The PreZero Arena in Sinsheim hummed with anticipation. Hoffenheim's blue-clad fans filled the stands with their chants, a sea of optimism hoping to derail Borussia Dortmund's pursuit of Bayern. After Bayern lost their home game if Dortmund won today the point gap would be narrowed to just 4, though Bayern had a game in hand.
But Hoffenheim was ready, intent on exploiting Dortmund's defensive vulnerabilities.
Luka stood near the halfway line, bouncing lightly on his toes.
The referee's whistle shrieked, and Hoffenheim wasted no time asserting themselves.
It started in the 8th minute. A exchange between Christoph Baumgartner and Georginio Rutter tore through Dortmund's midfield, leaving Can scrambling. The ball zipped across the pitch with laser precision, finding Andrej Kramarić just inside the box. Kramarić's first touch was sublime, cushioning the ball while evading Hummels.
Before Dortmund's defense could react, Kramarić unleashed a powerful low drive that skidded past Gregor Kobel's outstretched hand and buried itself into the bottom corner.
The Hoffenheim fans erupted, their cheers shaking the stadium.
"Dortmund are caught napping early!" exclaimed the commentator. "Kramarić punishes them, and it's 1-0 to Hoffenheim!"
Luka clapped his hands sharply, his voice cutting through the noise. "Let's wake up! Stay focused!" He said in German, his accent gave his words a punch, and his teammates responded, their movements more purposeful.
But Hoffenheim wasn't done.
In the 15th minute, Pavel Kadeřábek surged down the right flank, skipping past a hesitant Raphael Guerreiro. His cross was a thing of beauty – whipped with venom, curling away from Kobel but directly onto the head of Munas Dabbur.
Dabbur rose high, his header perfectly placed to glance into the far corner. Kobel, stranded, could only watch as the ball kissed the net.
"Two-nil to Hoffenheim!" the commentator bellowed, incredulous. "Dortmund are in serious trouble here!"
Luka's heart thudded in his chest. There was no time for despair.
In the 23rd minute, Dortmund finally found a lifeline. Jude, operating like a conductor in midfield, spotted Luka making a run behind the Hoffenheim defense. His pass was immaculate, a perfectly weighted ball arcing over the backline.
Luka sprinted onto it, his timing impeccable. As Vogt lunged in from behind, stretching his leg to intercept, Luka executed a masterstroke. With the outside of his right boot, he flicked the ball up and sideways over Vogt in one fluid motion, leaving the defender sliding toward the goal.
The crowd gasped as Luka controlled the ball, now facing the goalkeeper. He took the shot on the bounce, a thunderous strike aimed at the bottom corner.
Baumann reacted instinctively, diving low to his right and getting a hand to the ball, deflecting it just enough to send it spinning toward the six-yard box.
Haaland was already there.
The Norwegian lunged forward, his outstretched boot smashing the rebound into the roof of the net. He turned toward the traveling Dortmund fans, his fists pumping, a roar of triumph escaping his throat.
"And Dortmund are back in it! Haaland with the finish, but Zorić with the magic in the buildup!"
Luka jogged back to the halfway line, his chest heaving but his mind sharp. He slapped hands with Haaland as they passed each other.
"Keep moving like that," Haaland said with a grin. "Just pass next time, I'll finish them off."
Dortmund had regained their momentum, and Hoffenheim began to falter under the pressure. The visitors' equalizer came just eight minutes later, in the 31st minute, and it was nothing short of spectacular.
A short corner routine caught Hoffenheim off guard. Luka played a quick one-two with Reus before delivering a looping cross into the box. The ball was partially cleared, but it fell invitingly to Julian Ryerson, stationed just outside the penalty area.
What happened next was the stuff of highlight reels.
Ryerson, with a single fluid motion, stepped forward and swung his right foot through the ball. The strike was pure, a venomous volley that tore through the air like a missile.
Baumann had no chance. The ball slammed into the top corner, rattling the net with an almost defiant energy.
"OH MY WORD! Julian Ryerson with an absolute rocket on his Bundesliga debut for Dortmund!" the commentator shouted. "That's one of the goals of the season!"
