"Penalty?" Peter said, the tension rising in his voice. "The referee has pointed to the spot, and Manchester City have been given a way back into the Champions League final."
Jim was more measured. "There is contact. Sterling is clever, he feels David Luiz commit and puts himself across the defender. United will argue it's soft, but once the leg comes out, you give the referee a decision to make."
In another booth, Gary Neville was nearly losing his mind.
"A penalty? For that?" Neville slammed the table in outrage. "Sterling has a history of going down easily. I want to see that again, because if that level of contact is enough, then every defender might as well retire."
Carragher, of course, was enjoying himself.
"Give it up, Gary. Even in our day, that's a penalty if the referee sees the contact. You can shout all you like, but David Luiz gives him the chance."
"What about VAR?" Neville snapped. "Where is the video assistant? I demand they intervene before this final gets stolen by a dive!"
Perhaps Neville's voice somehow reached the referee's ear.
The official pressed his earpiece, listened for a few seconds, then made the VAR review gesture before jogging toward the monitor by the pitch.
"Could it really be a penalty?"
David Luiz had gone pale, his voice trembling.
"Even if it is, so what?" Ling said, trying to steady him. "Even if it's a penalty, we're still leading 2-1. When the match ends, we'll still be champions."
But David Luiz still looked frightened.
"What if they pull off a Manchester United 1999—"
"David!"
Ling's tone suddenly became stern.
"When you expect the worst, that's often when it happens."
David Luiz froze.
"If you think you can't hold on, ask the manager to substitute you now," Ling said without softening.
"But understand this: if you do, you'll be a coward."
He showed no mercy.
If it really was a penalty, words like that from David Luiz would poison the team's morale.
Ling knew better than anyone how important mentality was in the final moments of a match.
Last season's Champions League final had been won because Manchester United refused to stop believing, even against Real Madrid's Galactic Battleship.
Could Manchester City do the same?
Ling had no doubt they could.
That was why negative talk had to die here.
Maguire swallowed hard and forced a smile.
"It's fine. I've given away penalties before too, and we still won in the end."
Then he added, trying to sound encouraging, "Besides, trust David. He's good at saving penalties. Last season, he saved one against Real Madrid and helped United win the title. Even if the match gets dragged—"
"The match will be over soon," De Gea cut him off sharply. "No one should overthink. Do your job."
"Exactly," Ling said. "Do your job."
Beside the pitch, the referee finished reviewing the monitor.
Under the tense gaze of tens of thousands, he turned and once again pointed to the spot.
Whoosh!
The Manchester City fans erupted, blue flares lighting up in the stands like sparks of revived belief.
A penalty at this moment could mark the beginning of a miracle, and every City supporter believed they were about to witness one.
Sterling handed the ball to Agüero.
"Sergio, our hope is on you. You have to score this."
Agüero took a deep breath but said nothing.
A penalty that could decide their fate.
The pressure wrapped around him like a storm, suffocating and impossible to escape.
But Argentinians had always been players for big moments.
Agüero placed the ball on the spot and slowly took five steps back.
De Gea watched his centre of gravity carefully, bouncing lightly on the line, ready to dive either way.
As for staying in the middle again?
He did not have the courage for that.
Beep!
The whistle tightened every nerve in the stadium.
Agüero began his run-up, swung his arm, and struck the ball.
Straight down the middle!
2-1.
Manchester City fans around the world were almost too emotional to speak.
Agüero rushed into the goal, scooped up the ball, and sprinted toward the centre circle.
"We can equalise!" he roared at his teammates. "We can equalise!"
In that moment, he could almost taste the memory of 93:20.
He believed Manchester City could create another miracle.
De Gea was about to blame himself, but Ling spoke first.
"Stop wearing those faces. Have we lost?"
The United players looked at him.
"Last season was much harder than this, and we never looked like that. Now we're still leading, yet you're already acting like the match is gone?"
His voice cut through the noise.
"Once you put on the Manchester United shirt, you have to be ready for anything. Anything can happen on a football pitch, but that doesn't mean it will."
Ling's eyes hardened.
"Crush Manchester City's hope, just like before."
His words reached every United player.
"Come on!"
The Manchester United players drew in deep breaths and roared together.
"Come on!"
The VAR review had taken time, and the match soon entered stoppage time.
Six minutes.
The referee awarded six minutes of added time, to the frustration of every Manchester United supporter who wanted the whistle to arrive immediately.
Manchester City fans, on the other hand, began waving flags and roaring again.
Momentum surged like a wave.
City's safe possession decreased. Dangerous through balls increased.
After scoring, they went wild, throwing almost everyone forward.
They no longer wanted to patiently keep the ball.
They wanted to attack, attack, attack, and force extra time with everything they had.
