The streets around La Rosaleda were alive with energy, buzzing like a beehive as thousands of Málaga fans poured into the area. There was an infectious sense of unity, a collective understanding that today, something monumental was about to unfold. The banners of blue and white fluttered in the air, proudly displaying the colors of the team. You could hear the hum of excitement in the crowd as people shuffled through the streets, all eager to get to the stadium.
The smell of street food filled the air, a mixture of grilled meats, fresh bread, and the unmistakable scent of fried churros. Vendors lined the streets, their stalls bursting with Málaga gear: scarves, shirts, hats, and flags. It was clear that this wasn't just a match—it was a celebration of everything Málaga had worked for, a culmination of years of effort and struggle, all leading to this moment. Many of the local businesses had closed their doors after midday, allowing their employees to join in the event of a lifetime. For some, this was more than a game. It was a chance to be a part of something that could forever be etched in history.
The stadium itself felt different. La Rosaleda had always been a fortress, but today, it had the weight of dreams hanging over it. Fans swarmed around the gates, chanting, waving, and cheering. It was almost as if the air was charged, crackling with the energy of those who had waited so long for this opportunity. They weren't just fans—they were believers. The heartbeats of thousands of Málaga supporters reverberated in sync, each beat syncing with my own pulse.
Inside the stadium, the atmosphere was electric. The stands were packed, every seat filled with eager faces painted in blue and white. The chants grew louder as the minutes ticked down to kick-off. "¡Vamos, Málaga!" echoed through the stadium, followed by "¡El campeón está aquí!" The words were more than just chants—they were promises, declarations of faith in what the team had done and what we were about to do. The sea of blue and white banners swayed like waves, each one contributing to the grandeur of the occasion. Every single fan seemed to be alive with anticipation, knowing they were witnessing something historic.
As I made my way down the tunnel to the pitch, the excitement grew. The crowd's roar was deafening, their voices blending into an almost tangible sound that reverberated through the concrete walls. Every step I took brought me closer to the moment we had all been working for, the culmination of months of preparation, sweat, and sacrifice. My heart pounded in my chest, not from nerves, but from the raw anticipation of what was at stake. This wasn't just another match; this was the match that could secure our place in history.
I glanced around at the other players in the tunnel. Their faces were set in expressions of determination, but there was something else in their eyes—something that spoke to the weight of the occasion. Coach Pellegrini stood at the front of the line, his gaze unwavering as he met my eyes. In that moment, there were no words necessary. We all knew what was expected. There were no second chances, no room for mistakes. Today was the day that would define us, and we couldn't afford to let this moment slip away.
Coach Pellegrini's presence was a quiet reminder of the calm strength we needed. He had been the steady hand guiding us through every high and low, and now, as we approached the most important game in the club's history, he exuded a sense of calm assurance. His eyes were filled with pride, but also the fierce determination of a coach who had worked tirelessly to get us to this point. There was a silent understanding between us all—today, we played for the fans, for the club, and for each other. We played for the future of Málaga.
Stepping onto the pitch, the roar of the crowd hit me like a tidal wave. The stadium vibrated with the sound of thousands of voices chanting in unison, creating a rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart. The blue and white of the crowd seemed to stretch out forever, filling every corner of La Rosaleda. For a moment, I simply stood there, taking it all in—the sea of fans, the banners, the sense of purpose that filled the air. It was as if everything that had led to this moment had led to the collective hope of a city, a team, and a family. And it was in that instant that I realized: today was bigger than just a match.
I could see the faces of the supporters in the stands—the families with their children, the older generations who had lived through the ups and downs of Málaga's history. Some were singing, others clapping, but all of them were united by a common dream. They believed in us. They believed in the possibility of lifting that trophy, of making history.
Walking along the sideline, I caught sight of a little boy with his father, both wearing matching Málaga shirts. The boy's eyes were wide with excitement, his small hands clutching his father's tightly. His face was a mirror of hope, his wide smile reflecting the anticipation of the moment. It reminded me of the young fans I had met during my surprise visit to the school, of the children who had looked up to me as a symbol of something bigger. And now, it was time to be that symbol for them—time to make their dreams come true.
The whistle blew, signaling the start of the match, and the stadium erupted once more. The players took their positions, each of us fully aware of what we were playing for. The ball was passed, the game began, and the noise of the crowd seemed to fade as we focused on the task at hand. The first few minutes were a blur—everything felt amplified, the stakes higher than ever before. Every pass, every touch of the ball, felt like it carried the weight of history with it.
Almería's resolute defense was on full display. They sat deep in their half, with all 11 players behind the ball, clogging up the spaces and preventing us from making any inroads early on. It was clear that they had come with a tactical plan to absorb the pressure and strike on the counter, hoping to exploit any gaps in our defense.
