Rafael surged down the flank with fire in his boots, the ball rolling speedily ahead of him as he stared at it, his face solemn. The pitch felt wide, open, almost inviting now, and with every stride, he carved through the space left behind by the disoriented Valladolid defenders.
The roar of the Camp Nou grew louder with each heartbeat, with each passing moment—the fans rising to their feet, their eyes tracking Rafael like hawks watching a streak of lightning blaze across the sky.
Elian was a wonder to watch, but Rafael was another thrilling mechanism, he always brought the magic to this camp.
But Valladolid weren't broken—not yet.