For Manchester United, the sight felt strangely familiar.
It was like looking at their former selves from last season.
City's possession wove together like a sharp net around United's defence, making every red heart in the stadium tremble with unease.
Why did it feel so ominous?
On the sideline, Guardiola came back to life instantly. Passion returned to his face as he gestured frantically.
"The left-side gap is open! Why aren't we passing directly?"
"Good run, Raheem!"
"The tempo isn't fast enough. Don't trap yourselves on one side. Open your vision, open the pitch!"
"Yes, yes, take the space in the attacking third first. Disrupt their defensive movement!"
Guardiola muttered constantly, almost like a madman conducting a storm.
In contrast, Mourinho stood with his arms crossed, coldly watching the pitch.
Over the past two seasons, he had learned one thing.
Trust.
He trusted these Manchester United players to deliver.
In the third minute of stoppage time, De Bruyne played another diagonal pass, bending it around Herrera and into Sterling.
Wan-Bissaka was exhausted.
His legs felt as heavy as lead.
Earlier, he had spent so much energy tracking Sané, and now he had to face Sterling's explosive acceleration.
Sterling darted forward, stopped suddenly, and laid the ball back.
A classic Manchester City pattern: overload the strong side, attract defensive attention, then switch quickly to the opposite flank.
De Bruyne lifted another pass.
The ball flew straight toward Bernardo Silva.
At the same time, City's forwards began their runs.
Agüero angled into the right side of the box. Sterling drifted wide to the far left.
Even more frightening for United was the late surge from Gündoğan, Fernandinho, and John Stones.
The first two had serious long-range shooting ability.
Bernardo knew City did not hold an aerial advantage, so after a quick shift in rhythm, he chose the back pass toward the edge of the box.
Gündoğan's decoy run dragged Matic away.
Fernandinho arrived.
The Brazilian defensive midfielder sprinted onto the ball and shaped to shoot.
But the ball did not fly toward goal as he expected.
Instead, he was knocked to the ground by a fierce impact.
"McTomiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinay!" Peter shouted. "A body thrown into the fire for Manchester United!"
Jim followed instantly. "That is a massive block. He doesn't know for certain whether the shot is going in, but he makes sure it doesn't get the chance. That's brave, and in this moment, that's priceless."
Beep!
The referee blew his whistle and showed McTominay a yellow card.
McTominay did not care.
If he had read Fernandinho's position a little earlier, perhaps he could have intercepted it cleanly and even launched a counterattack.
But he knew his talent was limited.
So he used the clumsy method.
Throw the body in.
The result was the same!
Scott McTominay winked at Ling.
"The boss said I'm like a mad dog. At first, I was a bit upset, but now I think being a mad dog isn't so bad."
Ling punched him hard on the shoulder.
"We're all mad dogs."
That crucial block restored United's morale.
Under De Gea's command, they formed the wall.
De Bruyne looked toward goal.
The distance was awkwardly close, making it difficult to control the power. Focus too much on precision, and he might send it over.
Strike it harder, and the wall could block it.
He could only trust his technique to produce something special.
Beep!
After the referee's whistle, De Bruyne took his run-up and shot.
The ball grazed McTominay's scalp and headed toward the right side of goal.
"De Bruyne bends it—De Geaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Peter cried.
De Gea moved across and gathered it safely.
Jim exhaled. "There just isn't enough power on it. From that distance, De Bruyne has to take something off the strike to get it over the wall, and De Gea deals with it."
Neville's heart rate nearly broke through the roof.
Mourinho let out a long breath.
Guardiola clutched his bald head.
De Gea tried to stay down and waste a few more seconds, but this time, he misjudged it.
The referee showed him a yellow card for time-wasting.
De Gea got up and launched the ball long.
Ling fought hard for the first touch, but there was no one close enough to support him. All his teammates were deep in their own half.
City regained possession and immediately came again.
"Time is running out for Manchester City," Peter said, the tension in his voice tightening.
"Manchester United have to hold."
Jim added, "They've absorbed wave after wave now. City need one more clean chance, but United are defending like men who know exactly what is at stake."
But momentum was strange.
The first surge was fierce.
The second began to weaken.
By the third, even desperation started to run out of breath.
Manchester City's furious attacks had nearly drained their own morale.
As stoppage time reached its final minute, Mourinho could no longer stay still. He ran toward the fourth official and pointed at his watch without saying a word.
The meaning was clear.
Time was up.
'Why was the match still going?'
Guardiola stood on the other side, equally furious.
"The two throw-ins, Manchester United's goalkeeper wasting time, the time taken to set the wall for the free kick — all of that should be added!"
He even gave a precise number.
"I calculated it. Two minutes and thirteen seconds!"
Fourth official: "..."
