An Eternity and an Instant
Six minutes of stoppage time.
The electronic board flashed red against the darkening German sky, its digits both a promise and a threat. Six minutes to salvage a season. Six minutes to defy the impossible. Six minutes that would stretch like an accordion—expanding with each desperate attack, contracting with every wasted second.
Paredes was still celebrating, his tongue extended in mockery toward the Südtribüne as he soaked in their fury. His teammates surrounded him, blue shirts forming a protective barrier against the shower of cups and scarves raining down from the stands. Security personnel rushed to establish order, their fluorescent vests forming an impromptu line between players and spectators.
"Buena liberación estúpidos bastardos!" Paredes shouted toward the Yellow Wall, his face contorted in triumphant disdain. "¡Ya está hecho!"
Luka wasn't watching. Unlike the chaos unfolding around him, his movements were mechanical, purposeful. He walked directly to the center circle, eyes fixed on the grass beneath his feet. The stadium's fury swirled around him like a tempest, but he remained untouched at its eye.
Inside his head, a voice had awakened. Not his own—or perhaps a version of himself he rarely acknowledged.
Hey, Luka.
He kept walking, reaching the center spot where the ball would soon be placed.
Hey, hey, Luka. Do you think you can score twice in six minutes?
His chest rose and fell rapidly. Three goals to one down. Needing two just to force extra time.
I want to, he answered himself.
But do you think you can? Two goals. Six minutes.
Luka positioned himself, waiting for teammates who were still dragging themselves back into formation. Reus approached, the captain's expression a complex mix of determination and desperation.
"Quick restart," Reus instructed, placing the ball on the center spot. "Everything forward now."
Can you score twice, Luka?
He didn't respond to the voice as Bellingham joined them, his jersey darkened with sweat, his face flushed with exertion.
"We're not bloody done," Bellingham declared, clapping his hands with forced enthusiasm. "Not like this."
Can you score twice?
I don't know.
The referee's whistle pierced the cacophony. Reus tapped the ball to Luka, who immediately surged forward as if propelled by something beyond conscious control. The hunger was alight again—not just burning but consuming, a wildfire spreading through every muscle fiber. There was panic in his movements, though he didn't recognize it as such. Where earlier he had played with calculated precision, now he moved with frantic urgency.
PSG's defense, now playing with the luxury of a two-goal cushion, had dropped deeper, content to absorb pressure and destroy Dortmund's rhythm. Paredes and Verratti formed a blockade in midfield, their experience evident in how they positioned themselves to intercept passing lanes.
Luka attempted to thread a ball through to Haaland, but Marquinhos read the intention, stepping forward to intercept before launching a counter-attack. Hakimi received the clearance on the right flank, immediately looking to burn precious seconds by holding possession.
"Press him!" Rose screamed from the touchline, his voice cracking with intensity. "Don't let them breathe!"
Bellingham responded, charging toward Hakimi with reckless abandon. The Moroccan, perhaps surprised by the ferocity of the approach, hesitated momentarily before attempting a pass to Messi. The ball never reached its target—Bellingham's outstretched leg deflecting it toward Reus, who had anticipated the opportunity.
The stadium erupted as Dortmund regained possession in PSG's half. Reus drove forward, the years seeming to fall away as he accelerated past Veratti before delivering a cross toward the back post where Haaland had positioned himself.
The Norwegian rose magnificently, towering above Kimpembe. For a suspended moment, it seemed certain he would score—until Donnarumma launched himself across goal, plucking the ball from the air with outstretched fingertips just as Haaland's forehead made contact.
A collective groan rippled through the stadium. Four minutes and twenty seconds remaining.
PSG took their time with the goal kick, Donnarumma twice approaching the ball before retreating, glancing at the referee with practiced innocence. Oliver eventually intervened, gesturing impatiently for the Italian to proceed.
When the kick finally came, it was launched deep toward the halfway line where Di María had created space between Dortmund's stretched defensive lines. The Argentine controlled expertly, immediately looking to retain possession as PSG's strategy became transparent—kill the game, drain the clock.
Di María rolled the ball back to Marquinhos, who recycled it to Kimpembe, the defenders exchanging passes with infuriating composure as seconds evaporated like morning dew. Every touch was deliberate, every movement calculated to consume time rather than create opportunity.
