The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting thin golden bars across Luka's bedroom floor. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying yesterday's team meeting in his mind. Rose's words still echoed in his ears.
"Twenty-five games played. Nine to go. Four points behind Bayern. Every match is now a final."
Luka turned to check his phone: 6:17 AM. Too early to be awake on a rest day, but sleep had abandoned him hours ago.
Bayern at seventy points. Dortmund at sixty-six. The mathematics of hope.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing slightly at the twinge in his right hamstring—nothing serious, just the accumulated fatigue of a season that seemed to stretch endlessly before him. The Champions League quarterfinal against Chelsea loomed on the horizon, but first came the Bundesliga gauntlet: Mainz, then Arminia Bielefeld, then Köln, then Leipzig. Four matches that would either sustain their title challenge or extinguish it.
Luka moved to the living room window, gazing out at Dortmund stirring beneath the early spring sunshine. Somewhere out there were the expectations of an entire city. He could feel them now, invisible threads connecting him to thousands of strangers whose joy or despair hinged partly on what he did with a ball at his feet.
His phone buzzed. Jenna.
Just landed in New York. Miss you already. Kill it against Mainz tomorrow.
A smile tugged at his lips as he typed back.
Miss you too. Will score one for you.
He paused, then added:
We're watching The Godfather when I'm back. Can't believe you've never seen it.
Luka sipped his coffee, allowing himself a moment to savor the simple pleasure before the relentless demands of the day took over. Klaus would arrive in two hours to drive him to the optional recovery session he'd scheduled with the physios—not because his body desperately required it, but because complacency was a luxury he could no longer afford.
Not with history within reach.
—
"They'll sit deep," Marco Rose observed, hands clasped behind his back as he paced before the tactical board. "Two blocks of four, minimal space between the lines. Burkardt and Onisiwo will stay high, looking for transitions."
The Dortmund dressing room was unusually quiet, players seated in concentric semicircles facing their manager. Tomorrow's match against Mainz wasn't just another fixture—it was the first step toward what increasingly felt possible: a genuine challenge to Bayern's Bundesliga hegemony.
"We counter-press immediately after losing possession," Rose continued, stepping aside to reveal a series of animated diagrams on the screen. "No more than five seconds to recover the ball. If they break the press, we fall into our defensive shape—compact, controlled, patient."
Luka studied the movements illustrated on the screen, mentally positioning himself in the scenarios displayed. As a left-sided attacker in the 4-2-3-1, his defensive responsibilities were clearly defined: press the opposing right-back when Dortmund lost possession in the final third, cover the half-space when defending deeper.
"Zorić."
Luka looked up to find Rose's gaze fixed on him.
"Their right-back, Widmer, likes to advance. You'll need to track him when we're defending, but when we win possession, I want you exploiting the space he leaves. Immediate vertical transitions—get behind their defensive line before they can reorganize."
Luka nodded, already visualizing the Swiss defender's tendencies from the video analysis sessions earlier that week. "He commits early to challenges. There's space to exploit when I turn him."
Rose nodded approvingly. "Exactly. Don't overcomplicate. Beat him, then deliver."
As the meeting concluded, players disbanded in their usual groupings—Haaland immediately heading to the massage room, Reus and Bellingham lingering to discuss some tactical nuance with Rose, others drifting toward the boot room or nutrition station.
Palmer fell into step beside Luka as they headed toward the parking lot.
"Nervous?" He asked, adjusting the strap of his gym bag.
Luka considered the question. "Never nervous. Just... aware."
"Of what?"
"Everything. The standings. The expectations." He paused. "The opportunity."
Palmer nodded slowly. "Nine matches left."
"Nine finals," Luka corrected, echoing Rose's framing.
They reached Palmer's car first, a modest Volkswagen that contrasted sharply with the luxury vehicles that populated the players' parking area. The Englishman hesitated before opening the door.
"My sister's coming tomorrow. First time watching me play for Dortmund in person."
"She'll see something special," Luka assured him, the words emerging not as manufactured confidence but as simple certainty.
Palmer's expression brightened. "Yeah. Yeah, she will."
As Palmer drove away, Luka continued to his own car—the new Ferrari and or Lamborginhi conspicuously absent, left in the secure garage beneath his apartment building. For daily transportation to training, he'd opted for his less attention grabbing escalade.
He was reaching for the door handle when he noticed the envelope tucked beneath the windshield wiper. His name written in flowing script across the front.
Inside was a single card, the yellow and black of Dortmund framing the handwritten message:
My son watched you score against PSG. He hasn't stopped practicing his penalty technique since. Thank you for giving him something to believe in. Mainz doesn't stand a chance.
