The Mercedes-Benz Arena hummed with nervous energy, thirty thousand voices creating a wall of sound that seemed to press against the windows of the away dressing room. Luka sat on the bench, legs stretched out, watching his teammates prepare for battle while knowing he wouldn't be joining them.
"Rest," Rose had said that morning, his hand firm on Luka's shoulder. "Chelsea in four days. I need you sharp."
The logic was unassailable. Still, watching Moukoko bounce on his toes, trying to channel nervous energy into something useful, Luka felt the familiar itch of competitive desire. Every match mattered now—the Bundesliga race had tightened to a wire, Bayern's draw with Hoffenheim suddenly making everything possible.
"Feels wrong, doesn't it?" Palmer settled beside him, similarly dressed in training gear rather than match kit. "Sitting out when we're this close."
"Tactical decision," Luka replied, though the words tasted bitter.
Through the walls, they could hear Stuttgart's crowd building toward crescendo. A relegation-threatened team at home was a particular kind of dangerous—desperation lending edge to every challenge, turning routine fixtures into cup finals.
Rose gathered the starting eleven for final instructions while Luka and the other substitutes formed a loose circle nearby. The familiar pre-match energy crackled through the room—some players silent and focused, others chattering to release tension.
"Make them uncomfortable," Rose emphasized, his voice cutting through. "They want a battle. Give them technical football instead."
Easy to say, harder to execute. Luka had played in grounds like this, where the crowd's proximity and passion could shrink the pitch, where every touch invited physical challenge. Without the ball-carriers—himself, Palmer, Reus still building fitness—Dortmund would need to find different solutions.
The knock came. Time.
They filed out through Stuttgart's narrow tunnel, the noise level ratcheting higher with each step. Luka emerged into the floodlit arena, taking his seat on the bench between Palmer and Can, pulling his jacket tight against the April chill.
What followed was football stripped to its essence—not beautiful, rarely technical, but compelling in its raw competitiveness. Stuttgart flew into challenges, the referee's whistle shrieking constantly as yellow cards accumulated. Dortmund struggled to establish rhythm, their passing patterns disrupted by the hosts' aggressive pressing.
"They're gonna kick us off the park," Palmer muttered after watching Dahoud pick himself up from his third heavy challenge.
Twenty-three minutes of agricultural football passed before the breakthrough. A Stuttgart corner, cleared desperately by Akanji, the ball falling to Bellingham near the center circle. His quick pass found Dahoud, who spotted Moukoko's intelligent movement between the center-backs.
The pass was overhit, seemingly killing the opportunity. But Moukoko's pace was deceptive—he reached the ball just before it crossed the byline, his cutback finding Reyna arriving late. The American's first touch was heavy, bouncing off his knee, but somehow the ball dropped perfectly for a volley that flew past the stunned goalkeeper.
1-0.
The bench erupted, Luka on his feet applauding as Moukoko sprinted toward them, his celebration pure and uncomplicated. Moukoko had been struggling for opportunities, this assist a reminder of his quality.
"Get in!" Palmer shouted, the usual competition for places forgotten in collective joy.
But Stuttgart's response was immediate and predictable—even more physical, even more direct. The football became a war of attrition, technique subordinated to will. Dortmund's players began showing the accumulated effects, slight limps and careful stretches during breaks in play.
The equalizer, when it came just before halftime, felt inevitable. A long throw-in—Stuttgart's most reliable weapon—caused chaos in Dortmund's penalty area. Bodies everywhere, the ball pinballing between players before dropping to Führich, who swept it home from six yards.
"Fuck's sake," Reus said quietly, and Luka could only nod in agreement.
The second half brought more of the same—Stuttgart's physical approach versus Dortmund's attempts at football. Rose made changes, seeking fresh legs and new solutions, but kept his powder dry regarding Luka. The Chelsea match loomed too large to risk his fitness in this agricultural battle.
With fifteen minutes remaining, Moukoko produced a moment of individual brilliance that deserved better surroundings. Collecting a loose ball forty yards from goal, he simply ran—through one challenge, around another, the ball seemingly tied to his feet by invisible string. His shot, struck with the outside of his right foot, curled beyond the goalkeeper's reach into the far corner.
2-1.
This time Moukoko's celebration was muted, exhaustion evident as teammates engulfed him. The final minutes stretched endlessly, Stuttgart launching everything forward while Dortmund defended desperately. When the whistle finally sounded, players collapsed to the turf, the effort required for these three points written on every face.