Luka watched, helplessness threatening to overwhelm him. The fire still burned, but now it felt misdirected, like a weapon he couldn't aim.
Can you score twice, Luka?
I don't know.
Three minutes and forty seconds.
Dortmund's press finally forced an error—Kimpembe's pass toward Verratti lacking sufficient weight. Bellingham pounced, intercepting before charging forward. The English midfielder had been a force of nature throughout the match, refusing to concede defeat even as it loomed ever larger.
He drove into the penalty area, defenders converging. His cut-back found Luka at the edge of the box, space opening before him like a revelation.
The shot was instinctive—too instinctive. The ball soared high over the crossbar, disappearing into the seething mass of the Südtribüne. Luka sank to his knees, hands clasped behind his head in disbelief at his own execution.
"Next one!" Bellingham shouted, hauling him to his feet. "Keep going!"
Three minutes remaining.
PSG's goal kick strategy repeated—Donnarumma burning seconds, officials permitting the delay. When the ball eventually returned to play, it found Mbappé isolated against Akanji. The French forward's acceleration was otherworldly, his first touch taking him past the Swiss defender as if he were stationary.
Suddenly PSG had numbers forward—Neymar to the left, Messi central, Di María maintaining width on the right. Mbappé assessed his options, the chance to deliver the killing blow presenting itself.
His pass found Messi in space, the Argentine taking one touch to set himself before unleashing a curling effort toward the top corner. Kobel's save was spectacular—a full-length dive that somehow diverted the ball onto the crossbar and behind for a corner.
Two minutes and fifteen seconds.
The PSG players converged for the corner, in no hurry to resume play. Di María eventually placed the ball in the quadrant, raising his hand to signal his teammates. The delivery was precise, finding Kimpembe at the near post, but the defender's header flashed wide.
Two minutes remaining.
Dortmund's goal kick was taken quickly, Kobel finding Bellingham who immediately set Dortmund in motion. The Englishman drove forward before releasing Luka on the left flank. For the first time in minutes, space opened before him—a corridor of possibility.
He accelerated, Hakimi moving to intercept. The duel that had defined much of the match was reaching its conclusion. Luka feinted left before cutting inside, leaving the defender momentarily wrong-footed. The cross was whipped toward the penalty spot where Haaland had positioned himself.
The Norwegian's volley was struck with venom, but it was not to be, the shot rattled the post drawing groans of defied belief. Bellingham, following up, connected with the rebound, only for his shot to be blocked desperately by Marquinhos.
The ball ricocheted to Reus on the edge of the area. The captain took one touch before shooting, his effort skimming the outside of the post as the Südtribüne rose in anticipation only to sink back in anguish.
One minute and thirty seconds.
PSG's goal kick strategy continued—Donnarumma now so blatant in his time-wasting that Oliver finally produced a yellow card, though the damage was done. When play resumed, the Italian launched the ball deep toward the corner flag where Mbappé chased, harassing the clearance attempt.
The French forward won a throw-in deep in Dortmund territory. More precious seconds disappeared as Mendes methodically dried the ball on his jersey before taking the throw. When it finally came, Neymar received with his back to goal, shielding possession from Bellingham's desperate attempts to win the ball.
One minute remaining.
Bellingham finally managed to dispossess Neymar, launching an immediate counter-attack. Rather than allow Oliver to blow for full-time with PSG in possession, Dortmund needed the ball upfield. The Englishman found Haaland, who cleverly held off Marquinhos despite the defender's attempts to wrestle him to the ground.
The Norwegian's touch was heavy, the ball squirming away from him into space. Six PSG players converged, sensing blood in the water, victory within reach. But Luka was already moving, bursting between defenders to reclaim possession at the edge of the penalty area.
Can you score twice?
I don't know.
The desperation clung to him like a second skin as he sought space to maneuver. There was no room for precision now, no opportunity for the elegant solutions that had defined his play earlier. This was survival—primal, urgent, necessary.
He twisted past one challenge, then another, somehow maintaining possession despite being hounded from all sides. At the edge of the box, he looked up, searching frantically for an opening, for a shot, for anything that might preserve Dortmund's fading hopes.
