Kanar Weber slammed his beer down so hard foam exploded across his table. His Bayern shirt was already soaked with sweat despite the April evening's chill.
Around him, the Munich sports bar "Der Elfmeter" was packed wall to wall, every eye glued to the wall-mounted screen showing Signal Iduna Park's floodlit pitch.
It appeared as though every Bayern fan had set aside their deeply rooted anomosity towards their German rivals. Just as they did when Luka teared apart PSG and Chelsea alike.
"They can't actually do it, can they?" his friend Jerett muttered, nervously adjusting his scarf. "Not against Klopp's Liverpool."
Klaus didn't answer because deep down, beneath the Bayern loyalty and league rivalry, he was terrified they actually could. The screen showed both teams warming up, and something about the way those yellow shirts moved suggested tonight would be different.
—
In the Signal Iduna Park press box, James Pearce from The Athletic hammered away at his keyboard, already rewriting the narrative he'd prepared about Liverpool's experience advantage. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, helicopter blades cut through the night air like metallic insects, their spotlights sweeping across the stadium's exterior walls
—
Down in London, Mikel Arteta stood alone in his office at Arsenal's training ground, coffee gone cold in his hands. On his laptop screen, he watched Bellingham sprint through warm-up drills like his life depended on it. Every touch, every decision, every moment of brilliance another reminder that this kid could change everything.
His phone buzzed.
Edu: "Have you finally made your decision?"
Arteta typed back: "How much do we have left in the budget?"
The stadium itself pulsed like a living organism.
Blood on foreheads from celebrating too hard.
Tears streaming down faces painted yellow and black.
A grandmother in section 12 hadn't sat down once, hadn't spoken a word, just stood there gripping the railing so tight her knuckles had gone white.
In the tunnel, Guerreiro bounced on his toes, adjusting his gloves for the third time. His stomach churned with pre-match nerves that felt different tonight. Heavier. More consequential. The previous game Bochum had taken more out of them than expected—not physically exhausted, but rather a certain mental fatigue that came from high-intensity football played at emotional extremes.
They'd celebrated the title race implications, felt the pressure of staying ahead of Bayern, absorbed the chaos of a match that could have gone either way.
Akanji stood beside him, jaw clenched so tight his teeth might crack. He had played in Champions League knockouts before, but never with everything on the line like this. Never representing an entire country's hopes for continental relevance.
Hummels, Meunier and Can, all appeared far more focused and unbothered compared to the other players. But Guerreiro had been playing enough years of high-level football to notice the subtle physical clues that indicated the same mental fatigue he was experiencing—perhaps even nervousness.
Meunier cracked his neck left, then right. Hummels repeatedly tried cracking his index finger despite the lack of Nitrogen. Can ever so oftenly swayed left to right.
Without Luka's chaos to organize around, everything had to be perfect. Every decision measured. Every movement precise.
The other players didn't seem to be doing particularly better either…
Reus had closed his eyes for the past two minutes.
This might be his last real chance at European glory. His body felt the accumulation of years and matches, the weekend's intensity still echoing in muscles that took longer to recover than they used to. The captaincy weighed on him differently tonight—not just tactical leadership but emotional guidance for teammates who'd given everything against Bochum and now needed to find more.
Bellingham stood motionless, watching Liverpool's players through the tunnel's opening.
While he may have appeared nervous outwardly—Jude's own legs felt good despite the quick turnaround—nineteen-year-old recovery rates were a beautiful thing, and his mind carried far less weight than it had during the first leg.
Palmer fidgeted with his gloves, his mind racing through tactical instructions Rose had drilled all week. "Find the space between their lines. Left foot finishes. Trust your technique."
Haaland stretched his massive frame, every muscle fiber coiled despite the lingering effects of weekend exertion. A subtle smile planted on his face as he thought of God knows what. Atleast one player held their nerves well.
Three Liverpool center-backs would spend ninety minutes just trying to contain his runs, and he needed to be ready despite feeling the accumulated weight of this season's intensity.
Finally, Malen rolled his shoulders, his heart banged against his chest like an African wardrum.
On the left wing, he'd be isolated against Alexander-Arnold for long stretches.
He felt capable…
Felt.
But he lacked electricity, the confidence that they had a chance against a team that housed players who were arguably the best in the world in their particular positions.