The first few minutes saw us pushing forward relentlessly, with the crowd roaring in support every time we made a forward run. Griezmann, always a source of creativity, was pulling the strings in the midfield, weaving through the tightly packed Almería defense. I could feel the tempo rise as the game unfolded—the fans' energy was infectious, lifting us as we searched for a breakthrough.
As we passed the 10-minute mark, we started to show the kind of fluidity that had been drilled into us all season. Our quick, sharp passing kept Almería on the back foot, and they were forced into a number of desperate clearances. But for all our attacking pressure, we were still struggling to break down their wall. Every shot we took was either blocked or dealt with by their goalkeeper, a man in top form, making some crucial saves to keep the score level.
Then, in the 15th minute, the first true chance of the match arrived. Griezmann, always looking for that perfect pass, received the ball on the edge of the box. His body movement was slick, shifting effortlessly between Almería's defenders. I could see his head darting from side to side as he looked for an opening. With a deft flick, he lifted a perfectly timed cross over the defense, aiming for me at the far post.
I lunged to meet the ball, but as I reached it, a defender's outstretched leg intercepted the shot, sending the ball flying harmlessly into the goalkeeper's arms. The crowd groaned in frustration, but there was an air of belief among the fans—we were close. The pressure was mounting, and it was clear that if we kept pushing, something would give.
At this point, the game began to take on an almost feverish pace. Almería was relentless in their defending, diving into tackles with ferocity, blocking shots, and packing the box with bodies. The frustration started to build as we searched for that elusive goal, and Almería was happy to take advantage of any opportunity to disrupt our rhythm. In the 21st minute, a reckless challenge from an Almería midfielder on Griezmann led to a free kick in a dangerous area. The referee was quick to show a yellow card, and the fans let out a collective cheer. It was a rare break in Almería's defense, but we still needed to capitalize on the set piece.
Griezmann lined up for the free kick, the ball curling just wide of the post by inches, and the tension in the stadium was palpable. The roar of frustration that followed was quickly replaced by chants of encouragement, urging the team to keep going.
In the 27th minute, our breakthrough finally arrived. The move that had been building all half was about to culminate. A quick, precise pass from Isco found me just outside the penalty box. I took a touch to settle the ball, and the world around me seemed to slow down. I could feel the defender closing in, but I had a clear sight of goal. With a swift, fluid movement, I struck the ball cleanly, sending it curling toward the far corner of the net. The goalkeeper was left rooted to the spot, and the ball nestled into the net with a satisfying thud.
Goaaallll! 1-0 for Málaga!
The stadium erupted. The sound was deafening, like a wave crashing over the stands. The blue-and-white banners fluttered wildly in the wind, and the roar of the fans surged through the stadium, a collective release of pent-up excitement. I was mobbed by my teammates as we celebrated. The joy was infectious—tears were streaming down the faces of some of the older fans, their voices hoarse from singing, while the younger ones danced and cheered wildly. I raised my arms to the sky and shouted, "This is Málaga!" The crowd responded in kind, chanting my name in unison, "¡El Rey está aquí!"—"The King is Here!"
As I jogged back toward the center, my heart raced. The adrenaline from the goal surged through me, but I knew the job wasn't done. There was still over an hour of football left to play, and Almería was still dangerous on the counter. They would come at us with everything they had, and we had to remain focused.
The game continued at an incredible pace. Almería didn't relent. Their counterattacks were sharp and direct, and they were testing our defense with every opportunity. In the 35th minute, a quick ball over the top found an Almería striker in a one-on-one situation with our goalkeeper. The crowd gasped as the striker closed in, but our keeper stood firm, rushing off his line to block the shot with a brave, well-timed challenge. The relief was palpable; the tension in the stadium lifted slightly, but we all knew we couldn't let our guard down.
As the match wore on, Almería began to show signs of frustration. The referee handed out more yellow cards as their players became increasingly aggressive. A couple of fouls on me—one particularly nasty tackle in the 42nd minute—left me briefly winded, but I shook it off and got back up, determined to keep pushing. We were playing for something bigger than just a game—we were playing for history, for the dreams of every fan in this stadium.
The first half ended with the score still 1-0, but there was no mistaking the feeling of inevitability that hung in the air. We were the better team, and we could feel it. The locker room was filled with a quiet, focused energy as we listened to Coach Pellegrini's calm words of encouragement. "Keep the pressure high, stay disciplined. We have 45 minutes left to make this ours."
The second half would be a battle, but we were ready. The fans outside the stadium, just as passionate as we were, knew what was at stake. We were all in this together—every pass, every tackle, every shot.
