Chapter 31 : Atleti(1)
Matchday – March 15, 2015Atlético Madrid vs. Espanyol
Wanda Metropolitano, Madrid
The Espanyol team bus rolled through the streets of Madrid, weaving its way toward the Wanda Metropolitano, where a storm of red-and-white awaited. The Atlético Madrid faithful lined the sidewalks, their voices a deafening roar as they chanted, clapped, and pounded against the sides of the bus. Flares lit up the dusk sky, casting an ominous glow over the entrance as banners swayed in the wind, declaring the fortress of Atleti impenetrable.
Inside the bus, the Espanyol squad remained silent, their eyes fixed forward, absorbing the atmosphere. Nico sat by the window, his emerald-green eyes scanning the sea of passionate Madridistas, unfazed by the hostility. The tension was thick, the air electric—this was the kind of stage where legends were made.
As the bus came to a halt, security formed a tight barrier, guiding the players toward the tunnel. The chants of "Atleti! Atleti!" echoed through the air, a war cry from the home fans. But Espanyol had come prepared for battle.
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Espanyol locker room
The Espanyol locker room was filled with a quiet intensity. Players sat on the benches, some taping their wrists, others stretching, while the distant echoes of the Wanda Metropolitano crowd rumbled through the walls. The tension was thick, but there was no fear—just focus.
In the center, Sergio González stood tall, his voice cutting through the silence.
Sergio González:
"Alright, listen up. This is Atlético Madrid at their fortress. You know what that means—intensity, aggression, and no mercy. They will press, they will tackle hard, and they will look to bully us. But we don't fold. We fight, we play our football, and we make them chase us."
He turned to his defense—Álvaro González, Héctor Moreno, Javi López, and Juan Fuentes.
"Griezmann, Mandzukic, and Koke—dangerous, all of them. Stay tight, don't give them space. Javi, Juan—watch their wingbacks. Filipe and Juanfran love to bomb forward. Cut them off early."
His gaze shifted to the midfield trio—Víctor Sánchez, José Cañas, and Salva Sevilla.
"This battle is won or lost in midfield. Gabi and Tiago will try to control the tempo, but we don't let them. Win the second balls, keep the play moving. Salva, link with the attack—find those gaps, create chances."
Finally, he locked eyes with Nico, who was adjusting his socks, unfazed by the weight of the moment.
"And you—this is your moment. They'll try to knock you down, they'll double-team you, but that's their problem. You find the space, you make the difference. When the chance comes, you finish it."
A smirk flickered across Nico's face. He thrived in games like these.
Sergio clapped his hands together, his voice rising.
"We don't play scared. We play smart, we play fast, and when we get our chances—we bury them. Let's show them what we're made of!"
The players roared in response, clapping, fists pumping. It was time to step into the storm.
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Atlético Madrid Locker Room
The air inside the Atlético Madrid locker room was thick with tension, but not the kind that bred fear—this was controlled fury. The players sat in silence, their eyes locked onto Diego Simeone, who stood in front of them, his presence alone commanding the room.
Simeone's voice was low at first, measured, like the calm before a storm.
Diego Simeone:
"You all know what's coming. Espanyol thinks they can come here and play their football. Let them think that. Let them believe it—for five minutes. Then we take that belief from them."
He looked around the room, his gaze burning into his players one by one.
"We are Atlético Madrid. This is our house. Nobody plays their football here—only we do."
He turned to Diego Godín and Miranda, his two warriors at the back.
"You see that kid, Nico Cruyff? He's got talent, he's got vision. I don't care. He's not getting space, he's not getting time. I want him suffocated every second he's on the ball."
Then to Gabi and Tiago, his lieutenants in midfield.
"Win every battle. Every loose ball, every duel, every tackle—win them all. No easy passes, no breathing room. You choke them in the center, and they'll break."
He shifted to Koke and Arda Turan, his creators.
"When we attack, we do it fast. No slow buildup, no hesitation. Move the ball, play with pace, and punish them."
Finally, he faced Antoine Griezmann and Mario Mandzukic, his finishers.
