As the second half kicked off beneath the dazzling floodlights of the Olympiastadion, a storm of tension hung over Berlin. Manchester City led 2–1, but the score felt more like a countdown than a cushion. The noise was deafening—Madrid fans chanting in waves, their white scarves flickering like flames, while the City end roared defiantly with every touch of the ball.
Real Madrid wasted no time. halftime tweak—bringing on Javier Hernández—was already changing the game's rhythm. With Benzema off, the forward line suddenly had more dynamism. Isco, now floating centrally, began pulling Silva out of shape with clever drifting movements, and Hernández's sharp runs were testing the positioning of Kompany and Hummels.
In the 47th minute, Madrid struck early nerves. Toni Kroos received the ball with time and spotted Luka Modrić peeling off the right. Modrić cushioned the ball beautifully, then clipped a diagonal switch toward Gareth Bale on the opposite flank.
"Modrić with time and space, and Bale's peeling off—watch this!" Martin Tyler's voice rose.
Bale brought it down with his chest in one smooth motion, then surged past Robertson, burning down the right wing like a runaway train. He cut inside and whipped a dangerous low cross across the face of goal.
"Too much pace on that! But wait—Hummels clears! That was close," Alan Smith added, his voice sharp with tension.
City scrambled, with Kimmich yelling, "Pick up runners!" while Adriano tracked back, putting in a late challenge on Modrić to break the tempo and reset the shape.
The game tilted end to end. In the 49th minute, City nearly struck gold. Hazard drifted centrally, feinting past Carvajal, and slipped a pass into De Bruyne who threaded it wide to Salah. The Egyptian darted forward, froze Marcelo with a sudden stop, then cut inside and curled a shot low toward the far post.
"Here comes Salah! Oh, that's curling…" Tyler's voice wavered.
Keylor Navas dove low—full stretch—and got a palm to it. The ball spilled into the danger zone.
Aguero darted in. "Mine!" he shouted, but before he could poke it in, Ramos came sliding across with a thunderous block.
"Heroic from Sergio Ramos!" Alan Smith exclaimed. "Real Madrid living dangerously!"
City players appealed for a corner. The referee pointed. Kimmich shouted, "Let's kill this now!" Adriano nodded as he jogged back upfield, slapping Salah's shoulder. "Keep taking him, he's gasping," he said, gesturing toward Marcelo.
Madrid, though, didn't buckle. They began pushing forward again. In the 50th minute, Isco glided past Silva, who looked gassed and failed to track. Isco slipped a clever ball into Hernández just outside the box.
The Mexican striker spun sharply, wrong-footing Kompany, and launched a left-footed effort that whistled just over the bar.
"Warning signs," muttered Tyler. "Hernández has added a spark."
Pellegrini clapped from the touchline. "Compact! Compact!" he shouted.
But the dam broke in the 53rd minute.
Silva hesitated on the ball too long under pressure. Modrić pounced, nicking it away and firing it immediately to Isco. The Spaniard accelerated forward, his eyes locked on the space between Kompany and Hummels.
"City in trouble now…" Alan Smith said quietly.
Isco slipped the ball through that exact channel. Hernández timed his run to perfection, breaking the line with a burst. Kompany lunged too late. Joe Hart rushed off his line.
Chicharito opened his body and slotted a clinical low shot across goal.
Hart stretched—fingertips brushed the ball.
But it wasn't enough.
"GOOOOOAAALLLL!" the stadium announcer erupted. "Javier 'Chicharito' Hernández equalizes for Real Madrid! It's 2-2 in Berlin! Game on!"
"Brilliant movement and ice-cold finishing," Martin Tyler said. "Chicharito has breathed life back into Madrid."
Madrid's section erupted into pandemonium. Fans screamed and jumped. Chicharito sprinted toward the bench, sliding on his knees as his teammates engulfed him in a tidal wave of celebration. Kroos pumped his fists, shouting joyously at the crowd. Isco raised both hands, calm but commanding, as if promising, "We're far from finished."