And in that moment of pure desperation, of clawing, searching need, Luka remembered what Mendes had told him that morning:
"That's what champions do. They carry the fire, and when they can't run with it themselves, they pass it to others."
His fire stretched outward, seeking kindred spirits, finding Cole Palmer.
Palmer had been invisible for much of the match, a peripheral figure in the drama unfolding around him. He had arrived in Dortmund with dreams of proving himself, of stepping out from the shadows into his own light. He'd even declared at halftime that today would be the day, that the world would learn his name.
Yet here he stood, the game slipping away, having contributed nothing meaningful to the contest. The disappointment was etched in the set of his shoulders, in the tension around his eyes. He had been given an opportunity and squandered it—a familiar story in his young career.
A memory flashed unbidden—Palmer as a child at City's academy, lying on his bunk after training, a teammate asking about his dreams.
"Scoring a winning goal on a Champions League night," he had answered without hesitation. "That's the dream. But honestly, anything close would be enough."
Now, as the final seconds ticked away, Palmer made a run—not with hope but with obligation, the movement automatic rather than inspired. Luka saw it, recognized it, and in a moment of clarity amid chaos, chipped the ball over PSG's defense.
Time slowed.
The ball hung against the night sky, its arc perfect, identical to the earlier opportunity that Palmer had squandered. The stadium held its collective breath as the English winger tracked its flight, positioning himself beneath its descent.
This time, Palmer didn't attempt a first-time volley. He took a touch—a perfect, cushioned control that brought the ball to his feet while sending Marquinhos sliding harmlessly past. The goal opened before him, Donnarumma advancing to narrow the angle.
A heartbeat of hesitation. A feint that sent the goalkeeper dropping to his right.
The shot was struck with perfect technique—not blasted over as before, but placed precisely into the bottom corner with enough power to prevent Donnarumma's despairing fingers from intervening.
3-2.
Palmer stood motionless as the ball nestled in the net, disbelief painted across his features. Then the moment broke, reality flooding back as he sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding to his knees before being buried beneath an avalanche of yellow shirts.
His teammates descended upon him—Haaland lifting him bodily from the ground, Bellingham roaring in his face, Reus grabbing his head between both hands as if to imprint the moment in his memory.
"PALMER! COLE PALMER!" Drury's voice soared above the stadium's delirium.
The celebration was frantic but brief—players breaking away, racing back toward the halfway line. Thirty seconds remained. One goal needed. The impossible suddenly, tantalizingly possible.
As the referee placed the ball on the center spot, Luka caught Palmer's eye. No words were exchanged, but understanding passed between them—a current of shared purpose, of collective belief.
The whistle sounded. Dortmund surged forward once more, eleven players committed to attack, even Kobel advancing to the halfway line as the stampede of yellow forced a mistake from Veratti, earning them possession with less than 5 seconds passed.
PSG retreated into a defensive shell, every player behind the ball, desperate to preserve their advantage for just a few more seconds.
Bellingham found space on the right, delivering a cross that Kimpembe headed clear only as far as Reus. The captain's volley was blocked, the ball spinning upward before being headed away again. Dahoud recovered possession, immediately feeding Luka at the edge of the area.
Four defenders converged. Luka pivoted, creating just enough space to attempt a shot that deflected behind for a corner. The stadium erupted—perhaps the final opportunity.
"HURRY!" Rose screamed from the touchline, gesturing frantically for Reus to take the corner quickly.
Kobel had advanced fully, joining his teammates in PSG's penalty area. Eighteen players crowded the six-yard box—a mass of bodies, of straining limbs and desperate concentration.
Reus raised his hand, took two deep breaths, then delivered the corner with perfect trajectory—curling inward, inviting attack. Bodies rose as one, a forest of limbs reaching skyward.
In the center, Haaland connected—his header powerful but straight at Donnarumma. The Italian parried instinctively, the ball dropping into the crowded box rather than being pushed to safety.
Chaos ensued—legs kicking, bodies falling, the ball ricocheting unpredictably between players. A shot from Bellingham was blocked on the line by Kimpembe. The rebound fell to Akanji, whose effort struck Marquinhos before looping toward the back post.
And there, having positioned himself perfectly amid the mayhem, stood Palmer once again.
Time froze—the universe holding its breath, history awaiting its author.
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