right—a gentle, almost casual stroke that sent the ball curling into the bottom corner.
3-2 to PSG.
His celebration was a simple finger to his lips, silencing an imaginary critic, before jogging back to midfield.
Malen stepped forward next for Dortmund, the weight of expectation visible in his cautious stride. Malen had been a late substitute, his legs fresher than most on the pitch, but penalty shootouts tested mental rather than physical stamina.
"Donyell Malen," Drury noted, "relatively new to Dortmund colors but no stranger to pressure situations."
As Malen placed the ball, his eyes darted briefly toward Donnarumma, then away—a subconscious tell that experienced penalty stoppers recognize instantly. His run-up was conventional, gathering speed as he approached the ball.
The moment of contact revealed the tension in his body—a slight tightness that affected his technique. The shot was well-placed toward the bottom left corner but lacked the conviction of Bellingham's or Haaland's efforts.
Donnarumma read it perfectly, launching his massive frame toward the corner. Strong hands connected with the ball, pushing it wide of the post.
Still 3-2 to PSG.
In the executives' box, Nasser Al-Khelaifi's composure finally broke, a triumphant fist pump accompanying Donnarumma's save. Beside him, the Qatari delegation exchanged satisfied glances—their billion-euro investment edging closer to justification.
"DONNARUMMA!" Tyler exclaimed. "The European Championship hero delivers again for his club! A strong hand at full stretch keeps PSG's advantage intact! Magnificent from the Italian."
Marco Verratti advanced for PSG's fourth attempt, the diminutive Italian midfielder carrying himself with quiet confidence. Despite his small stature, Verratti had always possessed outsized self-belief—a necessary quality in these moments of extreme pressure.
"Marco Verratti," Tyler noted, "the heartbeat of this PSG midfield for nearly a decade now, with the chance to put his team on the brink of qualification."
Verratti's approach was minimal—a short run-up relying on technique rather than power. As his foot connected, he opened his body slightly, directing the ball toward the right corner with elegant precision.
Kobel guessed correctly but couldn't reach it—the placement too accurate, too close to the corner.
4-2 to PSG.
Julian Brandt approached next for Dortmund, the weight of absolute necessity bearing down on his shoulders. Miss, and the tie was over. Score, and hope remained alive.
"Julian Brandt," Drury observed, "an intelligent footballer whose technique should be suited to this challenge."
Brandt's face betrayed none of the pressure he surely felt. His preparation was methodical—a deep breath, eyes closed briefly, then absolute focus. The run-up was smooth, gathering momentum without hurry.
The connection was clean, the ball dispatched into the top right corner with enough pace to beat Donnarumma despite the goalkeeper guessing correctly.
4-3 to PSG.
A mixture of relief and determination crossed Brandt's face as he jogged back to the halfway line. The job was done, but the situation remained dire.
"Excellent from Brandt," Tyler acknowledged. "When absolute precision is required, he delivers exactly that."
Leandro Paredes stepped forward for what could be PSG's decisive penalty. The Argentine's events throughout the match had marked him as the night's villain in Dortmund eyes.
The Yellow Wall recognized this, their collective voice rising in hostile crescendo as Paredes placed the ball.
"Leandro Paredes," Drury intoned, "with the opportunity to send Paris Saint-Germain to the Champions League semi-finals."
In the VIP area, David Beckham leaned forward in his seat, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles whitened.
Paredes retreated, measuring his run-up with careful steps.
The whistle sounded. Paredes began his approach—deliberate at first, then accelerating. As he planted his non-striking foot, his eyes flickered left, telegraphing his intention a millisecond before contact.
Kobel read it. The Swiss goalkeeper launched himself to his left, body fully extended, fingers spread wide. The contact was clean—not a deflection but a solid save, palms redirecting the ball against the outside of the post and away to safety.
Still 4-3 to PSG.
Signal Iduna Park erupted, the collective roar nearly lifting the yellow-draped stadium from its foundations. Kobel rose to his feet, pumping both fists toward the crowd before turning to his teammates with a roar of defiance.
"KOBEL!" Tyler shouted above the stadium's thunder. "The Swiss giant produces when it matters most! Dortmund still alive in this pulsating encounter!"
"Goalkeeping of the highest caliber," Drury agreed, his customary eloquence momentarily abandoned in excitement. "Reading the taker's eyes, moving decisively, and connecting with perfect technique!"