"Chelsea's going to be different," Rose told them in the dressing room, satisfaction tempered with concern about the physical toll. "Recover properly. We'll need everyone fresh."
Luka showered and changed quietly, mind already shifting to London. His body felt fresh—frustratingly so given his teammates' exhaustion—but Rose's decision had been correct. Save the bullets for the battles that mattered most.
Outside the stadium, fans still sang, the three points keeping their title dreams alive.
—
The Lufthansa charter descended through broken clouds, London materializing beneath them like a vast circuit board. Luka pressed his face to the window, watching the Thames snake through the city's heart, bridges connecting north and south like sutures.
His phone had been buzzing intermittently since they'd reached cruising altitude—messages from family, friends, Mendes with his typical pre-match psychological primers. But one name made him smile every time it appeared.
Just wrapped early! Heading back to hotel to get ready. Can't wait to see you tomorrow. Bought something special to wear 😉
Luka typed back: Define special?
You'll see. Let's just say I've been doing research on appropriate football attire.
Before he could respond, another message: Ordered your shirt btw. The website said 2-day delivery so fingers crossed it arrives in time.
"Grinning at your phone like a teenager," Bellingham observed from across the aisle. "Wonder who that could be."
"Fuck off," Luka replied without heat.
"She coming to the match?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Bellingham's expression grew serious. "You've been different since Paris. In a good way. More... settled, I guess."
Luka considered this. The whirlwind since that night in Paris had been intense—constant messaging, late-night calls, Jenna somehow becoming part of his daily routine despite the physical distance. He'd catch himself checking his phone during training, smiling at her observations about her day, sharing moments he'd previously kept private.
"Maybe," he conceded.
The landing at Heathrow was smooth, but what awaited them outside was anything but. Even through the aircraft's small windows, they could see the crowds gathered on the terminal's observation decks. The Chelsea tie had captured imaginations—two young teams, contrasting styles, a semifinal place at stake.
"Jesus," Moukoko breathed, face pressed to the glass. "All that for us?"
"Welcome to the big time," Hummels said dryly, though even the veteran looked impressed by the turnout.
The walk through the terminal became a military operation—security forming a moving cordon, fans pressing against barriers, phones raised in hope of capturing a moment. The noise was overwhelming, names being shouted, scarves waved, a sensory assault that still surprised Luka despite growing familiarity.
"LUKA! LUKA!" A young voice cut through the chaos.
Against Klaus' obvious disapproval, Luka veered toward the barrier where a girl—maybe ten, wearing a Dortmund shirt with his name—stretched out a marker pen with desperate hope.
"What's your name?" he asked, crouching to her level.
"S-Sophie," she stammered, eyes wide.
"You playing football, Sophie?"
She nodded vigorously. "Center-mid. Like Jude!"
"Brilliant position. Keep working hard, yeah?"
He signed her shirt, adding a little message—Dream big, Sophie—before Klaus firmly guided him back to the group. The girl's squeal of delight followed them down the corridor.
The team bus waited outside, another military-grade vehicle with blacked-out windows and reinforced panels. But Luka had made other arrangements, cleared with Rose after some negotiation.
"Two hours," Rose reminded him as Klaus led him to a separate exit. "Don't be late."
The black Mercedes SUV idled discretely, Klaus already behind the wheel. They pulled away from the airport, leaving the team convoy to navigate the crowds while they took a different route into the city.
"The physiotherapist?" Klaus asked, though he already knew the destination.
"Yeah. Fulham first, then the hotel."
London rushed past the windows—red buses and black cabs, architecture spanning centuries, a city that wore its history casually. Luka had been here dozens of times now, but it still felt foreign in ways Manchester never did. Something about the scale, perhaps, or the way ambition seemed to rise from the very pavements.
His phone rang. Jenna.
"Are you stalking my flight?" he answered.
"Maybe. Or maybe the Dortmund Twitter account posted about your landing and I happened to see it." Her voice carried that particular energy she got when excited about something. "How was the flight?"
"Fine. Heading to a physio session now."
"The one I recommended?"
"Dr. Tulu, yeah."
"She's amazing. Fixed my back after I insisted on doing that stupid wire stunt myself. Pride is expensive, turns out."
Luka smiled. "How was filming?"
"Good! We actually wrapped the restaurant scene in one take, which never happens. Director was so shocked he made us do it again just to be sure." She paused. "I can't wait to see you."
"Few hours."
"I know. I'm actually nervous? Which is stupid because we talk every day, but still."
"Me too," he admitted.
"Really?"
"Really."