City's players stood momentarily stunned. Adriano's jaw clenched. Then, clapping his hands, he rallied his teammates, shouting over the noise, "Keep your heads! We're still controlling this! Play our game!"
Silva grinned through the tension, locking eyes with De Bruyne. "We've been here before. Let's push back—harder."
On the pitch, De Bruyne jogged over to Adriano. "You alright?" he asked.
Adriano nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "This isn't over. We have the quality. We're going to break them again."
The mood in the City camp was resolute, a steel forged in the fire of pressure.
Pellegrini, hands clasped, barked instructions from the sidelines. Calm but intense.
In the stands, Kate shouted in frustration, her scarf clenched tight. Rosa and Julio sat rigid, faces tense. Sheikh Mansour, ever composed, clapped slowly but his eyes never left the pitch. Florentino Pérez, meanwhile, smiled with quiet satisfaction.
Adriano stood near the center circle, hands on hips, staring at the scoreboard.
Salah jogged up beside him and patted his shoulder. "We knew it'd be a war."
Adriano exhaled slowly, then turned. "Then we fight like hell."
Meanwhile, Pellegrini turned toward the bench and gestured. "Casemiro," he called. The Brazilian pulled off his bib and began stretching.
De Bruyne patted Silva's shoulder as they crossed paths. "You did your part, David."
Silva nodded, breathing hard. "Go finish it."
Alan Smith caught it immediately. "There's the tactical change, Martin. Casemiro coming on soon , probably replacing Silva whose legs are gone. Casemiro brings defensive balance—and Adriano's not just a forward, he can dictate from midfield."
Real Madrid didn't slow down. The momentum was theirs, and the noise inside the Olympiastadion began to tilt dangerously toward the white sea.
Up in the presidential boxes, Florentino Pérez smirked and leaned toward Sheikh Mansour.
"Sheikh, have you given any thought to getting a backup for Adriano? All this pressure, all these matches—he carries too much weight."
Mansour didn't even blink. "We've looked," he replied evenly. "But as long as Adriano wants to play, he'll always be the first name on the teamsheet."
Florentino smiled, tilting his head. "I just hope he isn't too upset if he loses tonight. He hasn't forgotten what we decided years ago. Relationship fades quickest after failed finals."
Mansour remained still, his eyes locked on the pitch. "Adriano is our icon. Unless he tells me himself he wants to leave and we can't do anything to persuade him, he's finishing his contract in Manchester. I won't sell him even if someone offers me double his value."
"Loyalty is rare," Pérez muttered. "Let's hope defeat doesn't change that."
Down on the touchline, Kompany clapped his hands to rally the squad. "It's still level. Stay sharp!" he shouted.
Hummels looked to Kimmich who was out of breath. "You good?"
"I'm fine," the young German answered, breathless but determined. "He just got a step. Won't happen again."
Adriano walked up to Silva and De Bruyne in the center circle. "We need to pin Modrić down. He's dictating everything."
Silva nodded. "I'll handle him. You float."
A few feet away, Ramos spoke to Varane. "Adriano's about to drop deeper. Watch his switch runs."
Varane nodded. "I'll track him tight."
The clock ticked forward, the energy in the stadium palpably thick. The match was a masterpiece of skill, will, and raw emotion—each pass met with gasps, each tackle with cheers or groans.
This match was far from over. The battle lines were drawn. Every player knew the next goal could be the one to tip the scales. The fans roared for more — for history — for glory.
****
The second half continued to unfold like a razor-sharp duel in the electrifying atmosphere of the Olympiastadion. The tension was palpable—every pass, every movement weighted with the knowledge that one mistake could tip the balance irrevocably. Manchester City, reeling after Real Madrid's stunning third goal, were desperate to regain composure and control.