Ryerson sprinted toward the Dortmund bench, arms outstretched. His teammates mobbed him, and even Marco Rose couldn't suppress a grin.
On the pitch, Luka stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in mock amazement. "Julian, mate," he called out, "you've got to warn us before you do something like that!"
The right-back beamed, his confidence visibly soaring.
As they throdded back to the their positions after the celebrations had subsided, Luka couldn't help but take a glance at Ryerson, he didn't know what it was but he had something special about him, maybe he really would rejuvinate their defense.
Dortmund's comeback had electrified the match, and the intensity only grew as the first half wore on. Luka, now in his element, began dictating play.
In the 38th minute, he received a pass from Guerreiro near the touchline. With a deft touch, he flicked the ball over the onrushing Kadeřábek, letting it drop on the other side before collecting it and darting forward. The crowd roared in appreciation of the audacious skill.
"Zorić is putting on a show now!"
Just before halftime, Malen added his own touch of magic. Receiving the ball near the edge of the box, he feinted left, his body twisting in a way that sent Kramarić sliding into the turf. Malen shifted right, leaving the Hoffenheim player in an awkward, almost comical split before delivering a dangerous cross that was narrowly cleared.
The halftime whistle blew with the score line level at 2-2, the momentum firmly in Dortmund's favor.
The fight wasn't over, but they had shown their resilience. The break had done something to Dortmund. The whistle blew, and from the first pass, it was clear Dortmund meant business.
In the 50th minute, Dortmund won a corner. Luka jogged over to take it, adjusting his sleeves against the cold. Hoffenheim's defense was already organizing, voices cutting through the crisp air.
"Mark Haaland! Don't let him breathe!" Kadeřábek shouted, pointing furiously.
One of Hoffenheim's center-backs, Kevin Vogt, smirked as he stood beside Jude Bellingham at the edge of the box. "Aren't you a bit short to be on me?" Vogt taunted, puffing out his chest.
Jude, unbothered, shot back, "Keep chatting mate."
Luka placed the ball carefully, stepping back to scan the chaos in the box. Haaland was jostling with two defenders, while Akanji hovered near the penalty spot, ready to pounce.
"Manuel, shift left!" shouted Jude, his voice a deep bark. "Ryerson, stay with the rebound!"
The referee blew his whistle, and the clamor intensified. Luka took a deep breath, raising his hand as a signal. The ball arched into the air, spinning perfectly toward the near post. Akanji rose high, his timing immaculate. He angled his header toward the far corner, where Haaland lunged but missed by a fraction.
The ball pinballed in the box—chaos. Hoffenheim's defenders scrambled, bodies crashing into one another. Then it fell to Guerreiro, who unleashed a thunderous volley. A desperate block sent the ball careening out of danger, but Dortmund had made their intentions clear.
Soon after in the 55th minute, Hoffenheim tried to break on the counter. Kramarić found space on the left and unleashed a fierce shot, but Kobel dived low to his right, palming it away. Instead of waiting for his defenders to reset, Kobel acted decisively.
His eyes scanned the field for an opening. Jude was already pointing, gesturing wildly for the ball. Kobel launched it with pinpoint accuracy, the ball cutting through the cold air like an arrow.
Jude took it down effortlessly with his chest, the ball sticking to him as if magnetized. He pushed it past his marker, Baumgartner, with a deft touch, then powered forward, his legs a blur as he raced into the final third. Hoffenheim's defense scrambled to close him down, but Jude was unstoppable, he was like a raging bull storming down the field.
The keeper rushed out, arms wide to close the angle. Jude saw it in a flash, his foot swinging delicately under the ball. The chip was audacious, the execution flawless. The ball sailed over Baumann's outstretched hand and nestled into the net with a satisfying thud.
The Dortmund bench erupted, players leaping to their feet in celebration. Jude turned to the away fans, cupping his ears before pointing to his name on the back of his jersey.
"Jude Bellingham!" the commentator roared. "A moment of brilliance from the young Englishman! Dortmund takes the lead, and what a goal that was!"
