Chapter 14 : Madrid(2)

As the referee raised his whistle to his lips and blew, the second half commenced under the electric lights of the Santiago Bernabéu. Real Madrid wasted no time, surging forward with intensity, their white shirts a blur as they flooded Espanyol's half. The home crowd roared in anticipation, urging their team to reclaim the lead.

Ronaldo was the first to test the waters, cutting inside from the left before unleashing a venomous strike from the edge of the box. The ball flew past defenders, dipping dangerously toward the far post—but Kiko Casilla was equal to it, diving low to his right and palming it away.

Ian Darke: "Real Madrid starting the half with real purpose here! That was a thunderous strike from Ronaldo, but Casilla denies him!"

The rebound fell to Benzema, who struck it first-time, his boot slicing through the ball with lethal precision. The stadium held its breath as it curled toward the top corner—

Clang!

The crossbar rattled as the ball bounced back into play, Modrić rushing in for a third attempt. But fate had other plans. His shot took a wicked deflection off a scrambling defender, spinning wide of the post.

Àxel Torres: "Oh my word! How has that not gone in? First Ronaldo, then Benzema, then Modrić—Espanyol living dangerously now!"

The relentless pressure continued. From the right, Bale whipped in a dangerous cross, perfectly weighted for Benzema, who leaped above his marker. His header was textbook—powerful, downward, aimed for the corner. Casilla could only watch as it whizzed past him—

Thud.

This time, it was the post that came to Espanyol's rescue. The ball ricocheted away, leaving Madrid's players with hands on their heads, disbelieving their misfortune.

Ian Darke: "They're knocking, they're hammering, but the door just won't open for Real Madrid!"

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Real Madrid's relentless assault finally bore fruit. The Espanyol defense had been bending, teetering on the edge, and in the 58th minute, it finally broke.

A quick one-two between Luka Modrić and James Rodríguez sliced through Espanyol's midfield, allowing Modrić to surge forward with space ahead of him. Spotting Bale's run down the right flank, he sent a pinpoint through ball, curling delicately past the last defender.

Bale, ever the speed demon, latched onto it in full stride, his first touch immaculate. With a single glance, he picked out Karim Benzema ghosting into the box, unmarked. The Welshman delivered a low-driven cross, fizzing past the desperate slide of Álvaro González.

Benzema met it with the composure of a seasoned marksman. One touch to control, the second to fire. A clean strike, low and precise, the ball nestled into the bottom left corner beyond Casilla's outstretched arm.

Ian Darke: "And there it is! Real Madrid take the lead once again! It had been coming, and it's Karim Benzema who makes the breakthrough!"

Àxel Torres: "You could feel the pressure building. Bale's delivery was exquisite, and Benzema's finish—calm, clinical, unerring."

The Bernabéu erupted, a sea of white celebrating as Benzema jogged toward the corner flag, arms outstretched. His teammates swarmed him, ruffling his hair, patting his back. Espanyol's players, meanwhile, looked deflated. They had weathered the storm for so long, but now the waves had crashed through.

The scoreboard now read Real Madrid 2-1 Espanyol.

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Real Madrid, emboldened by their lead, continued their relentless assault, pressing high and dictating the tempo. Every pass was crisp, every movement sharp, as they searched for a third goal to put the game beyond reach. Espanyol, meanwhile, sat deep, absorbing pressure, waiting for a moment to pounce.

That moment arrived in the 63rd minute.

A hurried pass from Toni Kroos, intended for Luka Modrić, was slightly off, forcing the Croatian to stretch. But before he could reach it, Víctor Sánchez lunged in, intercepting cleanly. In an instant, Espanyol sprang to life, breaking forward in transition.

Sánchez wasted no time, lifting his head and spraying a pass out wide to the left flank—straight to Nico Cruyff.

The 14-year-old took off like a bullet, the Santiago Bernabéu collectively holding its breath. With the ball glued to his feet, Nico surged down the wing, Marcelo closing in. A quick La Croqueta sent the Brazilian one way while Nico darted the other.

Dani Carvajal was next. The fullback stepped in to contain him, but Nico, with a sharp Pendulum feint, shifted the ball inside, making Carvajal stumble just enough to create space. The crowd gasped—this was magic.