In the 55th minute, City's persistence bore fruit as Kimmich threw the ball in from the right touchline with precision. Adriano was first to receive it, nimble and alert. He played a quick one-two with De Bruyne, weaving expertly to lose the watchful eye of Modrić, who was tracking him tightly. The movement was elegant yet fierce, a masterclass in close control and speed of thought.
Adriano lifted his head and chipped the ball delicately over to Kane making a sharp diagonal run. Kane, with his deft touch, flicked it on instantly to Hazard, who was already darting forward down the left. Hazard, electric in his directness, squared up against Carvajal. With a swift feint, he cut outside, leaving the Real Madrid full-back grasping at air. Hazard's low cross whipped into the six-yard box with venom and precision. Ramos, alert and seasoned, slid in with a crucial clearance that sent the ball just beyond danger. The City faithful breathed out but sensed their team was probing, unwilling to let the momentum slip entirely.
But disaster loomed. The 57th minute struck like a bolt of lightning.
De Bruyne, usually immaculate in possession, inexplicably misplayed a simple horizontal pass across midfield. Modrić, poised like a predator, pounced on the loose ball instantly. With deft touch, he released a threaded through ball down Real's left channel where Kimmich was perilously high up the pitch. The young full-back was caught off guard, scrambling to recover as Ronaldo, previously subdued, burst into life.
"He's in," Martin Tyler's voice surged with excitement and dread. "Kimmich's lost him, and here goes Ronaldo…"
The Portuguese star controlled the ball with terrifying ease, accelerating toward goal. Kompany rushed back in vain, but Ronaldo cleverly cut inside, shaking the defender off balance. From inside the box, Ronaldo unleashed a thunderous right-footed strike. Joe Hart reacted quickly, stretching out his gloves, managing to get a touch on the ball, but the power was overwhelming. The shot cannoned off Hart's hand and ricocheted into the net.
"Gooooaaallllll! Ronaldo strikes again on the night and puts Real Madrid ahead. 3-2 for Real Madrid!" the stadium announcer roared, the voice bouncing off the ancient stadium walls.
The Madrid supporters erupted into a frenzy. White scarves fluttered wildly as the roar echoed through the stands. Ronaldo sprinted toward the corner flag with arms outstretched, then launched into his signature "Siiiiiuuu!" jump, the crowd mimicking his jubilant cry. Bale, Isco, and Carvajal caught up to him, arms wrapping around their talisman in shared triumph.
Back on the pitch, Kimmich collapsed to the grass, hands covering his face in visible anguish. Kompany was the first to reach him, clasping his shoulder firmly, offering quiet encouragement. Hummels came over, patting the young defender on the back in solidarity.
Adriano jogged back from midfield, breath still heavy. He crouched beside Kimmich, whispering words of reassurance, his tone firm but empathetic. Kimmich looked up, eyes shining with resolve, and nodded. The city warriors had to rally now.
Behind Hart's goal, the City fans sat in stunned silence, the wind sucked out of their lungs. One fan buried his face in a scarf, a muffled groan lost amid the waves of white noise from the Madrid supporters. Kate, standing in the VIP box, gripped the railing with white-knuckled hands, her face pale but unwavering. Julio and Rosa, Adriano's parents, exchanged worried glances, tension etched deep across their features.
In the presidential box, Florentino Pérez clapped enthusiastically, his smile broadening with satisfaction. Sheikh Mansour sat calm, almost unreadable, his eyes fixed on the pitch. Al Mubarak leaned in, whispering, but the Sheikh shook his head subtly, unperturbed by the setback.
On the touchline, Pellegrini raised his arm, signaling the first change. The time had come.
By the 59th minute, Casemiro stood ready on the sidelines. Silva, exhausted but determined, jogged off slowly, exchanging a brief handshake with the manager. Casemiro nodded sharply to Adriano, who dropped deeper, taking up a more defensive midfield role to help shore up the side.
City quickly reorganized into a compact 4-3-3, with Casemiro anchoring centrally, De Bruyne drifting slightly right, and Adriano bridging defense and attack in a dual role.
