The moment the plane touched down in Lisbon, the weight of the occasion settled over the squad like fog. Even in February, the Portuguese capital buzzed with electric energy. Street vendors wore Benfica scarves, and murals of past glories decorated alley walls. It wasn't just a city—it was a stadium waiting to erupt.
Inside the team bus, the players sat quietly, earbuds in, game faces on. Raphinha stared out the window, headphones draped over his neck. Gavi scrolled through video clips of Benfica's midfield. Luca sat by the window, legs bouncing nervously, already envisioning the roar of the crowd.
They were here. Estádio da Luz.
The red fortress.
And soon, it would be time.
Arrival at the Stadium – 6:40 PM
The sun dipped below the horizon as the players stepped off the bus, walking single-file through a tunnel of fans and cameras. Chants in Portuguese echoed off the concrete. "Ben-fi-ca! Ben-fi-ca!"
Inside the away locker room, Wojciech Szczęsny laced his gloves while Cubarsí and Araujo reviewed defensive set pieces. Balde adjusted his boots. Lamine and Raphinha whispered something and laughed. Pedri sat cross-legged on the floor, in his zone.
Flick entered with a clipboard and commanding tone.
"Alright. This is the eleven. Same as in training."
Starting XI:GK: SzczęsnyDEF: Koundé – Araujo – Cubarsí – BaldeMID: Pedri – Casado – GaviFOR: Raphinha – Lewandowski – Lamine Yamal
"Stay compact early," Flick added. "Let them come to us. And when we get the ball? Move it fast. Luca—you're watching everything. Stay warm."
Luca nodded. "Always."
Kickoff – 9:00 PM
The Champions League anthem rang out, thunderous and emotional under the lights. Every player stood still. Eyes closed. Hearts pounding.
And then, the whistle.
Barcelona in yellow. Benfica in their iconic red.
The first twenty minutes were chaos.
Benfica pressed high, ferociously. Silva and João Mário hunted Pedri and Casado every time they tried to receive. In the 9th minute, Benfica's striker Neres danced past Cubarsí on the edge of the box and fired low—1-0.
The crowd exploded. Flares lit up behind Szczęsny's goal.
Barcelona tried to answer. In the 18th minute, Lamine Yamal curled in a teasing ball for Lewandowski, but the header was tame. Then came a counter, and Benfica struck again—2-0, a powerful finish after a miscommunication between Koundé and Araujo.
Flick screamed instructions from the sideline. "Settle! Settle!"
By the 35th, Barcelona found rhythm. Gavi bulldozed through midfield, dishing it wide to Balde, who cut in and squared to Lewandowski—GOAL! 2-1.
But the celebration was short-lived.
On the stroke of halftime, a Benfica corner bounced inside the six-yard box, and no one cleared it. 3-1.
Barcelona jogged to the locker room under the hostile roars of Estádio da Luz.
Halftime – The Reset
Flick paced in front of his squad, voice sharp but controlled.
"We've been here before. Down. Pressed. Out of rhythm. But we fight. We don't fold."
He pointed to Gavi.
"You've run yourself into the ground. I need legs."
Then, to Luca.
"You're in. Minute 60. Warm up from the whistle."
Luca nodded, adrenaline surging.
Second Half – Minute 60: Luca In
The whistle blew for the second half. Benfica kept pressing, but Barcelona was composed now. Casado locked the midfield. Pedri danced through lines. Still, they couldn't find the final pass.
Until minute 60.
Luca stood by the sideline, shirt tucked in, number 80 on his back. Gavi jogged off to applause from the Barça fans.
The board flashed.
IN: Luca – OUT: Gavi
Luca stepped onto the grass of Estádio da Luz.
Time to make a mark.
Minute 68 – First Touch of Magic
Casado won a ball in midfield and found Pedri. One touch to Luca, who turned sharply, breaking away from his marker. He took two strides and released a delicate, curling through-ball between two defenders.
Raphinha, on his horse, timed it perfectly.
One-on-one with the keeper.
Chip.
GOAL.
3-2.
Barcelona were alive.
Luca sprinted to the corner, fists clenched, and was swallowed by teammates. Lamine slapped his head. "That's you, bro!"
Minute 75 – Benfica Responds
But football is cruel.
Benfica countered quickly. A cross from the right. Header from Rafa Silva.
4-2.
The stadium erupted.
But Barcelona didn't hang their heads. They regrouped.
And Luca wasn't finished.
Minute 82 – Assist No. 2
Pedri again pulled strings from deep. He found Luca on the left channel, just outside the box. One touch inside. A feint. A burst past the defender.
Then, an inch-perfect pass across the goal.
Lewandowski, always lurking, smashed it home.
4-3.
Game on.
Luca didn't even celebrate—just pointed at Pedri and Raphinha, then back to the crest on his chest.
This was who he was.
Final Whistle – 4-3 Benfica
Barcelona pushed. Lamine hit the bar in the 89th. Lewandowski had a header saved in stoppage.
But time ran out.
They had lost—but not without fire. Not without showing the world that this new Barça had bite.
Post-match – The Tunnel
Flick clapped every player on the back. "Heads high. We're not done."
Journalists swarmed. Cameras flashed.
But one phrase echoed from multiple outlets:
"Luca changes the game again. Two assists in thirty minutes. Barça's new architect?"
He didn't speak to the press. Just showered, changed, and walked out beside Lamine.
"Next time," Luca whispered, "we win."
Lamine smirked. "Next time, we kill them."
They stepped into the Lisbon night. Champions League nights had arrived.
And so had Luca.