Now free, Nico lifted his head and whipped in a cross, curling beautifully toward the six-yard box. Felipe Caicedo, perfectly positioned between Pepe and Ramos, rose like a colossus. With sheer determination, he powered a header toward goal, the ball rocketing past Casillas before he could react.

Ian Darke: "ESPANYOL HAVE DONE IT AGAIN! Felipe Caicedo with a bullet header! And would you look at the work from Nico Cruyff—absolutely mesmerizing!"

Àxel Torres: "This kid is something else! Two defenders left in his wake, a perfect cross, and Caicedo makes no mistake! Espanyol are level!"

The away section of the Bernabéu erupted in pure delirium. On the pitch, Caicedo sprinted towards the corner flag, fist clenched, roaring in triumph as his teammates mobbed him.

Nico jogged up to join the celebration, a knowing smile on his face. He had just carved open Real Madrid with the artistry of a veteran. At 14 years old, he was painting masterpieces on football's grandest canvas.

The scoreboard now read: Real Madrid 2-2 Espanyol.

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Real Madrid refused to settle for a draw. They pushed forward with everything they had, bombarding Espanyol's defense with wave after wave of attacks. Ronaldo prowled the left, Bale lurked on the right, and Benzema drifted between the lines, searching for the killer blow.

But Espanyol held firm. Every pass was met with a tackle, every shot with a block. Time ticked away mercilessly.

As the clock struck 90 minutes, the fourth official raised the board—two minutes of added time.

Espanyol sensed an opportunity.

Instead of hoofing the ball forward aimlessly, they built from the back, calmly exchanging short, precise passes. The ball traveled from Álvaro González to Héctor Moreno, then out wide to Juan Fuentes. Real Madrid pressed frantically, but Espanyol kept their composure.

Víctor Sánchez received the ball in midfield, turned sharply away from Luka Modrić, and threaded a pass to Lucas Vázquez on the right flank. Vázquez surged forward, skipping past Marcelo before rolling the ball into the center for José Cañas.

Cañas, under pressure from Kroos, flicked it first-time toward Nico Cruyff.

Nico, standing just outside the box, let the ball run past him, selling a dummy to Sergio Ramos before quickly shifting to the right. The stadium gasped—his touch was elegant, his movement effortless. With a sudden burst of pace, he slipped the ball through for Felipe Caicedo, who was charging into the penalty area.

Just as Caicedo was about to pull the trigger—CRASH!

A wild lunge from Pepe took him down brutally. Caicedo tumbled to the ground, clutching his shin in agony. The whistle shrieked.

The referee stormed in, his hand already reaching for his back pocket—RED CARD!

Pepe stood frozen, then erupted in fury, protesting as Ramos dragged him away. The Madrid players surrounded the referee, pleading, but it was a clear decision. A reckless, desperate challenge in the dying moments of the game.

Carlo Ancelotti was fuming on the sidelines, his arms crossed, his face twisted in anger. His eyes burned into the pitch, knowing full well what was coming.

On the other side, Espanyol's coach smirked, hands in his pockets, watching the drama unfold like a man who had already seen the ending.

Nico Cruyff picked up the ball, walked toward the spot, and placed it carefully on the lush green grass. Thirty meters out. The perfect distance.

The Santiago Bernabéu fell into an uneasy silence. 

Ian Darke: "Well, well, well… Espanyol have a free kick in the dying moments of this game, and you can see the frustration on Ancelotti's face. He knows exactly who's standing over this ball."

Áxel Torres: "They had one instruction—never give this kid a free kick. And now, with just seconds left on the clock, they've done exactly that. Nico Cruyff, 14 years old, with the chance to win it for Espanyol."

Ian Darke: "You can feel the tension in the Bernabéu. The Madrid players are forming the wall, Casillas is barking orders, but every single pair of eyes in this stadium is locked onto the boy in blue and white."

Nico stood over the ball, completely still, eyes locked on goal. He took four measured steps back, adjusting his stance ever so slightly. He inhaled deeply..

________

In the away section, Espanyol fans stood frozen, their hands clasped together as if in silent prayer. Some had their eyes squeezed shut, afraid to watch, while others leaned forward, gripping the railing so tight their knuckles turned white.