Alan Smith analyzed calmly, "They had to do it. Silva was excellent in the first half, but City were starting to lose their grip on the midfield. Casemiro's presence provides that much-needed anchor."
Martin Tyler added, "There's still plenty of time left, but Real Madrid have the lead now. We're about to see what City are really made of."
The stadium settled momentarily, though the underlying electricity remained. The scoreboard blinked insistently: Real Madrid 3, Manchester City 2.
The game was balanced on a knife's edge. Every touch, every pass, every sprint carried the weight of destiny.
Players shouted instructions, communicated with clipped phrases. Kompany barked to Kimmich, "Stay tight, no more lapses!" while De Bruyne urged Hazard forward: "Pressure high, find space!"
Adriano, despite shifting roles, never lost his attacking intent, scanning for that perfect moment, eyes burning with resolve.
The crowd roared in alternating waves, City chanting "Blue Moon rising!" while Madrid fans countered with "Hala Madrid!" The cacophony reverberated across Berlin, a soundtrack befitting a clash of titans.
And so, with everything still to play for, the match surged onward, the second half promising a crescendo worthy of its place in football history.
As the 60th minute ticked past, the scoreboard read 3-2, but the match had reached a fever pitch. Possession changed hands at lightning speed. Modrić collided with Casemiro in midfield—foul given. The referee quickly stepped in, separating the two as they exchanged words.
"This is becoming a tense battle now," Alan Smith observed. "The skill is still there, but the fire is beginning to burn hotter."
Martin Tyler chimed in. "Real Madrid have responded. But Manchester City are far from done. There's more to come. You can feel it."
And on the pitch, amidst the tension and the pressure, Adriano's eyes never left the ball. He stood on the halfway line, breathing slowly, reading the movement like a chessboard. Behind him, the City fans began chanting again—rising, pleading, hoping.
The storm hadn't passed. It had just begun.
****
The match had fallen into a tense rhythm after Casemiro's introduction in the 56th minute. The midfield battle had evened out. Manchester City, once rattled after conceding twice, found composure again. Real Madrid, confident from their 3-2 lead, maintained pressure without overextending. The noise in the Olympiastadion had grown deafening. Every touch drew shouts. Every foul triggered roars. It was a final on a knife's edge.
And then, in the 61st minute, came a flash of brilliance that reignited the blue flame.
Kevin De Bruyne, just inside his own half, turned with a quick glance upfield. Madrid had pushed their backline high. Too high. Salah, noticing the gap, pointed and darted into the channel between Coentrão and Varane.
Martin Tyler's voice sharpened. "De Bruyne… picks out Salah — this could be the moment!"
The Belgian playmaker's pass was exquisite — a curling diagonal that split Madrid's backline like a scalpel. Salah took it perfectly in stride with his right foot, cut inside with his left, and surged into the box.
Alan Smith leaned in. "He's got space here! Salah—!"
The Egyptian snapped a low shot toward the near post, powerful and precise, but Keylor Navas was equal to it — diving low and smashing it away with both hands. The rebound skidded wide.
"Oh what a stop!" Tyler shouted. "Keylor Navas again with the reflexes of a cat!"
City fans groaned, clutching heads and scarves. Salah pounded the turf in frustration. "That was it," he muttered to himself as Kimmich ran over and offered a hand to lift him up.
From the corner that followed, De Bruyne lofted a teasing delivery to the back post. Hummels rose above Ramos, but misjudged the timing, sending his header sailing wide over the bar. He grunted in frustration.
Adriano, meanwhile, was being shadowed tightly — Modrić and Ramos tailing him like shadows, cutting his angles before he could even turn. But he wasn't frustrated. He waved his hand across the pitch and called out, "Use the width! Play wide! Stretch them!"
Hazard heard the command and nodded, pointing to the left. "Kimmich, make the run!"