Rose appeared at the tunnel mouth, his tactical clipboard forgotten in favor of something more primal. "Lads," he said quietly, his voice somehow carrying over the building noise from above. "They expect us to be grateful just for being here. Never mind that. You're tired? Good. Tired means you've been working. Tired means you've earned this moment."
...
The whistle shrieked and chaos erupted. Liverpool came out pressing like their lives depended on dispossessing every yellow shirt within fifty yards.
Fabinho glided across the pitch, cutting off passing lanes before Dortmund players even realized they existed.
But this wasn't the nervous, overwhelmed Dortmund team that had struggled at Anfield.
They were nervous—who wouldn't be? But there was something different to their mentality, an internal fire that was more akin to the headstrong team that approached their first R16 team with a heart of vengeance.
Something harder, meaner, more desperate, resided in this Dortmund team, even if their legs carried the weight of recent battles.
Third minute and Malen received the ball on the left touchline with Alexander-Arnold closing fast.
His nerves said to play the simple pass. To play a respectable game, one that would require less boldness, less couragenousness, a path lesser in danger.
But this season had brought fought many lessons for Malen, through highlight reels of missed shot attempts, subpar passes, consistent performances that only ever contributed, never changing games.
From nervousness make the impossible decision to bring forth confidence.
Instead of trying to beat him with skill, he simply drove his shoulder into the fullback's chest, using his body like a battering ram to protect possession.
The contact was solid, meaningful.
"That's it!" Can screamed from midfield. "Make them feel you!"
Alexander-Arnold bounced off the challenge, his usually elegant recovery slightly awkward.
Malen had ensured the message was set clear—Dortmund had come out to play.
Two minutes thereafter.
Salah collected a pass on the right wing, his first touch perfect as always. But before he could take his second, Guerreiro arrived like a guided missile, sliding in with studs barely controlled. The Egyptian went down hard, rolling twice before bouncing back up with fury in his eyes.
No whistle. Play on.
The tackle was clean but brutal, one that existed in the grey area between legal and reckless. Guerreiro popped up immediately, already jogging away as Salah looked toward the referee for justice that wouldn't come.
Haaland's brought about Dortmund's first real run of the night, peeling away from Matip with deceptive acceleration.
Guerreiro's pass found him perfectly, but Van Dijk had read the movement. The collision when they met was seismic—two hundred pounds of striker meeting two hundred pounds of defender at full speed. Both went down. Both got up. Both grinned like psychopaths.
The pace was relentless despite both teams carrying fatigue from recent exertions. Liverpool's pressing remained aggressive but showed subtle signs of the energy management that came with experience. Dortmund's responses were sharp but carried the slight hesitation that suggested players thinking an extra split-second before committing to challenges.
Palmer received the ball on the right wing with space to run at Robertson. His pace was good despite the accumulated fatigue, his first touch taking him past the fullback's initial challenge. Robertson recovered quickly, his experience showing as he positioned his body to force Palmer wide.
Palmer tried to cut inside, using his left foot to push the ball across his body. The skill was clean—a simple step-over followed by a quick shift of direction—but Robertson had anticipated it. The Liverpool defender's tackle was perfectly timed, winning the ball cleanly while sending Palmer tumbling toward the corner flag.
Palmer's face showed the frustration of a young player learning that technique alone wasn't enough at this level. Experience, positioning, tactical awareness—all the intangible qualities that separated good players from great ones.
Soon after Salah received the ball thirty yards from goal, his body already leaning into the turn that would take him past Akanji. The defender had studied the footage, knew exactly what was coming. His slide tackle was perfectly timed, catching just enough of the ball to send it spinning away while taking Salah's legs out from under him.
The Egyptian hit the turf hard, bouncing once before sliding another three yards on the pristine grass. When he looked up, fury blazed in his eyes. "You—"
"Come on then," Akanji replied calmly, already walking away. "Get up."
The referee's whistle cut through the tension. Free kick, twenty-two yards from goal. Central position. Perfect range for someone with Alexander-Arnold's technique.
The warm formed quickly, Hummels, Akanji, Can, Menuier. Kobel positioned himself to cover the far post.
Alexander-Arnold placed the ball routinely, adjusting it twice before stepping back to begin his run-up. His approach was measured, building rhythm through four quick steps before his right foot made contact. The technique was flawless curling the ball up and over the wall, spinning it toward the top corner with enough pace to trouble any goalkeeper.