By the 63rd minute, Marco Rose made his first substitution. Reyna replaced Reus, the American greeted by enthusiastic cheers from the away section.
It didn't take long for Reyna to make his presence felt. In the 68th minute, Dortmund built an intricate passing sequence on the left flank. Luka, Guerreiro, and Reyna exchanged quick touches, weaving through Hoffenheim's tired midfield. Reyna found space and whipped in a cross with venom.
Haaland was there, as he always seemed to be. The big Norwegian ghosted between two defenders, his movement so subtle it left them flat-footed. The cross met his boot and he tapped it into the bottom corner.
"Four-two Dortmund! Haaland again, and what a delivery from Reyna!"
Haaland sprinted to the corner flag, sliding on his knees before being mobbed by teammates.
The game turned scrappy as Hoffenheim grew desperate. Fouls came thick and fast, and Luka found himself at the center of one in the 74th minute.
Breaking forward with the ball glued to his foot, he shifted his weight, feinting left before cutting right. His defender, desperate not to be beaten, lunged clumsily, sending Luka sprawling to the ground just outside the box.
The referee wasted no time, blowing his whistle and pointing to the spot. Luka dusted himself off, already claiming the ball.
The wall lined up, Hoffenheim's players fidgeting nervously as Luka placed the ball. Baumann crouched low, bouncing on his line, his eyes never leaving Luka.
Luka stepped back, exhaled, and began his run-up. His strike was deceptive – low and skimming the turf, curling around the edge of the wall. Baumann dived but couldn't get enough on it, his fingertips grazing the ball as it spun into the bottom corner.
The stadium fell silent for a heartbeat before the Dortmund fans erupted.
"Zorić delivers!" the commentator shouted. "A free-kick taken with intelligence and precision. Dortmund now running away with this!"
Luka jogged back to his position, his fist pumping subtly. The satisfaction of scoring was like a warm ember in his chest.
Brandt, who had come on for Emre Can, added the final flourish. Dortmund's press forced Hoffenheim into a turnover, with Malen intercepting a loose pass. He drove forward, defenders retreating, before laying the ball off to Brandt at the edge of the box.
Brandt feinted to shoot, drawing his marker in, then played a clever one-two with Reyna, who returned the ball as Brandt ran past his marker into the box.
The movement left Brandt in space, and he seized the moment. His shot was pure artistry, curling away from the keeper and into the top corner.
"Six-two!" the commentator declared, almost laughing. "Julian Brandt with an exquisite finish to cap off a dominant Dortmund performance!"
After being dominated all throughout the second half the Hoffenheim players soon last the vigor they have at the beginning of the match. Luka having not had much dribbles this match, decided he'd produce a moment of brilliance.
In the 77th minute, Jude lofted a ball into Luka's path, its descent steep and rapid. Luka twisted his body, catching it with the inside of his boot while crossing his leg behind the other. The ball stopped dead, under his complete control, eliciting a wave of "Oioo's" from the fans.
The defender in front of him hesitated, unsure whether to press or hold his ground. Luka began to glide forward, his movements slow, deliberate, the ball rolling under his foot. He shifted his weight, baiting his opponent into leaning one way, before darting the other.
The defender reacted too late, lunging and colliding with Luka's shoulder. The impact sent Luka staggering, but somehow, he kept his balance. Now three Hoffenheim players swarmed him, their feet stabbing at the ball, their arms jostling.
Luka danced through them, his touch precise and delicate, the ball rolling around one defender's leg before he collected it on the other side. He was inside the box now, and the noise from the away fans rose in anticipation.
But just as he prepared to shoot, he spotted Malen in a better position. The pass was perfect, and Malen shaped to strike, the defender sliding in to block. At the last second, Malen faked, sending his marker sprawling, only to sky the shot over the bar.
The crowd groaned, and Malen buried his face in his hands. Luka jogged over, clapping him on the back. "Next time, mate," he said, smiling despite himself.
When the final whistle blew, Dortmund's players gathered near the away section, clapping for their traveling supporters. The scoreboard read 6-2, but the numbers didn't capture the sheer dominance of the second half.