In the 65th minute, Hazard dropped deep to collect and lured Carvajal forward with him. Then, suddenly, he spun and lifted a diagonal pass across the field to Kimmich, who had sprinted into the gap. Kimmich didn't wait — one touch and an early whipped cross.
"Kane's near post!" Tyler called.
But Varane read it, sweeping across just in time to cut it out with his outstretched boot. Kane turned and clapped. "Keep going! One's coming!"
City pushed again. De Bruyne spread it wide to Robertson in the 67th minute, who looped a cross that deflected off Carvajal's thigh and fell to Casemiro. The Brazilian didn't hesitate — he hit it first time, a venomous volley from the edge of the box.
"Struck with venom!" cried Alan Smith.
But it skimmed inches over the bar, drawing a synchronized "OHHH!" from the City end. Pellegrini turned and nodded to his assistants. "We're on top again."
Madrid weren't done. In the 69th minute, Ronaldo peeled away from Kompany on the left and tore forward. Kompany shouted, "Cover him!" but it was too late. Ronaldo cut inside, squared for Bale, who took it on the bounce and lashed a shot with his left.
Joe Hart flung himself to the right and parried it away.
"Big save from Hart!" Martin Tyler bellowed. "This final has everything!"
Then Bale again in the 71st minute — this time burning past Hummels and curling a shot that left Hart frozen.
"Too much curl… just wide!" Alan Smith exhaled. "It looked in from here."
Kimmich, still shaken by his earlier positioning error, was now responding like a warrior. He sprinted back to block a cross from Coentrão, then helped clear the loose ball. Adriano came over and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's more like it. Head up."
Robertson, however, was wilting. His legs looked heavy. Every Madrid break seemed to target his flank now. In the 73rd, Carvajal launched a counter after intercepting Hazard, who chased him down and brought him down with a dragging tackle.
The whistle blew. Yellow card.
Hazard didn't complain. "Tactical. Had to do it," he said to the referee, nodding. Carvajal grimaced and rolled his ankle, but stood up soon after. Ramos jogged over to the ref, arms raised, but the booking stood.
Pellegrini turned. "Get Kolarov and Milner ready," he told the staff. The message was clear: steel was needed for the final quarter-hour.
Madrid sensed weakness. In the 75th, Isco spotted Chicharito darting in behind Kompany and chipped a beautiful pass over the top. The Mexican forward took it on his chest and tried to lob Joe Hart, who was racing out.
Hart raised both hands, leaped—and with his fingertips, managed to flick the ball just over the bar.
"JOE HART! That is magnificent!" roared Tyler. "That's a Champions League final save!"
Chicharito smacked the turf. "Damn!" he muttered. Isco walked over and patted his back. "Next one."
The Madrid section of the crowd roared their approval, but the City fans found their voice again too, chanting "Joe Hart! Joe Hart!" with pride.
In the 78th minute, Zidane made his final move. Marcelo, exhausted after chasing Salah for over an hour, was replaced by Coentrão. Zidane clapped Marcelo on the back. "Good shift. Now we close this."
Alan Smith noted the change. "Coentrão's more disciplined. Zidane's tightening the left flank. He knows Salah's still dangerous."
Pellegrini responded in kind. Robertson, legs gone, came off in the 80th. Kolarov replaced him, jogging on and exchanging high-fives with teammates.
"Come on lads!" Kolarov shouted. "Let's push!"
Milner stretched near the sideline, ready but not yet called.
As City reorganized, Casemiro dropped slightly deeper, shielding the center. De Bruyne repositioned wide right, and Adriano now floated just ahead of the midfield line — eyes scanning, waiting.
The tempo dipped briefly, but the electricity in the Olympiastadion didn't. Every fan was on their feet now. The chants never stopped. Madrid's white wall sang "¡Hala Madrid!" while City's end waved sky-blue flags, bellowing chants of "Blue Moon" and "Come on City!"
Adriano jogged into midfield, clapped his hands twice, and turned toward Salah.
"Next one, Mo," he said, calm and sharp. "We're not leaving this behind."