But Kobel had read the flight path perfectly. He launched himself through the air, his body fully extended as fingertips barely made contact with the spinning ball. The deflection was minimal but crucial, sending the ball crashing against the crossbar before bouncing back into play.
Bodies flew everywhere in the resulting chaos. Yellow shirts and red shirts colliding in desperate lunges toward the loose ball. Henderson sliding in to clear. Can arriving from deep to poke it outward. The ball bouncing off shins and thighs and outstretched hands like a pinball in human machine.
Somehow, impossibly, the ball stayed out. When the chaos cleared, players from both teams lay scattered across the penalty area like casualties from some beautiful war.
The Twenty-sixth minute brought another Liverpool attack. Thiago collected the ball in deep midfield, his touch silk-smooth despite the match's physical intensity. His vision was exceptional, seeing spaces that other players missed entirely. His pass split Dortmund's defensive line, finding Mané in the channel between Akanji and Meunier.
Mané's first touch was clean, taking him away from Akanji's desperate challenge. His pace remained electric despite thirty minutes of high-intensity running, his sustained atleticism showed exactly why he was a perfect fit for Liverpool.
But Meunier had read the danger, his early pre-recovery run taking him back toward his own goal at full sprint. And across from Mane.
The Belgian's positioning was excellent, forcing Mané to slightly slow down while buying time for defensive reinforcements.
The shot came anyway. Mané's left foot connected with the ball eighteen yards from goal, driving it low toward the near post. The technique was good but not perfect, the ball carrying enough power to trouble Kobel but lacking the precision to guarantee a goal.
Kobel's save was routine but crucial, diving low to his left to gather the ball cleanly. His distribution was immediate, rolling the ball out to Guerreiro who was already looking to launch a counter-attack.
This was the pattern establishing itself. Liverpool creating half-chances through superior technical quality. Dortmund defending desperately while looking for opportunities to transition. Neither team able to establish complete dominance despite periods of sustained pressure.
Twenty-eighth minute and the physical toll was becoming visible. Henderson's usually crisp passing carried slight inaccuracies that suggested accumulating fatigue. Can's pressing wasn't quite as aggressive as it had been in the opening minutes. Both teams were managing energy reserves, choosing their moments to commit maximum effort.
But the intensity remained brutal. Near the left touchline, Bellingham found himself under pressure from two Liverpool players. Henderson closing from behind, Fabinho sliding across to cut off the forward pass. The ball seemed to stick to Jude's feet despite the challenge, his body position allowing him to shield possession while scanning for options.
"JUDE!" Palmer screamed from the right wing, pointing to the space behind Robertson. "SWITCH IT!"
But Jude had seen a different option. Reus was drifting between Liverpool's lines, creating exactly the kind of pocket that Rose had identified in tactical preparation. The pass needed to be perfect—hard enough to beat Henderson's interception attempt, soft enough for Reus to control under pressure.
Jude's right foot caressed the ball with precision that came from endless training ground repetition. The pass bisected Liverpool's midfield with the weight and trajectory of a master craftsman's work. It found Reus in the half-space with just enough time to turn and face goal.
But as Jude completed the pass, Henderson's follow-through caught him on the ankle. Not malicious, but late enough to send him stumbling toward the touchline. The pain was immediate and sharp, shooting up his leg like an electric current.
"Get up!" someone (Was that Meek Mill?) Screamed from the stands. "GET UP!"
Jude didn't get up immediately. Instead, he used his momentum, letting Henderson's challenge carry him toward the touchline where he could buy precious seconds to recover. The ball was still in play, Reus still had possession, but Liverpool players were already closing in.
From his position near the corner flag, Jude watched Reus receive the ball under pressure from three red shirts. Reus' first touch was perfect, using the inside of his right foot to cushion the pass while simultaneously turning his body away from Fabinho's challenge. His second touch created space for a shot—a delicate roll with his left foot that opened up his body and gave him a clear sight of goal.
Twenty-five yards out. Left foot. Rising trajectory toward the top corner.
The ball flew over Alisson's crossbar by inches, carrying with it the hopes of everyone wearing yellow and black. Reus stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, staring at the goal like it had personally offended him.
