The Atlético players stormed into the locker room, their expressions a mix of frustration and disbelief. Diego Simeone walked in last, his face unreadable, but the fire in his eyes was unmistakable. He clapped his hands twice—sharp, commanding. The room fell silent.
Diego Simeone :"What just happened out there?"
No one answered. The players exchanged glances, their breaths still heavy from the first-half battle.
Simeone stepped forward, his voice low but simmering with anger.
"We played our game. We defended well. We forced them into bad decisions. And yet, in one moment, we let a 14-year-old run through us like we were training cones."
His words hung in the air, heavy and cutting.
He turned to Gabi, Koke, and Tiago.
"Midfield! Where was the aggression? Where was the bite? You let him dance past you like a bullfighter teasing a bull!"
Then, his eyes locked onto Godín and Miranda.
"Defense! You let him waltz into our box. Oblak? You had no chance. None of you did."
A deep breath. A shift in tone.
"But listen to me."
He looked around the room, his stare piercing through every player.
"One goal does not change who we are. This is Atlético Madrid. We do not get humiliated. We do not let a child make us look like fools. We do not break!"
His fist slammed against the table.
"Second half—no mercy. If he dribbles, foul him. If he moves, shadow him. If he breathes, make it difficult for him. But we do not let him play. Understood?"
A collective nod. A shift in the energy.
"We finish this game the Atlético way—relentless, ruthless, and victorious. Now get out there and remind them who we are!"
The players roared in unison, clapping, fists pumping. As they walked back into the tunnel, their eyes burned with renewed determination.
The second half would not be kind.
__________
The referee's whistle barely faded before Atlético Madrid pounced. They weren't giving Espanyol a second to think, let alone play.
Peter Drury:
"And here we go! The second half is underway, and Atlético Madrid have come out like wolves sensing blood. There's no space, no time—Espanyol are suffocating under the sheer intensity of this press!"
Every time Nico Cruyff received the ball, the red and white shirts closed in like a collapsing wall. Gabi. Koke. Tiago. Juanfran. They weren't marking him—they were hunting him.
In the 47th minute, Nico spun away from one, only for another to crash into him. Foul.
In the 50th minute, he tried a give-and-go with Salva Sevilla, but before the return pass could reach him, Godín clattered through him. Another foul.
Guillem Balagué:
"This is brutal. Atlético Madrid have only one plan for Nico in this second half—foul him before he even gets going!"
In the 54th minute, Nico received a pass in midfield, already scanning for options. But before he could turn, three Atlético players charged at him. Koke caught his ankle. Tiago shoved him from behind. Nico hit the turf hard. The referee blew his whistle, but Simeone clapped on the sidelines—he approved.
Peter Drury:
"Oh my! Nico Cruyff is being treated like a criminal for simply trying to play football!"
Guillem Balagué:
"At this rate, he might need bodyguards instead of teammates!"
In the 58th minute, Nico finally found some space. He skipped past two challenges, gliding like a phantom, before another ruthless challenge from Miranda sent him sprawling. This time, the referee had seen enough—yellow card for Miranda.
But Atlético didn't care. They weren't here to play beautiful football. They were here to win.
And for the next 15 minutes, they made sure Espanyol, and especially Nico, suffered.
_____________
Enough was enough.
For 33 minutes, Nico Cruyff had been kicked, dragged, and trampled under Atlético Madrid's relentless physicality. They fouled him like it was part of their game plan—because it was. But in the 78th minute, Nico snapped. Not with words, not with complaints—with football.
Peter Drury:
"And here he goes—oh, my word! Nico Cruyff has had enough!"
A quick turn sent Koke the wrong way. A feint left Gabi lunging at thin air. Nico exploded forward, weaving through the heart of Atlético's midfield, dragging their structure into chaos.
Guillem Balagué:
"Oh, he's embarrassing them now! This is the kind of dribbling that breaks teams apart!"
Tiago lunged—Nico flicked the ball over his foot. Juanfran charged—Nico nutmegged him with a backheel. Godín rushed in—Nico dragged the ball past him with a single touch, not even looking at him.
Peter Drury:
"This is ridiculous! He's making them look like training cones!"
By now, the entire Wanda Metropolitano had risen to its feet. Even Atlético fans, despite their loyalty, couldn't help but watch in stunned admiration.
Then, just as Nico ghosted past Miranda, the defender had enough. A desperate lunge.
