Second Place

"And welcome back to Signal Iduna Park, where the atmosphere is simply electric tonight," Martin Tyler's voice carried through the crisp evening air. "Alongside me is Gary Neville, and Gary, what a fixture we have in store."

"Absolutely Martin. Leverkusen coming off that historic win against Bayern, and now they've got their sights set on second place. This Dortmund side though, they've been rejuvenated after the winter transfer window. The signing of Cole Palmer, who's on the bench tonight, shows real intent. But all eyes will be on young Luka Zorić – the way he's been playing, you'd think he's been here for years, not months."

"Indeed, Gary. And what about this Leverkusen side? They are playing some beautiful football."

"They're a well-oiled machine, Martin. Wirtz pulling the strings, Schick looking dangerous up front. But they haven't faced a midfield quite like Bellingham and Can this season. This could be..."

Luka stood in the tunnel, head slightly bowed, shoulders loose, his breathing steady. Luka adjusted his new boots, feeling the snug fit, the perfect balance between support and freedom. Midnight black, electric blue streaks, golden accents shimmering under the tunnel lights.

The referee gave the signal. The players moved as one, emerging from the shadows into the roar of the Westfalenstadion. The noise crashed down like a wave, a wall of sound so powerful it seemed to shake the very earth. The Yellow Wall loomed before them, alive with movement, voices chanting in unison, black and gold banners waving.

The teams lined up, a tense silence falling as the whistle cut through the air. And then, with a sharp blast, the game exploded.

Twenty minutes in, Leverkusen overcommitted. Diaby surged forward, skipping past Meunier, his cross curling dangerously into the box. Schick rose, his header powerful, aimed low towards the bottom corner. Kobel was there, diving sharply, his fingertips brushing the ball just enough to send it wide.

The corner was cleared, the ball soaring high, spinning wildly. Jude was under it, his body poised, his timing perfect. He leaped, his head meeting the ball with force, sending it back into the chaos. But the header was awkward, off-balance, the ball veering slightly off course.

Luka moved without thinking, reacting before anyone else. He lunged, his body twisting, his right foot snapping through the ball just as Andrich closed in. The pass was quick, sharp, perfectly weighted into Can's path.

Can didn't hesitate, his first touch sending the ball wide to Malen on the right. Malen exploded forward, his acceleration blinding, the defender scrambling to keep pace. He approached the box, the crowd's roar building, his feet dancing over the ball before he feinted left, creating a sliver of space. He whipped in a cross, the ball curling wickedly. Tapsoba lunged, his header clearing the danger—but only to the edge of the box.

Jude was there.

Time seemed to slow. The ball hung in the air, spinning, waiting. Jude's body coiled, his eyes locked on the target. And then he struck, his right foot slicing through the ball on the volley, his technique flawless. It was a missile, a blistering shot that cut through the cold air, bending away from Hradecky's outstretched arms before burying itself into the top corner.

The stadium erupted, the Yellow Wall shaking as the roar of celebration swept through the stands. Luka's heart thundered, his body moving instinctively as he charged towards Jude, slamming into him, arms wrapped tight as teammates piled in.

The scoreboard flashed: Dortmund 1 - 0 Leverkusen.

But Leverkusen were wounded, not broken. They fought back, pushing forward with urgency. Diaby and Wirtz combined, their quick passes slicing through Dortmund's midfield. A cross whipped in, curling dangerously, but Akanji was there, his header strong, clearing the danger.

The ball sailed high, spinning through the air, descending just near the touchline. Luka's muscles coiled, legs pumping as he sprinted, his eyes never leaving the ball. It was coming fast, spinning awkwardly, inches from crossing the line. Luka leaped, his body twisting, his right foot looping behind his left leg, the outside of his boot cushioning the ball mid-air. He dropped it perfectly at his feet, pulling it back from the edge of oblivion.

Gasps rippled through the stadium, applause swelling. It was audacious, artful. Pure magic.

He didn't stop. Luka turned, his first touch fluid, accelerating up the wing. Frimpong charged in, his speed matching Luka's stride for stride. Luka dipped his shoulder, his body slowing, his feet beginning to weave. A feint to the left, then another to the right. Frimpong hesitated, his balance wavering.