Jude bounced to his feet, his ankle throbbing but functional. The pain was background noise now, overwhelmed by the burning sensation in his chest that felt like pure distilled ambition.
Henderson jogged over, hand extended in apology. "Sorry mate, didn't mean to—"
"Save it." Jude replied, but without real anger. This was football. Contact was part of the game. At this level, clean tackles and late challenges existed on a spectrum rather than clear categories.
The match continued its relentless pace. Both teams pressing, both teams countering, both teams leaving everything on the pitch.
Thirty-first minute and Malen received the ball on the left wing with space to run at Liverpool's defense. Alexander-Arnold was positioning himself conservatively, aware that one mistake could lead to the goal that changed everything. The fullback's usually aggressive approach had been tempered by Dortmund's direct running.
Malen's first touch took him inside, away from the touchline and toward the penalty area. His pace wasn't devastating—not like Salah's explosive acceleration—but it was deceptive, building gradually until defenders realized they were already in trouble.
He used his right foot to push the ball across his body, executing a simple but effective skill that wrong-footed Alexander-Arnold completely. The Liverpool defender had committed to showing Malen outside, expecting the predictable overlap run that Malen often performed. Instead, he cut inside, his change of direction sudden and decisive.
Matip stepped out to challenge, leaving Van Dijk isolated against Haaland in the center. This was the tactical battle Rose had emphasized all week—create two-versus-one situations, force Liverpool's defenders into impossible choices between competing threats.
Malen's cross came early, whipped in before Matip could close the distance. The ball was driven hard and low, curving away from Alisson's reach while maintaining enough pace to reach the far post. The delivery was perfect.
Jude had timed his run perfectly, arriving at the back post with enough momentum to rise above Fabinho's desperate challenge. For a split second, he was airborne, suspended above the chaos with only the goal in front of him. His body was perfectly positioned, neck muscles tensing as he prepared to direct the ball toward the bottom corner.
The header was clean, powerful, struck with technique that coaches spent years trying to teach.
The ball flew toward goal with pace that should have beaten any keeper, its trajectory flat and true.
But Alisson's reflexes were extraordinary. The Brazilian's dive was perfectly timed, his right hand pushing the ball against the inside of the post before it spun back into the six-yard box. The save was brilliant, instinctive.
The rebound created chaos. Bodies flew from all directions—yellow shirts and red shirts colliding in desperate lunges toward the loose ball. Henderson sliding in to clear.. Fabinho stretching to intercept. The ball bouncing unpredictably off shins and thighs and outstretched feet.
In the mayhem, nobody tracked Jude's movement as he recovered from his initial header. Nobody saw him adjust his positioning, reading the ball's trajectory better than anyone else in the penalty area.
His anticipation was perfect, his positioning ideal.
When the ball dropped to his feet eight yards from goal, time seemed to slow to match his heartbeat. Alisson was scrambling to recover position, but the angle was wrong. Henderson was sliding desperately but couldn't reach the ball. The goal yawned open like a cavern.
Jude's right foot was already swinging before his brain fully processed the opportunity. The connection was pure.
Power without effort.
Precision without conscious thought.
The ball flew into the net like it belonged there, settling against the back netting with finality that felt inevitable and impossible simultaneously.
The roar hit Jude like a physical force, lifting him off his feet and carrying him toward the corner flag where the stadium was losing its collective mind. His teammates arrived in waves—Haaland lifting him off the ground, Palmer screaming incomprehensibly, Reus pounding his back with enough force to crack ribs.
But Jude wasn't celebrating with them yet. Instead, he broke away from the pile of bodies and sprinted toward the South Stand, toward the Yellow Wall that had been his soundtrack for growth and discovery.
He leaped into the advertising boards, arms spread wide, face tilted toward the floodlights like he was trying to absorb every photon of this moment. The supporters reached down to touch him, their hands creating a human canopy that surrounded him with pure adoration.
"COME ON!" he screamed, his voice raw with emotion and adrenaline. "COME ON, YOU BEAUTIFUL BASTARDS!"
But Liverpool hadn't reached three Champions League finals in five years by folding under pressure.
They resonded quikly. Henderson collected the ball in the center circle, his eyes scanning the field for weaknesses in Dortmund's defensive shape. The celebration had lasted ninety seconds—long enough for Liverpool's players to reorganize and remember why they'd been considered favorites.