The second half kicked off with the same intensity, but with a renewed sense of purpose. We knew that this was the moment. Almería, despite their relentless defending, couldn't keep up with our attacking power. We pressed high from the first whistle, our movements precise and fluid, determined to add to our slim 1-0 lead.
In the 55th minute, a breakthrough came—one that would seal our place in history. Joaquín, with his trademark pace and vision, picked up the ball near the halfway line. He quickly read the game, his experience showing as he skillfully glided past his marker. With a burst of speed, he sprinted down the right wing, leaving his defender trailing in his wake.
As Joaquín approached the penalty area, he glanced up and spotted me in the perfect position—unmarked, just inside the six-yard box. With a slight but deliberate look, Joaquín sent a cross sailing across the air, perfectly weighted and timed. The ball hung there for a fraction of a second, as if suspended in time. In that moment, the entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.
I adjusted my position, rising above the Almería defenders who were struggling to close me down. The ball met my head with the precision of a well-rehearsed move. With a sharp, powerful flick, I directed the ball toward the far post. The goalkeeper, rooted to the spot, had no chance as the ball curled into the net.
Goooaaallllll! The crowd erupted in a collective roar, and the stadium shook with the energy of the fans. The scoreboard flashed 2–0 in our favor, confirming what we all knew—this was no longer just a match. This was history in the making.
In the aftermath of the goal, my teammates rushed to embrace me. Griezmann was the first to reach me, his eyes filled with pride and excitement. He slapped me on the back, and Joaquín, with his customary grin, gave me a tight hug. We were a team, bound by this moment, a moment that would define our careers.
As I turned to face the stands, the sea of Málaga supporters was a sight to behold. There were tears in the eyes of many, and the chants of "¡Campeones!" echoed throughout the stadium. It was a feeling that was impossible to put into words. To see the people who had supported us through every high and low—this was the reward. It was more than just a goal; it was the culmination of years of hard work, struggle, and belief.
The game didn't slow down after that. Almería, though defeated, refused to back down without a fight. They launched a couple of counterattacks, desperate to find a way back into the match. In the 62nd minute, a quick break caught us off guard, and an Almería forward found himself with a clear shot at goal. However, our defense held firm. With a last-ditch challenge, our center-back cleared the ball off the line, preventing what could have been a nervy finish. The crowd exhaled collectively, but we remained composed, knowing that we were inches away from the greatest achievement in the club's history.
There were moments of brilliance, too. In the 70th minute, I received the ball in the middle of the pitch. With a flick of my boot, I evaded one defender, then another, before slipping a delicate pass to Griezmann. He danced around an incoming challenge, but his shot just skimmed past the post, missing by a whisker. The crowd groaned in disappointment, but we knew that another goal was coming.
Almería continued to fight valiantly. They pushed forward, trying to catch us on the break, but each time we shut them down with quick, disciplined counterpressing. The passing between me, Griezmann, and Joaquín was a thing of beauty—fluid, quick, and precise. Every attack we launched seemed to have a sense of inevitability, and though we didn't find the back of the net again, we were controlling the game.
As the match approached its final stages, the intensity only grew. Almería, clearly exhausted, were reduced to fouls in their attempts to break up our flow. A particularly harsh tackle on Griezmann in the 75th minute earned an Almería midfielder a yellow card, as the referee's whistle blew in quick succession. The crowd jeered, but we took the free kick with calm and precision, keeping possession as we worked the ball around to kill time.
With the final whistle approaching, the atmosphere was electric. The minutes felt like hours, but we held firm. The referee glanced at his watch, and then, at last, brought the whistle to his lips.
The sharp blast echoed throughout the stadium, signaling the end of the match.
2–0. Málaga had done it.
The field exploded in celebration. Fans rushed the pitch, their excitement uncontrollable. Strangers embraced, tears streamed down faces, and the blue and white flags waved high in the air. For a few seconds, I stood frozen, soaking in the sight of our supporters—my heart racing with joy, my mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. We had won the La Liga title.
I turned to my teammates. We had done it. We had made history.
I stood there, dazed, drinking in the scene. This was it. We had done it. Málaga CF were La Liga champions for the first time in history. I even ignored the familiar Ding! sound of notification that buzzed in my head.
Coach Pellegrini embraced several players as he rushed the center of the pitch, their faces glowing with elation. His voice choked with emotion. "We did this together, boys. every pass, every tackle, every goal—this victory is ours, and it belongs to every single one of you. I am proud to coach you all."
Before I could fully process it, my teammates swarmed around me. Griezmann clapped me on the back, grinning like a madman.
"Adriano! We did it! Do you hear that? They're chanting your name!" he yelled over the deafening noise.
I blinked, suddenly aware of the crowd surrounding me. The chants became clearer now:
"¡Rey Adriano! ¡Nuestro Héroe!"
