The night after the triumph over Granada was quieter than usual in Lucas's apartment. The echoes of the stadium still rang in his ears—the roar of the fans, the collective intake of breath before he took that final shot, and the explosive release of euphoria as the ball kissed the top corner of the net.
But beneath the surface of celebration, there was something else—something quieter. A whisper. A whisper that said: It's not over. Something bigger is coming.
Lucas lay awake, his eyes tracing the shadows on the ceiling as if they carried answers. For all the joy of that late winner, something about the way Granada fought had unsettled him. They had studied Sevilla. Anticipated their rhythm. Nullified it, almost completely.
And now, Sevilla's next opponent was not just another tactical team. It was Atlético Madrid.
A team that didn't just play football. They hunted. Ruthless. Disciplined. Cold.
Training resumed the following morning under a cold Andalusian sky. The sun was out, but its warmth felt hesitant, as if even nature was anxious about the coming clash.
Coach Ortega gathered the team at the center circle. His usually calm face was sharp with resolve.
"We face Atlético next," he began, his voice cutting through the morning silence. "They will test us like no team has this season. Every pass will be pressed. Every run will be tracked. And every mistake—punished."
Lucas listened, feeling the weight of the moment press into his chest. He wasn't just a young rising star anymore. Not after the last match. The media had crowned him "La Joya Brasileña"—The Brazilian Gem.
But gems could crack under pressure.
Carlos approached him after training, eyes serious. "This is where your character shows, Lucas. You've proven you can shine. Now prove you can survive the storm."
Lucas nodded. He didn't respond, because deep inside, he wasn't sure.
That evening, as dusk settled over Seville, Lucas found a quiet moment to call home. Maria answered, apron still on, flour dusting her cheek. The smell of baking filled the background.
"Lucas, querido! Are you eating well? You look a bit thin on TV," she fussed.
"I'm fine, mãe," he smiled. "Just... big match coming. Atlético."
Maria's voice softened. "I saw how they play. They'll try to push you around."
Then came João's voice, firmer. "Then push back. They're just men, son. They bleed, same as you."
Lucas laughed. "I'll remember that."
But it was Sofia who gave him the words that lingered. "Lucas... you looked scared the first time you played for the youth team back in Brazil, remember? But you still went out there and scored. Just like then, don't let fear speak louder than your love for the game."
He hung up, her words echoing in his heart.
The Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán Stadium was tense. Not buzzing. Not electric. But tense. Atlético Madrid had arrived like a lion into a quiet village. Their reputation preceded them.
Lucas paced the tunnel, headphones in, shutting out the chaos. He whispered to himself, over and over, "I belong here. I belong here."
Then the teams walked out.
The first few minutes were brutal. Atlético pressed with machine-like precision. Every Sevilla touch was met with a challenge. Every time Lucas received the ball, a shadow loomed—Koke, De Paul, or worse—Savic.
Sevilla tried to play out from the back, but the pressure was suffocating. Lucas barely touched the ball in the opening 15 minutes. Every time he did, it was on the turn, one touch before being clattered or intercepted.
The fans were trying to lift the team, but even their voices felt muted under Atlético's iron grip.
Then it happened.
In the 22nd minute, a miscommunication between Lucas and Fernando led to a turnover. Morata latched onto it, broke forward, and with a ruthless strike, buried it in the corner.
0-1.
Sevilla were behind.
Lucas stared at the grass, sweat already stinging his eyes. He had made the wrong run. The wrong pass. The first time since joining Sevilla, he felt the sting of doubt pierce deep.
By halftime, the score hadn't changed, but Atlético had grown stronger. Sevilla were chasing shadows. Coach Ortega stormed into the locker room, fury simmering just beneath his composure.
"I don't care who they are!" he barked. "This isn't about fear. It's about pride. Your pride. Lucas," he turned, voice softening slightly. "They're targeting you. Why? Because they know if you shine, they fall. So what are you going to do about it?"
Lucas nodded, chest tight. "I won't disappear."
The second half started differently. Lucas began to drop deeper, evading his markers. He stopped looking for the killer pass and started drawing defenders to him, dragging Atlético's shape out of balance.
In the 62nd minute, he picked up the ball just inside his half. Koke closed in, fast. But Lucas shifted the ball to his left foot, then quickly back to the right—a samba feint from his childhood.
Koke was left flat-footed.
The stadium came alive.
Lucas surged forward, passed to Lamela, who released Acuña on the overlap. Cross into the box—En-Nesyri leaped!
The ball rattled the crossbar.
So close.
In the 74th minute, Lucas finally found his moment. He received a throw-in, turned swiftly between two Atlético players and darted into space. He was free.
He charged into the box. Time slowed.
He had a choice: shoot from a tight angle or square it to Ocampos.
He chose to shoot.
It was powerful. Low. But Jan Oblak was world-class.
He saved it with his foot.
The stadium groaned. Lucas fell to his knees. The chance—the chance—was gone.
The match seemed to be slipping away.
89 minutes gone. Atlético were playing the clock.
But then—one final Sevilla attack.
A clearance from Nianzou. Lamela chased it, nudged it forward. The ball bounced awkwardly in midfield. Lucas pounced.
He stole it.
He ran.
Two defenders closed in, but Lucas pushed the ball through the narrowest of gaps and slipped between them like water through cracks.
Now he was in the box.
Oblak stepped forward.
Lucas didn't look up. He felt the goal.
With the outside of his boot, he scooped the ball over the keeper.
The net rippled.
1-1.
The stadium erupted.