Salah nodded, face tight with focus. "Let's win this."
The stage was set. The fire was burning hotter than ever. A final with more to write. And it wasn't finished yet.
****
The 81st minute ticked into life with the stadium vibrating under a thunderstorm of tension. From the press box to the pitch, from the ultras behind the goals to the dignitaries in the VIP lounge, every pair of eyes was locked in — because everyone sensed it. Something was coming.
City were still trailing 3–2. Pellegrini stood rigid at the edge of his technical area, arms crossed, lips pressed together. His voice was steady, but urgent: "Play quicker. Use the wings. Force the space."
On the pitch, Adriano glanced toward the bench and nodded subtly. He'd dropped deeper now, operating more as a roaming architect than a traditional No. 10. But his instincts hadn't dulled — they were sharpening by the minute.
In the 82nd, Salah found daylight down the right. Coentrão shadowed him tightly, but Salah spun past him with a dip of the shoulder and chipped a cross toward the penalty spot. "Kane's free!" Martin Tyler cried. The striker leapt high — unmarked — and powered a header toward goal.
The entire stadium held its breath.
The ball arced, kissed the roof of the net, and fell behind.
Alan Smith groaned. "He'll be disappointed with that, Martin. He timed it well, but didn't get the direction."
Adriano clapped from the edge of the box. "Close! That's the one, Harry. Again. We go again."
Two minutes later, Real broke forward with intent. Kroos spotted Ronaldo peeling off Hummels and slid a through ball down the left channel. The crowd collectively leaned forward as Ronaldo sprinted onto it.
Kompany charged across to cover, but Ronaldo struck early — a left-footed drive across goal.
"Big moment!" Tyler shouted.
But the ball skipped wide of the far post, whistling inches past the woodwork. Hart didn't dive — he'd read it — but he still let out a sharp exhale as he shouted, "Stay alert!"
The Madrid end groaned. Zidane, arms folded, looked to the heavens for calm. Behind him, Ramos was barking at Coentrão and Varane, trying to keep the backline awake.
By the 86th minute, the energy inside the Olympiastadion had become almost unbearable. Real Madrid fans were on their feet, singing, waving scarves, timing their chants with every second of possession.
The City fans, meanwhile, were on edge. A boy in the front row buried his face in his scarf. An older woman had both hands clenched in prayer. A man in his forties had tears in his eyes, murmuring, "Come on, one more…"
In the 88th minute, Bale tried a solo run through midfield and was tripped by Casemiro, who earned a stern warning but avoided a booking. Real took the free kick quickly, but Chicharito strayed offside trying to latch onto Modrić's chipped ball.
"Offside again," Alan Smith said. "Madrid just rushing things now."
The Real end cheered. The City end stayed eerily quiet.
The seconds bled into the 90th minute, and Manchester City were staring down the barrel. Real Madrid led 3–2. The scoreboard glowed cruelly at the Olympiastadion, and the Madridistas could already taste glory.
City had one last push.
The ball rolled into Adriano's path just beyond the halfway line — the weight of a season, a club, and an entire legacy balancing on his shoulders. He paused for the briefest heartbeat, back to goal, with Modrić breathing down his neck. Then he turned.
"Adriano's got space," Martin Tyler said, voice rising. "Is this the moment?"
He held off Modrić with a powerful shrug of his shoulder and exploded forward. Ramos stepped up from the defensive line, roaring at Varane to hold shape — but Adriano was too quick. He poked the ball past Ramos and stormed through, the white shirts scattering.
The stadium was rising. The noise level reached an unnatural pitch, a hybrid of panic and hope.
Varane and Coentrão rushed to cut him off at the top of the box. De Bruyne darted to Adriano's right, yelling, "Play it! I'm with you!"
But Adriano wasn't done yet. He feinted left — dragged both defenders with him — and in a flash, dropped his shoulder and snapped back to the right, slicing the space open like a razor. Coentrão stumbled. Varane hesitated.