Luka stepped forward, the moment he had simultaneously dreaded and craved finally upon him. Fifth penalty taker—the position reserved for the most pressure-resistant. Miss, and Dortmund was eliminated. Score, and Palmer would have the opportunity to force sudden death.
The walk from halfway line to penalty spot seemed simultaneously endless and too brief—not enough time to prepare, yet too long to maintain composure. Each step brought a new thought, a new doubt, a new flash of confidence.
This is what I was born for.
What if I miss?
I won't miss.
But if I do?
I won't.
Martin Tyler's voice carried across televisions worldwide. "Luka Zorić, just seventeen years old, carrying the hopes of Borussia Dortmund on young shoulders. To miss is to exit the Champions League. To score keeps hope alive."
"There's something in this boy's eyes," Drury added, his tone hushed with respect. "A certainty beyond his years. The walk of someone approaching destiny rather than dreading it."
As Luka placed the ball, he became acutely aware of each individual sensation—the slight unevenness of the turf beneath his boots, the cooling sweat on his forehead, the rhythmic expansion of his lungs fighting for calm.
His fingers brushed against the wristband Jenna had given him—his talisman, his connection to something beyond this moment of extreme pressure. He brought it briefly to his lips, a gesture both intimate and defiant.
In PSG's executive box, Al-Khelaifi leaned forward, watching with predatory intensity. Not just a potential victory hanging in the balance, but a future investment under extreme scrutiny. How a teenager handled this pressure would tell him everything he needed to know about Zorić's mental constitution.
Twenty-five yards away, Donnarumma waited, his massive frame reducing the goal to seemingly impossible angles. The Italian's psychological approach was evident—standing slightly left of center, inviting Luka to aim for the larger space, where his diving reach would be maximized.
Luka saw through it immediately. The goalkeeper's positioning was a challenge, a dare, a trap.
So be it.
He stepped back, not measuring a conventional run-up but creating space for something entirely different. His eyes locked with Donnarumma's—not in challenge but in acknowledgment, one professional recognizing another's craft.
The whistle sounded, shrill against the stadium's breathless anticipation.
Luka's approach was unhurried—almost casual, betraying nothing of his intention. Three steady steps, then a subtle adjustment in his stance just before contact. Not opening his body for a conventional placement. Not setting for power.
Instead, as his foot connected, he executed football's most audacious skill—the Panenka. A gentle chip, straight down the middle, relying on Donnarumma committing to either corner.
The Italian did exactly that, diving to his right as the ball floated delicately down the center of the goal, kissing the net with almost impertinent gentleness.
4-4.
The stadium exploded. Teammates roared their approval from the halfway line. Rose turned to his coaching staff, shaking his head in disbelief at the teenager's audacity.
"A PANENKA?" Tyler exclaimed, professional composure momentarily abandoned. "A PANENKA FROM ZORIĆ? Seventeen years old, facing elimination, and he produces THAT? Extraordinary confidence from an extraordinary talent!"
"That isn't courage," Drury responded, awe evident in his voice. "That's something beyond courage. That's absolute conviction in one's own ability. To attempt such a finish in these circumstances speaks to a mentality that separates the truly exceptional from the merely talented."
In CBS's section, the analysts erupted in collective astonishment.
"Oh my word!" Micah Richards exclaimed, his characteristic exuberance amplified by genuine shock. "Do you understand what we've just witnessed? Seventeen years old—SEVENTEEN—and he's just Panenka'd one of the world's best goalkeepers in a Champions League knockout round!"
"The audacity," Thierry Henry added, shaking his head in professional admiration. "When I was seventeen, I would never have dared. The technique must be perfect—too soft and the goalkeeper recovers, too hard and you risk blazing over."
In Croatia, government ministers paused their meeting, crowded around a hastily procured tablet streaming the match. Their collective roar of approval echoed through official chambers as their nation's brightest talent displayed not just skill but unshakable nerve on football's greatest stage.
Luka jogged back to the halfway line, chest heaving not from exertion but from the emotional release.
Georginio Wijnaldum approached for PSG, the experienced Dutchman's face a mask of concentration. Having witnessed Donnarumma's save and Luka's audacity, the pressure had shifted palpably—PSG now feeling the weight of expectation.
"Georginio Wijnaldum," Tyler noted, "a player who's experienced football's highest heights with Liverpool. Now tasked with restoring PSG's advantage."
The Dutchman's preparation was methodical—precise placement of the ball, four steps back, three to the side. His technique was conventional but refined through years of practice—a smooth approach, head down, eyes fixed on the ball rather than the goalkeeper.