"Please… please let this go in," one whispered under his breath, fingers trembling.

"Come on, kid… just one more time," another murmured, his voice barely audible over the roaring Bernabéu.

An older fan, one who had seen Espanyol suffer against Madrid too many times, exhaled sharply. "If there's a football god, let this be the moment. Let this be his moment."

A younger fan had his hands on his head, his voice almost pleading. "Invisible Hand… work your magic."

Even those who had doubted before—those who thought a 14-year-old could never do what legends had struggled to achieve—found themselves hoping. Hoping that, just this once, reality would bend, that the impossible would become inevitable.

And on the pitch, Nico stood over the ball, the weight of their prayers pressing onto his shoulders.

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In the home section, the energy was entirely different. Real Madrid fans sat on the edge of their seats, tension gripping the stadium like a vice.

Some refused to believe what was unfolding. "No way this kid scores again," one muttered, shaking his head. "Not against us. Not in the Bernabéu."

Others weren't so sure. "We should've never given him this chance," a man grumbled, arms crossed, his leg bouncing anxiously.

A group of fans near the front row were more vocal. "He's 14! This isn't normal! Someone stop him!"

One older Madridista, who had seen the likes of Beckham, Roberto Carlos, and Zidane, leaned forward, watching with narrowed eyes. "This boy… he's special. And that free kick—" He exhaled sharply. "That's not a normal free kick technique."

Further up, a young boy wearing a Ronaldo jersey tugged at his father's sleeve. "Papa, why are they so scared?"

The father forced a smile, but his eyes never left the field. "Because, hijo… sometimes, you just know when something incredible is about to happen."

The Bernabéu, usually filled with confidence and arrogance, was holding its breath.

_______

The referee raised his whistle to his lips, the shrill sound piercing through the tension-filled air. Every eye in the stadium locked onto the 14-year-old standing over the ball. Nico took a deep breath, his expression calm, unreadable. Then, he moved.

A smooth run-up, effortless yet purposeful. His foot met the ball with precision, striking it cleanly. Time seemed to slow. Every second stretched into eternity as the ball rose over the wall, then—just like before—it defied logic.

It swerved once to the right. Then sharply back to the left. A wobble in midair, an illusion of unpredictability. Casillas, the legendary shot-stopper, threw himself towards it, stretching every inch of his frame. But it was hopeless.

THUD!

The ball nestled into the top left corner, brushing against the net like a whisper from the footballing gods. The Santiago Bernabéu fell into stunned silence.

Ian Darke: "OH. MY. WORD. NICO CRUYFF HAS JUST WRITTEN HIS NAME INTO FOOTBALL HISTORY! A 14-YEAR-OLD—A CHILD—HAS JUST SLAYED REAL MADRID IN THEIR OWN BACKYARD!"

Àxel Torres: "THE INVISIBLE HAND STRIKES AGAIN! THIS ISN'T JUST A FREE KICK—THIS IS ART! THIS IS A MASTERPIECE!"

The silence of the Madridistas turned into a collective groan of disbelief, while the away section erupted in pure, unfiltered euphoria.

The Espanyol bench emptied in an instant. Every single player, every staff member, ran toward the boy who had just defied the impossible. Nico, lost in the emotion, sprinted towards the away fans, his arms outstretched. He slid onto his knees, his fists clenched, his face lifted toward the night sky.

The away section was in a frenzy, fans screaming, some in tears, some kneeling in disbelief.

"El Príncipe! El Príncipe!" they chanted, their voices shaking with awe.

Meanwhile, the camera panned to the Real Madrid bench. Carlo Ancelotti stood frozen, his jaw clenched, his expression unreadable. Then, he turned away, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

Ian Darke: "Carlo Ancelotti said at halftime: 'Never give that kid a free kick.' And look what happened. The moment they did, it was over. It was over before the ball even hit the net!"

The Madrid players looked on, some with hands on their heads, others glaring at the ground in frustration. Casillas sat in his goal, staring blankly, as if questioning reality itself.

Àxel Torres: "I don't care how many legends have played this game—this moment right here will be remembered forever. Nico Cruyff, at 14 years old, has just shattered the impossible."

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