"Good. That makes me feel better." Another pause, then her voice dropped lower.
"I'll see you later," she said softly. "Good luck with Dr. Tulu"
The physiotherapy session was exactly as brutal as Jenna had warned. Dr. Tulu worked with surgical precision, finding restrictions, explaining fascial trains and compensation patterns while systematically destroying and rebuilding his muscular system.
"You're young," she observed, working on a particularly stubborn knot in his IT band. "But you're already developing patterns that become chronic issues later. This tightness here—" she pressed, making him wince, "—connected to how you plant your left foot when shooting. Minor now, major problem at twenty-five if ignored."
Ninety minutes later, Luka felt simultaneously exhausted and reborn. Every joint moved freely, muscles feeling longer, lighter. Dr. Tulu handed him a detailed program, exercises designed to maintain what she'd achieved.
"Follow this religiously. I'll send my notes to your medical team." She studied him with professional interest. "You have the physical tools to play at the highest level for fifteen years. Don't waste them through neglect."
The ride to the team hotel passed in contemplative silence.
At the Langham, he found organized chaos. The team had commandeered an entire floor, security at every access point, staff bustling with preparations. His room overlooked Portland Place, afternoon sun casting long shadows across Georgian facades.
Luka stood at the window, allowing the moment to settle.
His phone buzzed. Room 412. Side entrance to avoid crowds. Can't wait. x
—
Stamford Bridge materialized through the evening drizzle like a blue-tinged fortress, every approach road clogged with supporters despite kickoff being hours away. From the team bus, Luka watched the familiar pre-match choreography—police horses maintaining separation between rival fans, vendors selling half-and-half scarves to tourists, the peculiar energy that preceded European nights.
"Look at them all," Dahoud murmured, face pressed to the window.
The crowds were notably mixed—yellow and black prominent among the home blue, traveling support that had made the journey despite the cost and complexity.
The bus descended into Stamford Bridge's belly, concrete walls closing around them like a fist.
In the away dressing room, Rose delivered his final instructions with characteristic clarity.
"They need to score twice," he reminded them. "That changes everything about their approach. They'll push numbers forward, leave spaces. We hit those spaces hard and fast."
The tactical board showed Chelsea's expected formation, aggressive and front-loaded. Tuchel would gamble from the start, knowing a 3-2 deficit required immediate action.
"First twenty minutes," Rose continued, "they'll come at us like men possessed. Weather that storm, and the tie is ours to control."
Luka pulled on his kit methodically—base layer, shorts, socks, each item part of a ritual that prepared mind as much as body. Around him, teammates underwent their own preparations. Haaland, eyes closed, visualizing. Bellingham juggling casually, keeping his touch sharp. Hummels stretching in the corner, movements precise despite the accumulated years.
A knock. Time for warm-ups.
The tunnel at Stamford Bridge was narrower than most, forcing players to walk single file. Luka could hear the crowd now—forty thousand voices creating a wall of sound that seemed to have physical weight. Then they emerged, and the noise hit like a wave.
"Fuck me," Palmer said, and Luka could only nod.
The stadium was a cauldron, every seat filled, flags and banners creating motion even in stillness. The away section—three thousand Dortmund fans who'd made the journey—sang with defiant enthusiasm, a pocket of yellow in an ocean of blue.
Warm-ups passed in familiar routine—jogging, dynamic stretches, possession drills. But Luka found his attention wandering to the stands, scanning faces he'd never distinguish from this distance. Somewhere up there, Jenna waited. The thought made his chest tight with an emotion he didn't examine too closely.
Back in the dressing room for final preparations, Rose pulled him aside.
"They'll target you," he said simply. "James and Kanté, probably doubling up. Don't force things. Make them work, tire them out. Your moments will come."
The tunnel before kickoff pressed close, Chelsea's players arranged alongside them in practiced formation. Luka caught James' eye—the right-back nodding brief acknowledgment, already locked into competitive focus. These small exchanges, he'd learned, were their own form of psychological warfare.
Then the referee's signal, and they walked into the light.
The noise was beyond description—forty thousand voices united in passion, the Champions League anthem somehow cutting through the chaos with its orchestral grandeur. Luka stood with his teammates, feeling the moment settle into his bones.
This. This was why he played.
The opening minute would live forever in his memory, though for all the wrong reasons.
Chelsea kicked off with obvious intent, Mount after 10 seconds in—immediately launching the ball long toward Lukaku. The Belgian rose with Akanji, both players competing fiercely for the aerial duel. The ball dropped to Jorginho, who took one touch before spreading wide to James.