No signature. Just one of countless invisible threads, now made tangible.
Luka carefully placed the card in his glove compartment alongside three others he'd received in similar fashion just today.
—
The Signal Iduna Park vibrated with expectation, from his position in the tunnel, Luka could feel the energy pulsating through the concrete beneath his feet—a physical force, as real as gravity.
Beside him, Bellingham bounced lightly on his toes, the captain's armband secured around his bicep. Ahead, Haaland stood motionless, headphones delivering his pre-match soundtrack, eyes fixed on nothing visible.
"Ready?" Reus asked, appearing at Luka's shoulder.
The captain had accepted his diminished role with characteristic grace, his experience and leadership still vital even when he started from the bench.
"Ready," Luka confirmed, rolling his shoulders to release the tension gathering there.
The referee's signal came. Bellingham led them forward, into the wall of sound that crashed over them as they emerged from the tunnel. The Yellow Wall—Dortmund's southern terrace—unfurled an enormous choreographed display, transforming thousands of individual supporters into a single artistic statement: a black and yellow phoenix rising from flames, the German phrase "AUS ASCHE ZU RUHM" ("From ashes to glory") emblazoned beneath.
Mainz waited on the pitch, their white and red kits stark against the predominant yellow of the stadium. Luka noted Widmer in the warm-up, the right-back's movements confirming what the video analysis had shown—athletic, aggressive in his positioning, likely to advance.
The pre-match rituals passed in familiar sequence: handshakes, coin toss, team huddles, final instructions. Then the whistle, the ball in motion, and the beautiful chaos of high-level football engulfing everything.
Mainz began cautiously, establishing their defensive shape early, challenging Dortmund to break them down. Luka found himself double-teamed whenever he received possession, Widmer supported closely by a defensive midfielder shifting across to limit his space.
Twenty minutes in, frustration rippled visibly through the stadium—passes going astray, movements uncoordinated, rhythm disrupted by Mainz's disciplined defensive structure.
During a break in play while a Mainz player received treatment, Bellingham gathered the attacking players in a tight circle.
"They're too comfortable," he observed, voice calm despite the evident frustration. "We need to increase the tempo. Force mistakes."
"They're man-marking Luka," Palmer added. "Always two on him."
A hint of a smile crossed Haaland's face. "Then someone else is free."
When play resumed, Luka deliberately positioned himself wider than usual, drawing Widmer and his midfield shadow further from the central areas. The space created allowed Bellingham more room to operate between the lines, his influence increasing as the game as the first half progressed.
The breakthrough came in the forty-third minute. Luka, double-marked as usual, received the ball near the touchline. Instead of attempting to beat his markers, he played a first-time pass back to Guerreiro before spinning to make a decoy run that pulled Widmer even further wide.
The Portuguese left-back, recognizing the developing situation, delivered a precise through-ball into the channel Widmer had vacated. Bellingham timed his run perfectly, collecting the pass before delivering a low cross that Haaland converted with clinical efficiency.
1-0.
The stadium erupted, relief and joy intermingling as Haaland sprinted to the corner flag, sliding to his knees in celebration. Luka joined the mass of yellow converging on their striker, gratification flowing through him despite his indirect role in the goal.
The pattern continued into the second half. Luka, accepting his role as tactical decoy, consistently pulled defenders away from central areas, creating spaces for Palmer and Bellingham to exploit. Mainz, recognizing the danger, adjusted their approach—reducing their emphasis on marking Luka, which in turn created opportunities for him to influence the game more directly.
The second goal emerged from this tactical adjustment. In the sixty-seventh minute, with Mainz now playing a more balanced defensive structure, Luka found himself in a one-on-one situation against Widmer for the first time. Near the halfway line, he received a pass from Dahoud, Widmer immediately closing the distance between them.
Time seemed to slow as instinct took over. Luka's first touch deliberately heavy, tempting Widmer into the challenge. As the defender committed, Luka flicked the ball through his legs—a nutmeg executed not for humiliation but for pure efficiency, the shortest path through the obstacle before him.
Now with space to accelerate, Luka drove forward, the green expanse of the pitch opening before him. Mainz's central defenders backpedaled frantically, caught between addressing his advance and maintaining awareness of Haaland's positioning.
The pass when it came was weighted perfectly—not to where Haaland was but to where he would be, the striker's diagonal run taking him across the face of the center-back. One touch to control, one to finish. Clinical. Devastating.
2-0.
The remainder of the match unfolded with a sense of inevitability. Mainz, forced to commit more players forward in search of a way back into the game, left spaces that Dortmund exploited through controlled counter-attacks. No further goals came, but none were needed.