Luka pounced, cutting inside, driving towards the box, his feet light, his movement explosive. Tapsoba approached, his body low, arms wide. Luka's eyes narrowed, his mind calculating. He pushed the ball forward, his speed unmatched, his body feinting one way before pivoting the other. Tapsoba lunged, his foot missing by inches.

Luka was through, the goal wide, the moment his. He shaped his body, his foot swinging through the ball—then stopped, pulling it back as Hincape slid in, his tackle cutting through empty space. Luka moved sideways, his angle sharper now, the keeper rushing out, eyes wide with desperation.

Luka struck. The ball curled around the keeper, spinning, bending towards the far post before nestling into the net.

The roar of the Westfalenstadion was relentless, an ocean of sound cascading down from the Yellow Wall.

The scoreboard read Dortmund 2 - 0 Leverkusen, but the job was far from done. Leverkusen was wounded, yes, but not broken. They attacked with renewed urgency, anger sharpening their movements, desperation fueling their speed.

Luka could feel the shift. He could sense the danger before it materialized.

Then it happened. A swift combination on the left flank, Wirtz and Diaby exchanging passes so quickly they blurred, slipping through Dortmund's press like water through fingers. Diaby's burst of acceleration was devastating, his first touch impeccable as he spun away from Ryerson, his body moving before the defender could react.

The cross came low and fast, a lethal delivery skimming across the grass, curving towards the near post. Schick read it perfectly, his movement sharp, his instincts lethal. He darted between Akanji and Hummels, his timing flawless as he flicked his foot out, redirecting the ball with the faintest of touches.

Kobel reacted, but too late. The ball was already past him, nestling into the back of the net. The stadium fell silent for a heartbeat, the disbelief hanging in the cold air before the collective gasp shattered it.

Dortmund 2 - 1 Leverkusen.

They had let them back into the game. The margin was razor-thin now.

The second half began with ferocity. Jude was everywhere, driving through midfield and thanks to his efforts a chance came.

Wirtz tried to dribble out from his own half, his touch confident, his body relaxed. But Jude was on him in an instant, a burst of power and speed, his shoulder lowering, his body colliding with Wirtz's, clean and fair. The ball ricocheted loose, spinning wildly. Jude's reactions were lightning-fast, his boot snapping through the ball, sending it hurtling up the pitch.

Haaland was already moving. Like a charging bull, his strides were enormous, his power unmatched. Tapsoba tried to match him, his muscles straining, his body contorting as he fought for balance, but Haaland's momentum was unstoppable. They collided, shoulders smashing, Tapsoba's body buckling under the force but Haaland stayed upright.

The goal was there, wide and inviting. Haaland's eyes locked onto his target, his body coiling as he prepared to strike. The Yellow Wall held its breath.

He struck it clean, the power raw, the accuracy precise. The ball flew, a bullet aimed for the top corner. But the post screamed in protest, the ball smashing against the metal, the sound echoing like a gunshot. It rebounded violently, spinning across the six-yard box, Hradecky diving helplessly, arms flailing.

Luka was there. The ball was at his feet, the goal gaping, the keeper on the ground. It was his, all his. A simple tap would finish it.

But Luka saw it—the movement, the desperation. Hradecky's eyes wide with fear, his body contorting, his legs scrambling. The defenders rushing back, throwing themselves towards him. And just behind, unmarked, Haaland stood, his chest heaving.

The decision was instantaneous. Luka shaped his body, his leg swinging back, his posture screaming shot. Hradecky lunged, his body flying across the goal line, his gloves reaching out to block. The defenders threw themselves in, sliding, diving.

But the ball never came. Luka's foot stopped just short, his body shifting, his weight redistributing. With a flick of his ankle, he pushed the ball sideways, perfectly into Haaland's path.

Haaland's face broke into a grin, his eyes wide with joy as he tapped the ball in, unchallenged, the net rippling behind him. The Yellow Wall exploded, the stadium quaking, the celebration seismic.

Haaland spun to face Luka, his laughter booming as he lifted Luka off the ground, spinning him around in a bear hug. "You cheeky bastard!" he shouted, his voice gleeful. "I was sure you were gonna shoot!"

Luka weezed, yet relief flooded through him. "Too easy, mate."

Soon after they'd finish their celebration and begun making their way back to their half, the fourth official raised his electronic board, green numbers glowing against the darkening sky.