Dortmund's defense pushed up, looking to squeeze space, but the execution was fractionally off. Luka, tracking back, left too much room between himself and Guerreiro. James spotted it immediately, driving inside before threading a pass into the channel.
Havertz had timed his run perfectly, staying just onside as he collected the ball. Kobel advanced, narrowing the angle, but Havertz was composed despite the pressure. His shot was placed rather than powered, rolling past the goalkeeper's outstretched hand into the far corner.
Fifty-three seconds. 1-0 to Chelsea.
Stamford Bridge erupted with primal joy while Dortmund's players stood frozen, the shock of the early goal rippling through their collective consciousness. On aggregate, the scores were level. Everything they'd worked for in the first leg had evaporated in less than a minute.
"FOCUS!" Bellingham's voice cut through the noise, already organizing, demanding concentration. "Long way to go! We're fine!"
But fine was a relative term.
Chelsea, energized by their dream start, pressed forward in waves. Mount found pockets of space between lines. Havertz drifted wide, pulling defenders out of position. James advanced at every opportunity, turning defense into attack with his driving runs.
Luka found himself chasing shadows, constantly tracking back to help Guerreiro with James's forward surges. Each time he received possession, blue shirts converged—James from one angle, Kanté from another, sometimes Kovačić adding a third body to the cage.
Patience, he told himself. Patience and intelligence over frustration.
The pattern continued for twenty minutes—Chelsea probing, creating half-chances, the crowd noise ratcheting higher with each attack. Kepa was forced into only one save, a long-range effort from Bellingham that lacked conviction.
Then, in the twenty-fourth minute, Dortmund's quality showed.
A Chelsea corner cleared by Hummels, the ball dropping to Dahoud in midfield. Instead of launching it long, he showed composure, finding Bellingham in space. Jude turned, immediately recognizing the opportunity developing—Chelsea pushed high, gaps appearing in their defensive structure.
Luka had already started his run, peeling away from James who'd advanced too far. Bellingham's pass was exquisite—threaded between two defenders, weighted perfectly for Luka's stride.
His first touch took him past Rüdiger's desperate lunge. Suddenly, improbably, he was in space with Chelsea's defense scrambling. Haaland made his run near post, dragging Silva with him. Palmer approached from the right, offering a cutback option.
But as Luka shaped to cross, he spotted something else—Kepa, anticipating the ball to Haaland, had shifted his weight left. The near post was exposed, if only fractionally.
The shot was more placement than power, rolled rather than struck, but the precision was perfect. Kepa's desperate dive came too late, his fingertips grazing the ball as it nestled in the corner.
1-1. Dortmund back ahead on aggregate.
Luka's celebration was muted—a raised fist toward the away section before immediately jogging back to position. There was too much time remaining for extended joy.
"Brilliant!" Bellingham shouted over the noise, but Luka was already refocusing.
The goal changed the match's complexion. Chelsea now needed two without reply, forcing them to commit even more players forward. Spaces began appearing with greater frequency, though Dortmund struggled to exploit them consistently.
The physical battle with James intensified. The English defender, excellent throughout both legs, seemed to take the goal as a personal affront. Each duel became more intense—shoulders colliding, studs scraping, neither giving ground without a fight.
"Getting tasty, this," James muttered after one particularly robust challenge left both players on the ground.
"Just getting started," Luka replied, accepting the offered hand up.
As halftime approached, Chelsea's desperation became palpable. Tuchel prowled his technical area, gesticulating frantically, demanding more intensity, more quality. His players responded, launching attack after attack, but Dortmund's defense held firm.
The whistle for halftime brought temporary relief. Players trudged toward the tunnel, shirts soaked with effort despite the cool evening. In the dressing room, Rose was calm but firm.
"They're leaving gaps everywhere," he emphasized. "We hit them on transition, we kill this tie. Stay disciplined, pick your moments."
Luka sat quietly, sipping isotonic fluid, his body already beginning to stiffen from the physical demands. The second half would be even more intense—Chelsea with nothing to lose, Dortmund with everything to protect.
"You alright?" Reus asked, noting his silence.
"Perfect," Luka replied, and found he meant it.
The second half began with Chelsea's intentions immediately clear. Tuchel had made changes—fresh legs, more attacking intent. They pressed higher, ran harder, threw bodies forward with barely controlled desperation.
