The Camp Nou roared like a living beast, its cacophony of drums and chants thrumming in Femi's bones as he stood at the center circle. The second-half whistle hadn't even finished echoing before Ajax surged forward, a pack of wolves scenting blood. Bakker's halftime shift to a 3-4-3 was a blade unsheathed—Souleymane, Veenstra, and Kowalski pressed high, their movements sharp and synchronized. Barcelona's defenders, so composed in the first half, suddenly looked human.
It took four minutes.
Femi intercepted a lazy pass from Delgado, his touch sending the ball arcing over Barcelona's midfield like a comet. Josip latched onto it, muscles straining as he barreled down the left flank. Two defenders converged, but Josip didn't slow—he revved, slamming a cross so low it skidded across the damp grass. Souleymane met it first-time, his volley a thunderclap that rattled the post. The rebound spun cruelly wide, but the message was sent: Ajax hadn't come to kneel.
Barcelona answered with venom. Guillén, all coiled grace, drifted infield, collecting a pass from Montoya. Femi shadowed him, close enough to smell the citrus sting of his hair gel. Guillén feinted left, then right, his feet a blur—but Femi stayed glued, forcing him wider, narrower, smaller. Until Guillén, uncharacteristically rushed, fizzed a shot straight into Visser's gloves. The Dutch keeper held it a beat too long, eyes locking with Guillén's.
"Not tonight," Visser mouthed, and the stand behind him howled.
The game became a knife fight. Barcelona's midfield trio—Delgado, Montoya, Gil—orchestrated possession like conductors, but Ajax's press left them no room to breathe. At the 60th minute, Bakker rolled the dice: Dekker replaced Bouali, slotting into a defensive midfield role. The change was immediate. Dekker's first tackle on Delgado sent the playmaker sprawling, the ball pinging free to Veenstra, who tore forward like a man possessed. His cutback found Kowalski, whose shot was smothered by Ramírez—but the fear in Barcelona's eyes was real.
Then, the equalizer.
It came from nowhere. Femi, reading Delgado's eyes, stepped into a passing lane and stole the ball at midfield. He surged forward, legs burning, Guillén's breath hot on his neck. Dekker overlapped to the right, drawing two defenders, and Femi slipped him the ball. Dekker's cross was a scythe—Veenstra, unmarked, tapped it back to Femi, who'd continued his run. The strike was pure Lagos: low, brutal, and precise. The ball kissed the inside of the post and rippled the net.
2-2.
The Ajax bench erupted. Femi sprinted to the corner flag, grabbed the crest on his jersey, and roared at the heavens. Guillén stood frozen at midfield, his smirk replaced by a snarl.
Chaos reigned. Barcelona hurled bodies forward—Medina's header off the bar, Duarte's curler inches wide. Ajax countered like feral dogs: Veenstra's header cleared off the line, Josip's piledriver parried by Ramírez. When the whistle blew for full time, players collapsed where they stood, chests heaving, uniforms slick with sweat and grass stains.
---
The tunnel was a crypt.
Femi found Visser slumped against the concrete wall, gloves dangling from one hand. The keeper's face was pale, his breath ragged. Without a word, Femi sat beside him, their shoulders touching.
"They think they broke you?" Femi said finally, staring straight ahead.
Visser laughed, a hollow sound. "They tried."
"And?"
Visser turned, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "I'm still here."
Femi stood, offering a hand. "Then show them why."
---
The penalty shootout was a theater of ghosts.
Duarte went first, his run-up slow, deliberate. The ball rocketed off the crossbar, spinning high into the night. Veenstra followed, slotting his shot coolly left—Ramírez dove the wrong way.
Medina stepped up next, face set in stone. His blast sailed over the bar, and the Camp Nou gasped as one. Souleymane didn't hesitate—he sent Ramírez sprawling with a feint, rolling the ball into the opposite corner.
Montoya kept Barcelona alive, drilling his shot into the top netting. Dekker answered, a stuttering run-up freezing Ramírez before he tucked it away. Delgado buried his kick, but Kowalski—ice in his veins—chipped down the middle as Ramírez dove.
Then, Guillén.
He placed the ball with exaggerated care, adjusting his captain's armband. The stadium hushed. Visser crouched, eyes locked on Guillén's hips. The strike was a cannonblast—top corner, no mercy. Guillén didn't celebrate. He simply turned, staring at Femi as he walked back.
---
Femi's hands didn't shake as he placed the ball on the spot.
Lagos. The dust. The cracked leather ball. The boys who'd laughed when he'd said he'd play in Europe.
He breathed in—smoke, sweat, hope.
Ramírez danced on his line, arms wide. Femi didn't see him. He saw the keeper's shadow, the tiny gap left of center.
The run-up was short. The contact, pure.
The net billowed.
---
The explosion of noise was cosmic. Josip reached Femi first, lifting him off his feet as the bench swarmed. Souleymane collapsed to his knees, hands pressed to his face. Dekker and Veenstra tangled in a tearful hug, while Visser sprinted to the stands, gloves held aloft to the Ajax faithful.
Guillén stood apart, head bowed, fingers clutching the broken crown pendant under his jersey. As Femi passed, trophy in hand, Guillén met his gaze. No words. Just a nod.
---
Later, under fireworks that painted the sky gold, Femi stood at the edge of the pitch. The weight of the medal around his neck was foreign, thrilling. Liam limped down from the stands, hoodie damp with spilled beer, and pulled him into a wordless embrace.
Across the field, Lars de Groot watched from the shadows, a rare smile touching his lips. He'd seen it all—the tackles, the tears, the unyielding will of a boy who'd turned ghosts into fuel.
Femi turned his wristband, the frayed threads catching the light. Somewhere, in the sprawling chaos of Lagos, a kid kicked a ball against a wall, dreaming of nights like this.
The dream was alive.