The contact was clean, the direction well-disguised until the final moment. The ball arrowed toward the bottom right corner with pace and precision.
Kobel guessed correctly. At full stretch, his fingertips diverted the ball's path just enough—not stopping it outright but redirecting it against the inside of the post, from where it rebounded across the goalmouth and away to safety.
Still 4-4.
The stadium erupted in primal celebration, seventy thousand voices merging into a single roar of triumph. Kobel sprinted toward the center circle, sliding to his knees before being mobbed by ecstatic teammates.
"KOBEL AGAIN!" Tyler shouted, voice straining against the stadium's cacophony. "TWICE THE SWISS GIANT DENIES PSG! EXTRAORDINARY GOALKEEPING ON THE BIGGEST STAGE!"
"That's not luck," Drury insisted. "That's technique perfected through thousands of hours of practice. The extension, the hand position, the perfect contact—magnificent!"
As the celebrations subsided, focus shifted to Cole Palmer, stepping forward for what was now the potentially decisive penalty. The English winger's journey to this moment had been circuitous—from Manchester City prospect to Dortmund loanee, from benchwarmer to potential hero.
His two goals in regular time had already etched his name into Dortmund folklore. Now came the opportunity to secure immortality.
"Cole Palmer," Tyler introduced, his voice recovering its professional steadiness. "Two crucial goals already tonight. Now with the chance to send Borussia Dortmund to the Champions League quater finals."
"From Manchester City's academy to this," Drury added. "Football's journey often takes unexpected turns. Palmer's technique has never been questioned—but here we discover the true measure of his temperament."
Palmer's approach to the penalty spot carried none of the swagger that often characterized his play. This was the pure, distilled version of a footballer—stripped of persona, focused entirely on the task. He placed the ball with deliberate care, adjusting it until perfectly positioned.
Al-Khelaifi sat rigidly upright, knuckles white against the armrest. The Sheikh beside him had abandoned pretense of diplomatic neutrality, muttering what appeared to be prayers or imprecations under his breath.
Donnarumma waited, having already saved once, knowing his team's fate rested largely on his broad shoulders. The Italian's psychological approach shifted—this time standing dead center, offering no obvious target.
Palmer retreated, establishing his run-up with mechanical precision. Five steps back, two to the side. His routine was practiced, repeated countless times on training grounds far from the spotlight's glare.
The stadium fell silent—thousands of people holding their collective breath. In living rooms across Europe, North America, South America, Africa, Asia—millions more leaned toward television screens, witnessing a defining moment.
The whistle pierced the silence.
Palmer's approach was smooth, gathering momentum with each stride. His head remained perfectly still, eyes never leaving the ball. There was no attempt at deception, no last-minute adjustment—just pure technique honed through thousands of repetitions.
His right foot connected cleanly, sending the ball arrowing toward the bottom corner—not blasted but placed with surgical precision, far enough from Donnarumma's reach to be unstoppable yet not so close to the post as to risk striking it.
The net bulged with finality.
5-4 to Dortmund.
For a heartbeat, Palmer stood motionless, the enormity of the moment washing over him. Then reality crashed in—the realization that he had just scored the penalty that sent Borussia Dortmund to the Champions League quater finals.
His celebration was instinctive—one he'd seen his own friend once perform—arms crossed, hands brushing against his shoulders as he sprinted toward the corner flag. Teammates converged from every direction, a tsunami of yellow engulfing him as he slid to his knees.
"COLE PALMER!" Tyler roared, voice breaking with excitement. "COLD FROM THE SPOT KICK! COLE PALMER SENDS DORTMUND THROUGH! THE YOUNG ENGLISHMAN COMPLETES HIS PERSONAL FAIRY TALE! WHAT A NIGHT! WHAT A GAME! WHAT A COMPETITION THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE IS!"
"From bit-part player at Manchester City to Dortmund hero," Drury added, eloquence restored despite the pulsating drama. "Football writes scripts that fiction would reject as too implausible. Yet here we are—witnessing the beautiful game's uncanny ability to distill life's essence into ninety minutes. Or in this case, one hundred and twenty plus penalties."
As Palmer disappeared beneath an avalanche of teammates, Luka found himself at the center of the celebration—not by design but by gravity, others naturally pulling him into their orbit. Hands tousled his hair, voices shouted incoherently in his ear, bodies pressed against him from all sides.
The Champions League quater finals awaited.
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