("King Adriano! Our Hero!")
Before I could react, strong arms lifted me off the ground. I yelped in surprise as my teammates hoisted me onto their shoulders, parading me around the pitch like a conquering hero. The fans followed behind , laughing and cheering, while some threw flowers on us.
Joaquín, laughing breathlessly, looked up at me. "You better get used to this, amigo. The city is never going to forget what you did this season."
Samuel, running beside us, smirked. "Enjoy it, Adriano. Nights like this? They don't come often."
I could barely respond. It felt unreal. The floodlights, the roaring crowd, the scent of fresh grass mixed with the perfume of thousands of flowers being thrown onto the pitch—it was overwhelming. I stretched out my hands, brushing my fingers against the petals falling around me.
Among the crowd, an old man caught my eye. His wrinkled face was streaked with tears, but he was smiling. He clutched a Málaga scarf tightly, his knuckles white. When our eyes met, he pressed his fist to his heart and nodded.
That did it. A lump formed in my throat. This wasn't just a victory. This was history. We had given this city a memory that would last for generations.
A young boy, barely ten, darted through the crowd and grabbed my wrist. "Adriano, you're my hero!" he shouted, his voice trembling with excitement.
I leaned down, ruffling his hair. "No, kid—you're ours. This victory belongs to all of you."
Coach Pellegrini appeared beside us, clapping his hands to call the team together. His voice, hoarse with emotion, cut through the noise. " I thank the players and all our fans for this achievement. We couldn't have done it without your unrelenting support despite the odds. This victory belongs to all of us, and our young hero," he pointed towards me as I felt tears forming in my eyes.
The stadium shook with cheers from the response.
I have come a long way from a reject discarded by La Masia, and meant to disapper into obscurity and fade away. I have grown into to a good player, a hero who have taken a small team in La Liga to beat the giants like Real, Atletico and Barca, achieve unbelievable personal feats of 33 goals and 37 assists from 30 games, and take Malaga to win their first ever La Liga trophy.
And the best part, everybody acknowledged and agreed with that fact I was the one who made it happen mostly. I was no longer just a passing wonder, I have truly become a football star who made a mark on history and the record books! I could imagine the joy my parents must be feeling right now, I'm sure they are watching with a proud smile on their face.
I took a deep breath, then threw my fists into the air and roared, "¡Málaga, esto es para ustedes!"
("Málaga, this is for you!")
The explosion of sound that followed nearly knocked the breath out of me. I let myself go in the moment, cheering, laughing, basking in the euphoria of a dream realized. This was no longer just my journey—it was our triumph, our story, one that would be told for years to come.
Outside the stadium, the city of Málaga was alive with celebration. Crowds poured into the streets, their voices rising in triumphant chants. Cars honked, people danced, and banners fluttered in the night air. Everywhere I looked, I saw the joy and pride of a city that had waited a lifetime for this moment. It wasn't just a football match; it was a celebration of hope, resilience, and the power of unity.
Local news channels captured every moment. Reporters interviewed elated fans who couldn't stop crying and laughing at the same time. "I've never seen anything like this," one elderly supporter exclaimed, tears of joy streaming down his face. "Our boys did it! Málaga has won!" Social media exploded with hashtags like #MálagaChampions, #AdrianoMakesItReal, and #DreamComeTrue, each post a tribute to the historic victory.
I took a deep breath, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders. The celebration has been epic—more than I had ever imagined possible. It was a day of dreams fulfilled, of a city united, and of a team that had defied the odds. I looked around at my teammates, the memories of every intense training session and every battle on the pitch flashing before my eyes. In that moment, I knew that this victory was ours forever.
In the post-match press conference, Coach Pellegrini and several key players were interviewed. His voice, still trembling with emotion, carried the weight of the moment. "This victory is more than just a title—it's the result of our hard work, our unity, and our belief in each other," he said, eyes shining with unshed tears. My own thoughts drifted back to the moment I scored that decisive header, the surge of adrenaline, and the overwhelming feeling that I was exactly where I belonged.
Outside , the city of Malaga was still celebrating, and looks like they would continue the whole week as most places declared holiday for the next day. The city would never forget what thwy achieved today, for history isn't made evry day.
*** And there you go folks! Malaga is the winners of 2013-2014 La Liga ! I have never thought I would write this far when I started this fic on a whim. It's been a mixed journey, kinda like Adriano, with lots of supporters cheering me on, and some haters trying to hold me back.
I am thankful to all of you. I tried my best to capture a footballer's journey as real as possible while keeping the fiction in check, and I hope I have achieved at least 80% of that. I will try to improve further as I go on. Next chapter you will get a surprise with the system and 3rd template, look forward to it!
And Like Adriano said, "This one's for you all!" ***