Two world-class managers were giving him a hard time, but what was the point?
He was not the one with the whistle.
Inside the stadium, it felt as if everyone could hear the clock ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The tension tightened with every second.
In these final moments, no one knew what would happen.
"Stones lifts it down the line," Peter called, following the ball's flight. "The weight is good. Bernardo has it."
Bernardo Silva brought the ball under control and immediately used quick rhythm changes to create a chance down the outside of Luke Shaw.
Shaw gritted his teeth and chased.
Pain flickered through his knee, but his speed did not drop.
He had only one thought now.
Do not let Bernardo past.
But the effect of that old broken leg was too deep, and he still failed to stop Bernardo from getting half a yard.
Smack!
The ball flew at waist height toward the near post.
Agüero burst forward instantly.
But a wall appeared in front of him.
On closer inspection, the wall was Maguire.
Agüero tried to push.
He used every bit of strength he had, but Maguire did not move.
Manchester United fans became unbearably tense.
Please don't mess this up.
This time, Maguire stayed steady.
He did not try anything clever. He did not attempt to control it. He simply poked the ball out for a corner.
"Phew!"
From the bench to the stands, Manchester United breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"The match is not over yet," Peter said. "Manchester City have a corner, perhaps one final chance."
Ederson sprinted forward as well, diving straight into the Manchester United penalty area.
Counting carefully, City had eight players inside the box.
United had one extra red shirt in there, with one man waiting outside to stop City from collecting the second ball and shooting again.
De Bruyne took several deep breaths.
Then he raised three fingers.
The third set-piece routine.
Smack!
The ball curled outward, flying toward the area around the penalty spot.
Agüero and Sterling darted around frantically, trying to disrupt United's man-marking.
The taller players — Fernandinho, Kompany, Otamendi, and Stones — charged inward from the edge of the box.
But it was useless.
Someone had read the flight faster than all of them.
Someone jumped higher than all of them.
A god descending from the sky?
Yes.
Except this time, the god had descended in his own penalty area.
John Stones stared at Ling's absurd hang time and wanted to curse.
How was anyone supposed to win a header against someone twenty centimetres taller in the air?
Sterling, meanwhile, was briefly confused.
Why had the stadium suddenly gone dark?
Had the power gone out?
Would the match have to be replayed?
City quickly shifted their focus.
Win the second ball!
"Watch where it drops!" Kompany roared.
Under the spotlight, Ling headed the ball away, guiding it toward Herrera.
He could control the direction of his headers, after all.
Instantly, Herrera, waiting outside the box, found himself surrounded by De Bruyne and Gündoğan.
They had to win it back.
Both City players' eyes were filled with determination.
Herrera suddenly felt a little panicked.
Why had the referee not blown the whistle yet?
Logically, with stoppage time already up and the corner cleared without a second phase developing, the whistle should have gone.
Then he heard a familiar voice.
"ANDER!"
Without thinking, Herrera passed the ball toward it.
Only when he looked up did he realise what had happened.
Ling had moved to the right to offer support.
As always, the young captain was there when they needed him.
Ling watched the ball roll toward him, then glanced at the distant goal.
'Might as well shoot.'
It would not hurt.
With that thought, he stretched his shooting posture to its limit.
On the sideline, Guardiola covered his head again.
Mourinho leaned forward.
Ling channelled every bit of strength left in his body into his coiled legs, then transferred it all through the football.
Crack!
The force seemed as if it wanted to tear through the leather itself.
Boom!
The ball deformed violently, lifted from the turf, and soared into the Madrid night.
Kyle Walker, the deepest City player, scrambled back at full speed.
He felt faster than the wind.
Yet the gap between him and the ball only grew.
Under the spotlight of the Wanda Metropolitano, the ball streaked across the silent Iberian sky like a meteor.
It landed in front of the penalty area.
Bounced.
Landed again.
Bounced once more.
And rolled into the net.
3-1!
Manchester City's final hope was extinguished.
There was no time left for another miracle.
The stadium became a wall of Manchester United noise.
"JEREMY LINGGGGGGGG!" Peter roared. "From his own box to the other end of the world! The captain clears it, follows it, and finishes the final himself!"
Jim could barely hide his disbelief. "That is outrageous! He wins the defensive header, moves to support Herrera, then has the clarity and strength to shoot from that distance with Ederson stranded. That is not just talent. That is awareness, courage, and the will to finish the story."
"Manchester United were staring into the storm," Peter said, his voice rising with the red half of the stadium, "and Jeremy Ling has answered with thunder! The Champions League is staying with the Red Devils!"
City still kicked off, unwilling to accept the ending even after all hope had gone.
But the referee gave them nothing more.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The 2018-19 Champions League final was over!
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