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Lance knew the European Cup Final would be hard, perhaps harder than the Champions League Final.
The theme of 2016 seemed to be going up against Cristiano Ronaldo and plundering his luck, twice over. The first time had nearly cost him everything. A second time? It felt like the universe itself was pushing back.
The match had barely started before Portugal turned possession into a weapon.
There's a saying: there are no great games in finals. The Belgium players hadn't expected a crisis to emerge in the opening minute, and everyone moved into position according to plan. Lance himself didn't register anything unusual at first.
Portugal's kickoff looked completely routine. Cristiano Ronaldo tapped back to William Carvalho, who played it to Fonte, who spread it wide to Pepe. Lukaku barely pressed, closing down only as a gesture. Pepe laid it off to Renato Sanches.
Calm. Ordinary. Nothing to see.
Then Renato Sanches unleashed a long diagonal into the channel.
"Wait. Something's wrong!"
Lance's instincts fired instantly. He spun and saw Cristiano Ronaldo already charging into the box.
"The setup!! Holy shit!"
The most dangerous zone on the field was already compromised. If Space Perception could manifest physically, the warning lights would be flashing red and shaking. Yet Vertonghen was still moving across unhurriedly, not yet reading the danger.
Lance threw everything into a sprint toward the penalty area. Cristiano Ronaldo was still a step faster.
"That long pass!!! Danger, Cristiano Ronaldo!!!"
Duan Xuan's voice cracked across the broadcast as Cristiano Ronaldo attacked the ball at full sprint from outside the box, generating enormous momentum through his run-up. He left the ground.
The physical freakishness of the man was something else entirely. Even against a tall, imposing center-back like Vertonghen, Cristiano Ronaldo rose a full head above him.
"Oh my god!! He's practically flying!!"
Martin Tyler couldn't help himself.
You could mock Cristiano Ronaldo's theatrical step-overs or his habit of going to ground. But at his physical peak, inside the box, there was no one more dangerous.
Bang.
A header from near the edge of the area, driven with brutal force. Courtois reacted immediately, diving across.
"Don't even think about it. What?!!"
The save he was certain of never came. The ball curved past his fingers at a freakish angle, clipped the underside of the crossbar, and bounced down over the line. It sat there, nestled in the net, dancing just enough to make the entire stadium skip a beat.
Cristiano Ronaldo peeled away toward the corner flag.
"Goooooooooal!!!"
"What a strike!!!"
"Cristianoooo Ronaldooooo"
"Only 29 seconds into the final. Portugal execute a blitzkrieg to take the lead!"
1-0.
Lance stood with his hands on his hips, watching Cristiano Ronaldo wind into his signature celebration in front of the crowd.
"Siuuuuuuuu~~~~~"
Over 20,000 Portuguese fans bellowed in unison, the sound bouncing around the Stade de France.
Lance raised an eyebrow.
"This move has been recycled to death in sports novels." He'd read a few football stories online lately, and the protagonists always seemed to steal that exact celebration. Maybe it was exciting the first time. By now it just felt like a template.
"Siu my ass. Can't you think of your own thing?"
"Lance's expression suggests real frustration with the defense; conceding at the start of a final is a serious blow. It brings to mind the Champions League Final, where Cristiano Ronaldo was also the one to score first..."
Duan Xuan offered that reading to the viewers at home, assuming Lance was haunted by flashbacks.
Fans watching on their sofas felt a pang of sympathy. Two finals. Both starting in hell.
What none of them could have known was that at that exact moment, Lance was internally debating celebration choreography.
"Wait. I don't actually have a signature celebration either. Never mind."
He'd scored so many goals that he'd done something different every time. Spending this much time around De Bruyne had genuinely dulled his creativity in that department. The man was the living embodiment of world-class goals paired with neighborhood-class celebrations.
"Lance, it's okay. We'll get it back."
Even De Bruyne thought he was wallowing and offered a word of comfort.
Lance shook his head.