Alan Smith gasped, "He's danced through them! What a move! He's opened them up!"
Then, without even looking, Adriano rolled a sublime, feather-light pass with the outside of his boot to his right — exactly where De Bruyne had ghosted into space.
The ball arrived at De Bruyne's feet like it had always belonged there. One touch to settle. Then he slotted it coldly, clinically, into the bottom left corner — just inside the post, beyond the despairing gloves of Navas.
For a second, the world froze.
Then it exploded.
📣 Announcer: "GOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLL! KEVIN DE BRUYNE! IN THE 90TH MINUTE! MANCHESTER CITY EQUALIZE IN BERLIN! IT'S 3–3! UNBELIEVABLE!"
City's end of the stadium became a roaring inferno. Blue shirts leapt as one — fans screaming, tears pouring, fists pounding the air. One man collapsed in the stands in disbelief, sobbing into his scarf. A boy dropped his crutch and jumped into the arms of a stranger. Another ripped off his shirt, swinging it like a flag, shouting, "ADRIANO! ADRIANOOOOOO!"
Kate, up in the VIP box, screamed with both hands to her mouth. "YES! YES! THAT'S HIM!" she shouted, as Rosa burst into tears beside her and Julio pounded the glass with shaking fists, eyes wide. Al Mubarak leapt to his feet, hugging Sheikh Mansour — who for once, cracked a rare, gleaming smile.
Down on the pitch, De Bruyne didn't even take the credit. He spun toward Adriano and pointed both fingers at him, yelling, "You! You did that!"
Adriano caught him in a flying hug, both of them crashing to the turf in a heap. Hazard, Kane, and Salah piled on next. Kimmich came running from halfway, shouting, "You magician! That's black magic, bro!"
Even Joe Hart sprinted past the halfway line, fists pumping, veins bulging in his neck as he roared toward his teammates.
Adriano stayed on the grass for a moment, face to the sky, eyes closed. He just mouthed, thank you — once — before letting his teammates pull him up.
Martin Tyler, barely audible above the noise, choked out, "This young man… in the 90th minute… with half the world waiting for him to fail, he delivers. Again. He doesn't always score. But he always defines the moment."
Alan Smith added, almost reverently, "That pass… the vision, the timing… that's what greatness looks like. He didn't panic. He painted that."
On the Madrid bench, Zidane's face was granite. Ramos screamed at his midfield, gesturing frantically. Varane bent down, hands on knees, looking shattered. Kroos kicked the turf. Modrić yelled, "Track back! TRACK BACK!" as they tried to reassemble.
Florentino Pérez sat unmoving, lips pressed in a grim line. His jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to the City bench, where Pellegrini was shouting — his knuckles were white from gripping the rail in front of him.
The announcer's voice boomed through the Olympiastadion:
📣 "GOAL FOR MANCHESTER CITY! Scored in the 90th minute by NUMBER 17 — KEVIN DE BRUYNE! ASSISTED BY NUMBER 10 — ADRIANO!"
The cheer that followed felt like thunder being born.
As Madrid kicked off again, the mood had shifted. From triumphant to trembling. They passed it around slowly, nervously. The spell had been broken.
The fourth official showed 4 minutes of injury time remaining. Pellegrini cupped his hands and shouted, "Settle! Compact! Don't gamble!" On the other side, Zidane clapped furiously, bellowing, "Concentré! Allez!"
Adriano, now tracking back alongside Casemiro, pointed to Salah and said, "Stay wide. If we get one more, we end it."
Salah grinned. "You already ended it, mate."
4 more minutes for them to chase the crown.
*****
Current Stats of Adriano:
Premier League
Matches: 27
Goals: 37
Assists: 27
Current top scorer of the Premier League, and top on the assists list.
*
Champions League
Matches: 13- ongoing
Goals: 27
Assists: 12
Current top scorer and top on Assists list together with De Bruyne.
*
FA Cup
Matches: 1
Goals: 2
Assists: 2