The Andalusian wind brushed against the windows of the team bus as it rumbled through the quiet streets toward San Sebastián. For Lucas, every kilometer that ticked past was a reminder of the distance he'd traveled—not just from Sevilla, but from the dusty pitches of his childhood in Brazil, the echoes of his father's disappointment, and the quiet nights spent dreaming under a broken roof. Now, he was not just dreaming; he was living it. But with every game, that dream demanded more.
Sevilla's win against Athletic Bilbao had bought them a breath—just a breath—in their fight to escape relegation. But breaths, like chances, were fleeting in football. The next match against Real Sociedad was more than a fixture on a schedule. It was a trial by fire.
Inside the bus, the mood was quiet but focused. Conversations were whispered, headphones plugged in, boots gleaming under dim aisle lights. The city of San Sebastián loomed closer, like a battlefield cloaked in the mist of early evening.
Lucas sat near the window, his head leaned against the cool glass, eyes shut, yet mind wide awake. He wasn't just imagining goals or tactics—he was rehearsing every movement, every pass, every possible scenario. In his mind, he danced past defenders, orchestrated plays, struck the perfect shot. He didn't see the crowd or the cameras. He saw opportunity, and with it, responsibility.
As the Reale Arena emerged in the distance like a Roman coliseum, Lucas felt a flutter in his chest. Not fear. Something stronger—an urge. A hunger.
The stadium was a cauldron of noise when they arrived. Blue and white flags waved furiously. Flares lit up the home stands. It was the kind of atmosphere meant to intimidate, to shake a young player to his core. But Lucas looked around, took it all in, and clenched his fists.
This was his theatre now.
When the whistle blew, it did not just signal the start of the game—it was the opening chord to a symphony of chaos. Real Sociedad came out like a storm, pressing with intent, stringing passes together with elegant precision. They looked every bit the superior side on paper. But Lucas wasn't reading from their script.
Within the opening minutes, Lucas was swarmed—two men marking him, sometimes three. They knew he was Sevilla's spark. And still, he found cracks in their armor. In the 20th minute, he skipped past his marker with a swift body feint and threaded a low pass to En-Nesyri, who unleashed a shot only to be denied by a diving save.
It was a warning.
Sevilla grew into the match. They began to find rhythm amid the storm, and in the 35th minute, their belief crystallized. Lucas, hovering near the penalty arc, trapped a loose ball, danced between two closing defenders, and fired a shot that clanged off the upright. It was heartbreak—until Navas crashed in like a predator and buried the rebound. 1–0.
The away end exploded.
Lucas didn't celebrate wildly. He simply pointed to the crest on his chest and turned to the bench. It wasn't just a goal. It was a message: We're still here.
But Real Sociedad was not the kind of team to crumble. Their response came swiftly. A sharp interception in midfield led to a blistering counter-attack. In a blur, the ball was in Sevilla's net, hammered home by their striker with ruthless efficiency. 1–1. Just like that, hope was pierced.
At halftime, the locker room was a crucible of tension. Players gulped water and caught their breath. The coach, standing tall despite the weight of the moment, looked each man in the eye.
"You're not just playing for points. You're playing for pride. You're playing for each other. Stay compact, fight for the second ball, and trust the game plan. Lucas—keep doing what you're doing. Your moment will come."
Lucas nodded, jaw clenched. He wasn't tired. If anything, he felt more alive than ever.
The second half resumed with the air crackling with energy. Sociedad poured forward in waves. Their precision was surgical. Yet Sevilla refused to fold. Their goalkeeper, the unsung hero, made save after save, deflecting danger like a soldier holding the line.
And then, in the 60th minute, it almost happened.
Lucas, picking up the ball from a deep midfield position, turned on a dime, glided past his marker, and fired a shot that curved like poetry in motion. The entire stadium held its breath—only for the Sociedad keeper to leap, fingertips outstretched, and tip it over.
Lucas fell to his knees. So close. But not enough.
He got up. Again, he thought.
Time ticked on. 70 minutes. 75. The game hung in the balance, like a coin teetering on its edge. Lucas looked toward the sideline, where his coach was shouting instructions. The team needed a spark—his spark.
Then came the 88th minute.
Sociedad lost the ball in Sevilla's half. Lucas scooped it up, and something clicked. He didn't wait for support. He didn't check for options. He ran.
He surged forward, weaving through blue shirts, a blur of red and white slicing through a sea of noise. One defender came. Gone. Another lunged—missed. The pitch opened up before him like a stage.
And just as he neared the box, a Sociedad defender lunged from behind, clipping Lucas's heels. He fell, hard.
The whistle blew.
Free kick.
The foul earned Sevilla more than just a set-piece. It earned them a chance to win. The moment pulsed like a heartbeat.
Lucas stood over the ball, wiping sweat from his brow. The stadium hissed with anticipation. His teammates watched from the edge of the box. The referee paced out the ten yards. The wall stood firm.
Lucas closed his eyes. And in that split second, he was back in Brazil, practicing free kicks on a makeshift field of sand and gravel, with his sister Sofia counting down, pretending to be the announcer.
"Lucas Almeida... for the win...!"
He inhaled.
He exhaled.
Then struck.
The ball curled with elegance, rising like a phoenix before dipping viciously over the wall. It kissed the top corner of the net with a soft whisper of inevitability.
Goal.
The crowd gasped. The away fans screamed. Sevilla's bench erupted.
Lucas didn't run. He stood still, arms outstretched, eyes closed.
This wasn't just a goal. It was art. It was poetry. It was vindication.
2–1. Sevilla led.
The final minutes were frantic, but Sevilla held firm. When the final whistle rang through the night, it was more than a sound—it was a release. The players embraced. Tears were shed. Fists were raised.
They had done it.