"We'll just get it back. The comeback in the Champions League Final was cool, but I'd rather not do that a second time."
"I'll help you."
A quick high-five, and they passed each other without another word.
The cameras stayed fixed on Cristiano Ronaldo as he soaked up the moment. In a part of the field no one was paying attention to, Belgium's two best players were already plotting.
Portugal pressed forward as if the tide was coming in.
"Cristiano Ronaldo! Another header!!"
"Courtois!! Beautiful save!! Corner kick. Portugal's first of the match."
"Santos clearly knows Cristiano Ronaldo's best weapons. He keeps returning to the aerial threat."
"The alarm bells in Belgium's box are going off again!"
"Another header, this time Pepe!! Very dangerous! Just over the crossbar."
"Belgium's counter. Nainggolan!! He hesitates!! William Carvalho intercepts!"
"Quick counter-press from Portugal's front line!"
"To Nani!! Step-overs, he's through!! Nani!!!"
"Ah, the shot was a bit rushed."
Manchester United's old joke: "Nani won't pass, Valencia won't shoot, Young won't cross, Welbeck won't score." At his best, Nani was a top-tier winger capable of moments of genuine brilliance. But he was also a wildcard, and his peak had been brief. By now he'd long since been moved on from United, drifting through Turkey and Portugal, fading from the big picture. In the national team he mostly operated in Cristiano Ronaldo's orbit.
But a 1-0 scoreline made him bold, and he couldn't resist.
Cristiano Ronaldo flung his arms out in front of goal, raging.
"What are you doing?! Pass it!!"
"Sorry, sorry."
Nani stuck out his tongue and said nothing more.
Cristiano Ronaldo nearly pressed further, then swallowed it. There was bigger business to deal with.
As it turned out, the lesson wasn't learned. Renato Sanches and João Mário each tried their own speculative effort in the following minutes, and Portugal's attacking rhythm collapsed.
"Pass it!! Do you even know how to pass?! Pass!!"
Cristiano Ronaldo was at boiling point. His teammates offered sheepish smiles.
"Sorry. I'll definitely play you in next time."
Three minutes later, Portugal built another wave. Every movement was disciplined, the Belgium goal surrounded from every angle. The alarms in Lance's head were deafening.
"Holy shit."
One you can contain. Not this.
Cristiano Ronaldo received the ball and immediately opened his body for a step-over, taking Lance one-on-one. No matter how many he threw, Lance didn't bite. Cristiano Ronaldo's temper flared; he flicked it with his heel, cutting inside.
"Again?"
Lance was almost amused. Same pattern, every time. Shot coming next?
Sure enough, just as Lance shifted sideways to block and Nainggolan closed in to double-team, Cristiano Ronaldo forced a long-range effort, ignoring two teammates in better positions inside the box.
"Cristiano Ronaldo!!!"
Duan Xuan's alarm went up, then came back down. The shot ballooned over. Cristiano Ronaldo, who had just been furious at his teammates for exactly the same thing, stood there pulling a face, as if mourning a near-miss he'd given everything for.
Performative to the last.
What he didn't notice: Lance had already started moving.
"Hey!! Belgium take a quick goal kick!!"
"Beautiful!! Direct connection, Courtois to Lance. Perfect ball control!! Brilliant play!!"
Renato Sanches and João Mário closed together to double-team him. Lance dismantled it with one touch. Neutralizing and attacking in a single motion. One nudge with the outside of his boot, one lift of the heel, and he was through the gap.
"Lance!!!"
Duan Xuan's voice went again as Lance, from 40 meters out, with no setup, shaped for a shot.
"My god!!!"
Cristiano Ronaldo finished his post-miss performance, turned his head.
Lance had already struck.
[Hardcore Shot]!
[Direct Strike Shoot]!
[Aerial Thunder Beast Shot]!
Three skills in one.
Bang.
Patrício was off his line. By the time he read it and scrambled back, the ball had already left the ground, a missile arcing over his head at a speed that left no time for reaction. It drove straight into the net.
1-1!