For ten minutes, Dortmund barely escaped their own half. Wave after wave of blue shirts, the ball pinging around their penalty area, hearts stopping with each shot blocked or cross cleared. Kobel made two crucial saves, Hummels threw himself in front of everything, the entire team defending with desperate unity.
Then, in the fifty-eighth minute, opportunity struck.
A Chelsea attack broke down when Mount's ambitious through-ball ran harmlessly through to Kobel. The goalkeeper rolled it quickly to Akanji, who found Reus. One touch to control, head up to assess, then the pass forward to Luka.
For the first time in the half, he received with space to turn. James rushed to close him down, but Luka had already seen the picture developing. Haaland peeling off Silva's shoulder. Palmer making a diagonal run from right to left. And centrally, arriving late and unmarked—Bellingham.
The pass required perfection. Too strong and Kepa would collect. Too weak and Rüdiger would intercept. Luka struck it with the outside of his right foot, imparting just enough curve to take it beyond the German defender's desperate stretch.
Bellingham met it in stride, his first touch immaculate. Kepa advanced, trying to narrow the angle, but Bellingham had composure beyond his years. The finish was clinical—low, hard, beyond the goalkeeper's reach.
2-1 to Dortmund. 4-2 on aggregate.
This time the celebrations were more expansive. Bellingham sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees as teammates engulfed him. Luka joined the pile, feeling the weight of the moment. Chelsea now needed two goals in thirty minutes to take the game to extra time.
"That fucking pass!" Bellingham screamed in his ear over the noise.
But football, as Luka had learned, could turn in moments. Chelsea's response was immediate and furious. Tuchel made triple substitutions, throwing on every attacking option available. Formation became meaningless—they simply flooded forward, seeking the miracle.
With twenty minutes remaining, they found hope. A scramble in Dortmund's penalty area, bodies everywhere, the ball bouncing between desperate challenges. It fell to Werner, six yards out, seemingly impossible to miss.
Kobel's save was miraculous—a reflex block with his feet that sent the ball spiraling over the crossbar. The Swiss goalkeeper roared his defiance, organizing his defense for the corner that followed.
"Stay focused!" Rose bellowed from the touchline. "Twenty minutes!"
Those twenty minutes stretched like hours. Chelsea attacked with the desperation of the condemned, knowing each failed attack brought them closer to elimination. Dortmund defended with equal desperation, knowing each clearance brought them closer to history.
With five minutes remaining, the decisive moment arrived. A Chelsea corner cleared to halfway, where Luka collected under pressure from Kanté. The Frenchman, exhausted from ninety minutes of constant running, couldn't quite reach the ball as Luka flicked it over his head.
Now in space, Luka accelerated toward Chelsea's goal. The Stamford Bridge crowd rose as one, noise reaching painful levels, willing their defenders to recover. But Dortmund had committed players forward too—Palmer sprinting down the right, Haaland central, options everywhere.
Luka carried the ball to the edge of the area before looking up. Kepa had come out, trying to close the angle. Palmer called for the squared pass.
Instead, Luka went alone.
A drop of the shoulder sent Christensen sliding past. A touch with the outside of his boot created the angle. Then the shot—not powerful but perfectly placed, curling beyond Kepa's desperate dive into the far corner.
3-1. 5-2 on aggregate. Over.
Luka's celebration was pure release—arms spread wide, head tilted to the sky, absorbing the moment. The away section erupted while Stamford Bridge fell silent, suddenly confronted with the reality of elimination.
His teammates reached him in waves—they'd done it.
The final minutes passed in a blur. Chelsea's heads dropped, the fight finally beaten out of them. When the whistle sounded, players collapsed—some in celebration, others in devastation, all exhausted by the intensity of the contest.
"Fucking hell," Pulisic said, approaching with his shirt already off. "Some performance that."
They exchanged jerseys at midfield, photographers capturing the moment of mutual respect between young players who'd pushed each other to the limit.
"Good luck in the semis," Pulisic offered. "Do us a favor and win the whole thing, yeah? Makes us look better."
Luka laughed, pulling on the Chelsea shirt. "We'll try."
The celebrations continued on the pitch—players acknowledging the traveling support, Rose allowing himself a rare smile, the magnitude of the achievement slowly sinking in. Liverpool awaited in the semifinals. Klopp's machine against Rose's young revolutionaries.
But that was for tomorrow's thoughts. Tonight was for—
"Luka!" A press officer appeared at his elbow. "Quick interview, then you're free."
The mixed zone was chaos—journalists from across Europe seeking quotes, cameras everywhere. Luka gave the required soundbites about team effort and staying humble, his mind already elsewhere.