In the dressing room afterward, Rose was measured in his praise.
"Good start," he acknowledged. "But it's only the first of nine finals. Recovery protocols tonight. Tomorrow we analyze Bielefeld."
As players dispersed to various recovery stations—ice baths, massage tables, stretching areas—Luka checked his phone. Amidst the congratulatory messages from family and friends, one notification stood out:
Bayern Munich 1-1 Hoffenheim (FT)
The gap was now two points.
Nine finals had become eight.
The Bielefeld match unfolded in dramatically different fashion. Playing away from home, in persistent rain that transformed the SchucoArena pitch into a treacherous surface, Dortmund struggled to impose their technical superiority. Passes stuck in the sodden turf, movements became hesitant, rhythm disrupted by the conditions.
At halftime, goalless and frustrated, Rose modified their approach.
"Simplify," he instructed, wiping rainwater from his brow. "Stop trying to play through them. Win the second balls, get it wide, deliver quality into the box."
The adjustment yielded few immediate improvements. Bielefeld, fighting relegation and desperate for points, defended with the intensity of those battling for survival. Their physical approach, combined with the deteriorating pitch conditions, neutered much of Dortmund's attacking threat.
As the clock ticked past seventy minutes, with the score still 0-0, Rose made his final substitutions: Reus, who was someways from full recovery, for the ineffective Malen, Hazard for an exhausted Palmer.
In the technical area, the manager called Luka across during a break in play.
"We need something," Rose said simply, rain cascading off his baseball cap. "One moment. That's all."
Luka nodded, water dripping from his saturated hair. One moment. In such conditions, that's often all that separated success from failure.
The opportunity came in the eighty-third minute. Bielefeld, pushing for a winner, committed players forward for a corner. When Hummels headed clear, the ball fell to Luka near the center circle, space opening before him as he turned upfield.
The counter-attack developing wasn't promising—Hazard making a supporting run but Haaland and Reus too far behind play to offer immediate options. Logic dictated maintaining possession, slowing the play, allowing teammates to join the attack.
Instead, instinct took over. Noticing the Bielefeld defender backing off, respecting his pace, Luka drove directly toward the penalty area. The rain, which had hindered Dortmund's intricate passing game all afternoon, now served as ally—the slick surface allowing the ball to run with him as he accelerated past another hesitant challenge.
Twenty-five yards from goal, with defenders converging and options limited, Luka spotted the goalkeeper fractionally off his line.
The execution was perfect. His right foot connected sweetly, sending the ball rising and then dipping viciously, its flight path carrying it beyond the goalkeeper's desperate reach before nestling in the top corner.
0-1.
Luka sprinted toward the corner where Dortmund's traveling supporters created a pocket of yellow amid the blue of Bielefeld. His teammates converged on him, their celebrations more relieved than exuberant.
The remaining minutes passed in determined defensive resilience, Dortmund recognizing the preciousness of their advantage. When the final whistle sounded, the away section erupted in songs that carried through the rain.
In the dressing room, beneath a stadium that gradually emptied above them, players checked phones, confirming what rumors had already suggested: Bayern Munich had won. The gap remained at two points.
Seven finals remained.
—
The Köln game offered a different challenge entirely. Playing at home against opponents whose season was effectively over—safely midtable, neither threatening European qualification nor facing relegation concerns—presented its own psychological hurdles.
Complacency threatened. The type of fixture that title challenges stumbled upon. Rose addressed this directly in his pre-match talk.
"They have freedom," he warned. "No pressure, nothing to lose. That makes them dangerous. Our mentality must be perfect from the first whistle."
Luka recognized the wisdom in the caution. How many title races throughout football history had faltered against supposedly lesser opposition, attention already drifting toward more glamorous challenges ahead?
What unfolded instead was perhaps Dortmund's most complete performance of the season. From the opening minutes, they demonstrated an intensity that overwhelmed their rhineland visitors. Pressing high, recovering possession in advanced areas, transitioning with devastating speed and precision.
The goals flowed naturally from this approach. Bellingham opened the scoring in the twelfth minute, arriving late in the box to convert Palmer's cutback. Luka doubled the advantage before halftime, collecting Haaland's layoff before curling a precise finish beyond the goalkeeper's reach.
After the break, the pattern continued. Palmer added a third, finishing clinically after Reus—on as a substitute—delivered a perfectly weighted through-ball. Akanji completed the scoring from a corner, powering a header past the helpless Köln goalkeeper.
4-0, and a statement of intent that reverberated beyond the Signal Iduna Park. This wasn't merely a team accumulating necessary points—this was a side hitting form at precisely the right moment, confidence flowing through every pass and movement.