Number 17 flashed in red, Number 38 in green. A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as Cole Palmer stood on the touchline, his new black and yellow jersey pristine, unmarked by the battle that had raged for eighty minutes.

"And here comes Cole Palmer," Tyler's voice carried a note of intrigue. "His first appearance in the famous yellow and black. Replacing Donyell Malen, who's put in quite a shift tonight."

Malen jogged off, exchanging a quick high-five with Palmer. The young Englishman bounced on his toes, his lean frame coiled with nervous energy as he waited for the referee's signal.

The game had settled into that peculiar rhythm that often emerges in the latter stages - neither team willing to commit fully, yet both sensing the possibility of more goals. Passes were exchanged with measured caution, probing runs tested defensive lines without fully committing.

Palmer's first touch came from a simple pass from Can. He took it cleanly, turning toward the touchline, his movements still carrying that hint of Manchester City's precision. But Bundesliga football was different - more direct, more physical. Hincapié closed him down aggressively, shoulder to shoulder, muscling the younger player off the ball with ease.

"Welcome to Germany," Neville commented with a knowing chuckle. "Palmer will need to adjust to the physicality here. It's a different kind of football."

The ball rolled out for a throw-in, Palmer's face showing a flash of frustration before he reset, already moving into position for the next phase of play.

Leverkusen tried to build from the back, Tapsoba spreading play wide to Frimpong. But Bellingham had read it, anticipating the pass with almost supernatural awareness. He pounced, intercepting with a perfectly timed tackle that sent the ball arcing high across the field.

The ball descended from the floodlit sky like a meteor aimed precisely where Luka was already moving. Time seemed to slow as it dropped, the stadium holding its collective breath.

Luka's first touch was sublime - cushioning the ball with the outside of his boot, letting it roll across his body as Frimpong charged in. But Luka had already calculated his next move, his hips swiveling.

A quick step left, then right, the ball rolling tantalizingly close to his feet. Frimpong lunged, committed - and that was his mistake. Luka's foot dragged the ball back sharply, then pushed it forward through the defender's legs. Frimpong's momentum carried him forward, his legs tangling with Luka's planted foot, sending him sprawling to the turf.

"Oh, magnificent skill!" Tyler's voice rose with excitement. "Zorić has left Frimpong for dead!"

Luka burst forward, acceleration explosive, the ball glued to his feet as he bore down on Leverkusen's defense. Tapsoba and Hincapié converged, trying to close the space, but Luka's body was already shifting, feinting one way then another.

Tapsoba committed, diving in - but Luka had anticipated it, dragging the ball back sharply. The defender slid past, momentum carrying him across the slick turf. The crowd rose, sensing something special was unfolding.

But the box was crowded now, bodies everywhere, angles closing rapidly. Luka's body shaped to shoot, then didn't, instead rolling his foot over the ball as if to pass back to the midfield. The defenders shifted their weight, adjusting to the new threat - and that's when he struck.

In one fluid motion, Luka scooped the ball up and over the forest of legs, a perfectly weighted chip that floated toward the right side of the box. Time seemed to stand still as the ball hung in the air.

No one had been able to read the move, but fortunately for Palmer, he was positioned in the right place, at the right time. He was already moving, his long stride eating up the ground, timing his run perfectly to stay onside. The ball dropped just as he entered the six yard box, Hradecky still rushing out desperately.

One touch was all it took. Palmer extended his right foot, getting just enough contact to poke the ball past the onrushing keeper. The net rippled, the stadium erupted, and Palmer's face broke into a disbelieving smile as his teammates mobbed him.

"PALMER! WHAT A MOMENT! WHAT A DEBUT!" Tyler's voice cracked with excitement. "But look at that assist from Zorić! The awareness, the execution - absolutely world class!"

Luka reached Palmer first, jumping onto his back, both teenagers grinning wildly as the rest of the team engulfed them.

"Four-one to Dortmund," Neville observed, "and what a way to announce yourself to your new fans. But that assist from Zorić... that's the kind of vision you can't teach. Special player, very special player."

The scoreboard glowed in the gathering dusk: Dortmund 4 - 1 Leverkusen.

In that moment, as Palmer and Luka embraced beneath the roaring Yellow Wall, it felt like something new was beginning.