"No wasted chances. You get one look at goal, and you bury it. We play aggressive, we play ruthless, and we leave them with nothing."
His voice rose, his hands clenched into fists.
"Tonight, they run. Tonight, they suffer. Tonight, they leave knowing who we are."
The room erupted—fists against lockers, boots against the floor, adrenaline coursing through every vein. Atlético Madrid was ready for war.
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As the Espanyol players emerged from the tunnel onto the grand stage of the Wanda Metropolitano, the air crackled with intensity. The Atlético Madrid supporters, draped in red and white, roared their battle cries, while the traveling Espanyol faithful, though outnumbered, made sure their voices carried through the night. The floodlights shone down, illuminating the warriors ready to clash.
Ian Darke:
"A magnificent atmosphere here in Madrid as Atlético host Espanyol in what promises to be an absorbing La Liga encounter. Espanyol, the surprise package of the season, face Diego Simeone's relentless Atleti, a team that thrives on moments like these. And, of course, all eyes will be on Nico Cruyff—the boy wonder who continues to leave us speechless."
Axel Torres:
"It's truly remarkable, Ian. Fourteen years old and already dictating games at this level—it's unheard of. But tonight, he faces a team built on sheer intensity and defensive discipline. Atlético will make this a physical battle, and it'll be fascinating to see how the young maestro handles it."
The camera panned across the field as the starting lineups appeared on the screen.
Ian Darke:
"Let's run through the lineups, starting with the hosts. In goal, the ever-reliable Miguel Ángel Moyá. Across the back, a solid defensive unit—Juanfran, Miranda, Diego Godín, and Guilherme Siqueira—Simeone's warriors, ready to stand their ground."
Axel Torres:
"And in midfield, Atlético's engine room—Gabi and Tiago, the enforcers, controlling the tempo and winning duels. Out wide, Koke and Arda Turan, full of creativity and intelligence, ready to supply the front two. And speaking of which—what a strike partnership—Antoine Griezmann and Mario Mandzukic. One brings the finesse, the other the brute force."
The screen then switched to the Espanyol lineup as the players took their positions.
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The referee's whistle cut through the crisp Madrid air, and from the very first second, Atlético Madrid imposed their will. They pressed high, relentless in their pursuit, forcing Espanyol into rushed passes and desperate clearances. The roar of the Wanda Metropolitano crowd echoed like thunder as their warriors in red and white hunted the ball with terrifying intensity.
Peter Drury:
"And right from the whistle, Atlético have stamped their authority! This is suffocation! This is Diego Simeone's football—relentless, physical, and absolutely merciless!"
By the 6th minute, the first real danger arrived. Koke threaded a delicate ball through the lines, sending Antoine Griezmann racing toward goal. With a flick of his left foot, he danced past Álvaro González and fired a low strike toward the bottom corner. Pau López stretched every inch of his frame, fingertips grazing the ball to push it just wide.
Guillem Balagué:
"What a save! Griezmann looked certain to score, but Pau López denies him! Espanyol are under siege!"
Atlético smelled blood. Two minutes later, a whipped corner from Gabi found Diego Godín, who rose like a titan, his header crashing against the crossbar before rebounding into the six-yard box. Mario Mandžukić pounced, stabbing at the loose ball, but somehow, Víctor Sánchez threw himself in the way, blocking the shot with a desperate lunge.
Peter Drury:
"Bodies on the line! Espanyol are living dangerously, but somehow, they are still standing!"
By the 15th minute, Atlético had already recorded five shots, three of them forcing desperate interventions. Espanyol's midfield was being bypassed, their defense stretched to its limits, their attacks suffocated before they could even begin.
In the 22nd minute, another golden chance. Juanfran sent a curling cross into the box, and Mandžukić rose above everyone, planting a thumping header toward the bottom corner. López was beaten, but the ball struck the inside of the post and rolled agonizingly along the goal line before being hacked away by Héctor Moreno.
Guillem Balagué:
"Unbelievable! How has that not gone in?! Atlético are hammering on the door, but Espanyol—somehow—are still breathing!"