"SWITCH ON!" Henderson screamed at his teammates.
His pass was simple but effective, finding Thiago in space on the left side of midfield. The first touch was silk, taking the ball away from Can's challenge with the outside of his right foot—a subtle skill that created just enough separation to play the next pass.
Thiago's through ball split Dortmund's defensive line like a knife through butter, the weight and timing perfect despite the intense pressure. Salah was already running, his acceleration taking him past Hummels' desperate challenge. His positioning just wrong enough to give Liverpool's star the half-yard he needed.
Sixteen yards from goal, alone against Kobel.
Salah's left foot curled the ball into the far corner with casual precision.
Kobel dove, his fingertips missing the ball by centimeters that might as well have been miles.
Goal.
Salah's celebration was muted but meaningful, arms outstretched toward the traveling Liverpool supporters, this was a experienced player with experience scoring goals on stages like these
The goal had invigorated the Liverpool team, there was a new pep in their step as they jogged back to the center circle.
The goal had lit a new fire within the Liverpool players, Salah leaped into the air, his hands swinging with invigoration as he encouraged his team mates.
This game would be far more action packed than the past thirty-five minutes had ben.
And so it was.
From the moment Dortmund kicked off, the Liverpool players launched a pressing tidal wave.
Jude found little time to breath nor think as he expertly took down a rare poor pass from Reus.
The bouncing ball stopped entirely at his feet. But when he scanned, both Thiago and Henderson had used the oppurtunity to shorten the gap and win the ball high up the pitch.
The dangerous, reckless option, would be to attempt dribbling against the speed they attacked him at. The safer option…
Jude turned quickly, shielding the ball from the two players at his back.
He coudl feel the weight of an elbow pressing against his scapula. The ever so slight tug at his shirt that, the type that never resulted in a foul so long as it remained unseen.
He attempted to play the ball back to Akanji.
But the heavy weight of Henderson leaning against his back caused him to stumble.
Mistakingly tiptoeing the ball ever so slightly away from his feet.
But he couldn't give up. A quick glance to his right revealed Salah, priming himself to run for a ball launched over a high Dortmund line.
With a silent roar, he dived toward the ball, sweeping his right leg across his body and making contact with the ball.
Looking up, Can recieved the pass at an awkward angle, but Liverpool committing two of their midfield players had created acres of empty space.
Can scanned the pitch—Reus was operating in the space between Fabinho and Trent, ready to execute a half-turn and open the defense. Haaland was lingering near Konate, prepared to make a run over the top.
But Palmer…
Palmer was drifting into that specific zone the manager had identified—ten yards from the penalty area, central but slightly left, in the gap between Liverpool's defensive and midfield lines.
"Robertson won't track runs into the right half-space," Rose had explained during Wednesday's tactical session. "Konate or Matip steps up to contain Haaland, Fabinho covers centrally. But here—this space opens up for exactly eight minutes when they transition from defense to press, or press to defense. That's where you go, Palmer. Right foot or left foot, doesn't matter. Just get into that pocket and trust your technique."
Now, with Liverpool pressing high, those spaces were appearing exactly as Rose had predicted.
Can's pass was weighted perfectly, arriving at Palmer's feet.
Palmer's first touch was clean, using the inside of his right foot to cushion the ball while simultaneously turning his body away from a desperate Fabinho's challenge.
This was the moment Rose had visualized all week. Palmer in his perfect space, left foot prepared, goal beckoning ahead. His second touch opened up his body, creating the angle for a shot that would either justify months of tactical preparation or expose the limitations of over-analysis.
Palmer's left foot connected with the ball cleanly, driving it low toward the bottom corner with unique finesse.
The shot had perfect weight—enough power to beat Alisson, enough precision to find the corner, enough confidence to suggest this moment had been inevitable from the tactical session where it was first conceived.
Alisson's dive was late, his positioning just wrong enough to leave him grasping at air while the net bulged behind him.
Goal.
Borrusia Dortmund level once again.
Palmer ran toward the corner flag, finger wagging at the Liverpool supporters before crossing his arms over his chest, each hand touching the opposite shoulder. Then he shook his shoulders as if shivering.
His teammates mobbed him, their joy infectious and desperate. In the stands, grown men wept openly, their emotional reserves completely depleted by thirty-seven minutes of pure intensity.