Become A Football Legend-Chapter 290: It’s the History of the Tottenham

Ekitike was already moving, already attacking the space behind the high line, timing it as Romero stepped up and van de Ven shifted across.

The pass came instantly.

Clean.

Weighted perfectly.

Split between the defenders.

"That’s a brilliant ball!" Fletcher called.

Ekitike was onto it.

First to it.

Van de Ven turned and chased, stretching every stride to recover, while Romero scrambled across to cover.

But Ekitike had the advantage.

He drove forward, one-on-one, the ball slightly ahead of him as he approached the box.

Vicario rushed out, narrowing the angle, making himself big.

Van de Ven lunged from the side.

Full commitment.

But Ekitike got there first.

He poked it through—

through the goalkeeper’s legs—

and the ball rolled into the net.

"HE’S SCORED—!" Fletcher roared.

The Frankfurt bench exploded instantly, players jumping to their feet, arms raised, the noise from their fans surging again as Ekitike spun away, sprinting toward the corner, fists clenched, shouting in celebration.

"Clinical!" Bale shouted. "That is exactly what they’ve been threatening!"

But then—

the whistle.

Sharp.

Immediate.

Everything slowed.

Ekitike turned.

Looked.

And on the far side—

the flag was up.

"No..." he muttered, shaking his head, already protesting as he pointed back toward the line. "I’m on. I’m on!"

The replay came quickly.

The stadium screens lit up.

The moment frozen.

Lukas releasing the pass.

Ekitike leaning forward.

Van de Ven stepping up.

Lines drawn.

Tight.

Unbelievably tight.

"Oh... that’s close," Fletcher said, his tone dropping.

Bale leaned in. "It’s going to be marginal... very marginal."

The semi-automated system didn’t take long.

The decision came back.

Offside.

By the smallest of margins.

"The toe," Fletcher said. "Just the toe of the boot."

Ekitike stood still for a moment, hands on his head, staring at the screen in disbelief before exhaling and turning away.

No goal.

Still 1–0.

But the warning had been loud.

"And this is the risk Tottenham are taking," Bale said, gesturing toward the pitch. "That line is so high... and Frankfurt are timing those runs."

Fletcher nodded.

"They’ve already been caught once—and they’ve been caught again here. It doesn’t count, but the message is clear."

Tottenham still had the ball.

Still had control.

But now—

they knew exactly how dangerous Frankfurt could be.

The first half drifted toward its end with Tottenham still pressing, still searching for that equaliser that had just evaded them all half. They weren’t panicking, but there was a growing urgency in the way they moved the ball now—Bentancur demanding it deeper, Sarr pushing higher, Johnson and Richarlison constantly rotating positions to try and disrupt Frankfurt’s defensive shape.

They carved out two late efforts before the break.

The first came through Johnson again, who cut inside from the right and struck low toward the near post, but Trapp was set, dropping quickly and gathering it cleanly into his gloves without spilling. A few minutes later, Bentancur slipped a clever pass into Solanke just outside the box, and the striker turned sharply before driving a shot toward the bottom corner—but once again, Trapp was there, reading it early and collecting without fuss.

"Tottenham finishing the half strongly," Fletcher noted, his voice steady over the noise of the crowd. "They’ve had their moments here."

"But Frankfurt still in control of the scoreline," Bale added. "And that’s what matters in finals."

The whistle blew shortly after.

Halftime. Frankfurt 1, Tottenham 0.

* * *

The Frankfurt dressing room filled gradually, the noise of the stadium fading behind the closed door as the players returned, one after another, their bodies carrying the weight of the first half but their expressions sharper, more focused. Boots thudded softly against the tiled floor, bottles were opened, towels draped over shoulders, and players dropped into their seats, taking in the moment.

Lukas sat down quietly, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, still breathing steadily as he replayed moments in his head.

As the players moved around the room, almost every one of them acknowledged him in passing.

A tap on the shoulder.

A hand on the back.

A quick squeeze.

Koch ruffled his hair briefly as he walked past. Larsson tapped him twice on the shoulder before taking his seat. Ekitike gave him a short nod, nothing more, but it carried meaning.

No one made a big deal of it.

They didn’t need to.

Topmöller entered a few seconds later, closing the door behind him as he stepped into the center of the room. He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he looked around—taking in the players, their body language, the quiet confidence that had settled in after that first half.

Then he nodded.

"I’m pleased," he said, his voice calm but clear.

The room stilled.

"That was good. Very good."

He paced slowly as he spoke, his hands moving subtly as he emphasized certain points.

"We knew they would have the ball. We knew they would press high, try to force mistakes. And we handled it. We stayed compact, we stayed disciplined, and we took our moment when it came."

He paused briefly.

Then raised a finger.

"But it’s only one goal."

The reminder landed immediately.

"Forty-five minutes," he continued, his tone steady. "Forty-five more minutes—and you are trophy winners."

You could feel the shift in the room.

The focus tightening.

He turned slightly, his eyes settling first on Ekitike... then on Lukas.

"Keep running," he said. "At their line. Every time you see it—go."

He pointed forward, as if tracing the space on the pitch.

"They are high. They will stay high. That is your opportunity."

Then he looked toward the back of the room.

"Kevin."

Trapp lifted his head.

"When you collect the ball... and you see that line—don’t wait. Don’t slow it down. Don’t build if it’s not there."

He mimed the motion with his hand.

"Go long. Immediately. Into space."

His gaze flicked back to Lukas and Ekitike.

"You run. Both of you. Run at them again and again."

A short pause.

"If you do that enough times... you will catch them."

The room was silent now, every player locked in.

Topmöller took a step back.

"And listen carefully," he added, his voice sharpening slightly.

"If we score the second goal..."

He let the moment hang.

"...we win this game."

No hesitation.

No doubt.

Just conviction.

"Stay disciplined. Stay brave. Forty-five minutes."

* * *

In the Tottenham dressing room, the energy was different—heavier, more tense, but not broken. The players sat scattered across the room, some staring ahead, others replaying moments in their minds, the frustration of being behind evident but controlled.

Postecoglou walked in and stopped in the center, his expression serious as he looked around at each of them.

He didn’t speak immediately.

Then—

"It’s not the best half," he said.

A brief pause.

"But it’s not the worst either."

A few heads lifted.

"It’s one goal," he continued, holding up a finger. "One."

He pointed toward the door.

"They’ve had their moment. We’ve had ours. The difference is—they took theirs."

His tone hardened slightly.

"But we are not doing this again."

The room stilled.

"We are not having another Spursy night."

The word sat heavily.

Unavoidable.

"You’ve all heard it," he went on. "You’ve all seen it."

A small shake of his head.

"’It’s the history of Tottenham.’"

He paused, letting it sink in.

"That’s what Chiellini said. That’s what people believe. And no one can blame them."

He stepped forward.

"Well tonight — you break that."