In Munich, Bayern had been held to a draw by Union Berlin. The gap: one point.
Six finals remained.
—
RB Leipzig arrived in Dortmund trailing the narrative of corporate football confronting tradition—the synthetic creation challenging the organic entity. Beyond these philosophical dimensions lay the practical reality: Leipzig occupied fourth position, their own Champions League qualification ambitions providing ample motivation.
The match was scheduled for Saturday afternoon, less than seventy-two hours before Dortmund would face Chelsea in the Champions League quarterfinal first leg. Rose's selection reflected this congestion—a balanced approach that prioritized the Bundesliga challenge while maintaining awareness of the European engagement to follow.
Luka found himself starting but aware that his minutes would likely be managed. In the tunnel before kickoff, Bellingham's final words to the team captured the delicate balance they needed to strike.
"Full focus on now," the captain insisted. "Nothing else exists until this is finished."
What followed was football at its most unpredictable and dramatic. Leipzig, tactically sophisticated under Domenico Tedesco's guidance, struck with ruthless efficiency in the opening twenty minutes—Nkunku and then Forsberg converting clinical finishes to establish a 2-0 advantage that stunned the home supporters into uncharacteristic silence.
The breakthrough came from an unexpected source: not intricate buildup play but raw individual quality. Collecting possession near the halfway line, Luka initiated what appeared to be a routine attacking transition. What evolved was anything but routine.
First came the acceleration—explosive, immediate, catching André Silva unprepared as Luka burst past the Portuguese forward. Then the decision to attack the heart of Leipzig's defense rather than seeking wider spaces, a direct vertical dribble that committed defenders and created uncertainty.
Near the edge of the penalty area, Luka encountered Willi Orban, the Hungarian defender positioning himself perfectly to block the direct route to goal. The shimmy that followed was subtle—a drop of the shoulder suggesting movement left before rapidly shifting right, creating just enough separation to continue his advance.
Inside the penalty area now, with options emerging as teammates caught up with the play, Luka appeared ready to select a pass. Instead, he continued his run, mesmerizing in its directness and control, gliding past another challenge before being clipped by Angeliño's desperate sliding tackle.
The referee pointed immediately to the penalty spot. The Yellow Wall roared its approval as Haaland placed the ball, the Norwegian's ritual as methodical as ever before he dispatched the penalty with characteristic power, halving the deficit.
2-1 at halftime, and momentum perceptibly shifting.
The second half developed into a fascinating tactical battle. Leipzig, recognizing the danger of retreating too deeply, attempted to maintain their attacking threat while protecting their advantage. Dortmund pushed forward with increasing confidence, hemming their opponents into defensive positions for extended periods.
The equalizer, when it came in the sixty-third minute, originated from the kind of improvisation that statistics struggle to quantify. A Leipzig clearance fell from the sky toward Luka near the left touchline. Rather than controlling conventionally, he cushioned the ball with his chest, simultaneously turning to face the field.
The technique was flawless—first touch taking him away from the pressing defender, creating space to survey the developing situation. What he saw was opportunity: Leipzig's defensive shape momentarily disorganized, spaces appearing between their usual compact lines.
Luka drove infield, crossing the halfway line with momentum building. As the defense retreated, a shooting opportunity emerged, earlier perhaps than conventional wisdom might suggest.
From twenty-six yards, the strike was pure—minimal backlift, perfect connection, the ball zipping along a flat trajectory that gave the goalkeeper minimal reaction time before nestling in the bottom corner.
As the match entered its final phase, both teams pushed for the decisive breakthrough. Leipzig, aware that a draw did little for their own ambitions, committed additional players forward. Dortmund, sensing vulnerability, looked to exploit transitional moments.
The winner came in the first minute of stoppage time. A Leipzig corner cleared decisively, Bellingham immediately finding Luka in space on the left. With defenders scrambling to recover position, Luka advanced quickly before identifying Malen's perfectly timed run beyond the last defender.
The through-ball was weighted masterfully, allowing the Dutchman to maintain his stride while staying onside by the narrowest margin. One touch to control, another to finish calmly beyond the advancing goalkeeper.
The stadium erupted, joy and disbelief intermingling as players celebrated with an intensity that acknowledged the significance of the moment. When the final whistle sounded three minutes later, confirmation arrived from Bavaria: Bayern Munich had defeated Freiburg.
In the dressing room afterward, amid the celebrations, Luka found a moment of quiet reflection.
The Champions League trophy. The Bundesliga title. Perhaps both. Perhaps more.
The quarterfinals awaited.