Espanyol were on the ropes, absorbing wave after wave of Atlético's relentless attack. It was a battle of survival, and the question wasn't if Atlético would score—but when.
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Espanyol had just managed to string together a few passes in Atlético's half, but one moment of hesitation proved costly. Víctor Sánchez received the ball near the edge of the box and looked for an option, but in a flash, Gabi was on him—like a predator sensing weakness.
With a crunching challenge, Gabi won the ball cleanly and immediately released Koke, who turned and sent a piercing, defense-splitting pass straight into open space. Antoine Griezmann was already sprinting.
Peter Drury:
"And here comes Atlético! They counter like lightning! Griezmann is away!"
With Espanyol caught out, Griezmann surged forward, his electric pace leaving Álvaro González in his wake. The stadium roared as he entered the box, Pau López rushing out to close the angle. But just before the goalkeeper could reach him, Griezmann unselfishly squared the ball to Mario Mandžukić, who arrived in stride, completely unmarked.
Guillem Balagué:
"It's two against one! Pau López is stranded!"
Mandžukić took one touch—just enough to steady himself—before smashing the ball into the empty net. The Wanda Metropolitano erupted, red-and-white scarves waving in the stands as Atlético's players mobbed the Croatian forward.
Peter Drury:
"Ruthless. Relentless. Atlético Madrid at their very best! A devastating counterattack, and Mandžukić makes no mistake!"
Diego Simeone pumped his fists on the touchline, his warriors executing his philosophy to perfection. Espanyol had survived for 23 minutes—but in the 24th, Atlético Madrid struck with the precision of an assassin.
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The clock ticked toward halftime, and Espanyol were growing frustrated. Atlético Madrid had retreated into their fortress, their infamous low-block sealing every gap, every avenue. Espanyol knocked the ball around, searching for a way in, but it was like trying to pick a lock with a sledgehammer.
Nico Cruyff, wearing the No. 10, dropped deeper, his eyes scanning the wall of red-and-white jerseys in front of him. With a quick touch, he collected the ball near the center circle, and something changed.
A flick. A turn. A spark.
Peter Drury:
"Oh, here he goes... Nico Cruyff, weaving his way through the lines!"
Gabi lunged—too slow. Nico flicked the ball past him with the outside of his foot.
Koke stepped in, legs wide to block the lane—Nico rolled it through them. The nutmeg sent the crowd into a stunned hush.
Saúl Ñíguez charged in, desperate to stop the boy-wonder—but Nico feinted left before ghosting right, sending Saúl stumbling into the shadows.
One by one, Atlético's pillars of defense collapsed. Tiago Mendes, Juanfran, even Diego Godín—each lunged, each failed. Nico was untouchable, gliding, twisting, a dancer among statues.
He reached the edge of the box.
Guillem Balagué:
"Oh, this is outrageous! He's taken them all on!"
Only one man remained—Jan Oblak, Atlético's unbreakable last line of defense. But Nico was already composing his masterpiece. With the most delicate touch, he chipped the ball, sending it soaring over the towering Slovenian keeper. Oblak stretched, clawed at air, but he was a mere spectator to genius.
The ball dipped. It kissed the underside of the crossbar. It bounced down, across the line.
Silence. Disbelief. Then, an explosion of noise.
Peter Drury:
"That... that is otherworldly! He has danced through Atlético Madrid and left them in ruins! The prince of La Masia has just written poetry with his feet!"
Simeone stood frozen, arms crossed, jaw clenched. His defensive wall, shattered.
Nico ran toward the Espanyol bench, arms outstretched, grinning as his teammates swarmed him. The Wanda Metropolitano had just witnessed something unforgettable.
At halftime, the score was 1-1. But the footballing world would only remember one thing: the 14-year-old who dared to dribble through an empire.
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Author's note : Vote if you like what you're reading , he will play against barcelona in the upcoming chapters . It'll be crazy , Do comment about things you dont like , so i can fix it in the upcoming chapters