Nico felt the contact, his foot caught mid-step. He tumbled forward, rolling on the grass. The whistle blew. Foul.
A roar erupted. Yellow card for Miranda.
Guillem Balagué:
"You had to, didn't you? Because there was no other way to stop him!"
Nico sat up, a smirk on his lips as he dusted himself off. The scoreboard read 1-1. But now, there was a free kick.
32 meters out.
Peter Drury:
"And now… the question on everyone's mind: Is this his moment?"
________
Nico placed the ball down with surgical precision. The stadium trembled in anticipation. He took four steps back.
The camera panned to the Atlético Madrid fans—faces frozen in prayer, hands clasped together. They knew. They all knew.
Peter Drury:
"You can feel it, can't you? The hush, the held breath… because when Nico Cruyff stands over a free kick in a dangerous position… it's not a chance. It's a sentence."
The referee blew his whistle.
Nico took a breath. Then, he ran up.
A smooth, controlled strike—Invisible Hand.
The ball shot forward—then swerved left.
Oblak shifted his weight, eyes widening—then snapped right.
His gloves lunged—too late.
The net rippled.
Peter Drury:
"It moved like a ghost! Like it was carried by an unseen force! It is sorcery, it is mastery, it is… Nico Cruyff!"
2-1. Espanyol had turned it around.
Nico took off, sprinting past Atlético's broken line of defenders, arms spread wide, heading straight for the Espanyol supporters. He slid onto his knees, fists clenched, head thrown back—his usual celebration.
The away fans? Madness. The Atlético players? Defeated.
Guillem Balagué:
"Every time you think you've seen it all, he finds a new way to leave you speechless. Nico Cruyff—14 years old—writing his own legend."
________
The referee's whistle blew. Full-time.
Espanyol had done it. 2-1.
A stunned silence fell over the Wanda Metropolitano, interrupted only by the roar of the Espanyol supporters tucked in their corner of the stadium.
Peter Drury:
"A night to remember! A night where a 14-year-old stepped into the cauldron of the Wanda and left with the crown!"
The Atlético players looked drained, disbelieving. Diego Simeone stood on the touchline, arms folded, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
Nico, still catching his breath, made his way toward Koke. The Atlético captain gave him a knowing nod before pulling his shirt over his head and offering it.
Koke: "You're something else, kid."
Nico chuckled, exchanging his own jersey.
Nico: "Tough game. You guys don't let anyone breathe."
Koke smirked, shaking his head.
Koke: "That free kick… you're making life unfair for goalkeepers, you know that?"
Nico shrugged. "I just try to have fun."
They shook hands, and as Nico turned back toward his celebrating teammates, Koke called out—
Koke: "Enjoy Espanyol while it lasts, Cruyff. You won't be here for long."
Nico smiled but said nothing.
He didn't need to. His football was doing all the talking.
_________
As the Espanyol players celebrated near their section of the stadium, the cameras panned to the traveling supporters, still buzzing from Nico's Invisible Hand free kick.
A young woman, wrapped in an Espanyol scarf, turned excitedly to her boyfriend, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"Did you see that? I told you! I told you! If Nico gets a free kick from there, it's over!"
Her boyfriend, still clutching his head, let out a shaky laugh.
"I don't even know what I just watched… It's like the ball wasn't even real. How do you stop that? How does anyone stop that?"
A few rows down, a little boy in an oversized Espanyol jersey tugged on his older sister's sleeve, jumping up and down.
"Did you see it? Did you see it?! Nico's magic! He's like a wizard! I wanna do that when I grow up!"
His sister, barely able to contain her own excitement, ruffled his hair and grinned.
"You better start practicing now, little man. That wasn't just a goal… that was history."
a young boy in a worn-out Espanyol jersey sat beside his grandfather, who clutched a wooden cane with trembling hands. The old man had seen generations of football, but even he looked shaken by what he had just witnessed.
The boy turned to him, eyes shining with excitement.
"Abuelo, did you see Nico's first goal? Seven players! He dribbled past seven Atlético players like they were cones!"
The grandfather chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Seven? It felt like seventy! That boy moves like he was born with the ball at his feet. And the way he chipped Oblak…" He let out a low whistle. "Calm as you like, like a maestro conducting a symphony."
The boy grinned, fists clenched with excitement.
"I wanna play like that someday!"
The grandfather ruffled his hair, his eyes twinkling.
"Then you better start watching him closely, niño. Because what we saw today? That wasn't just talent… that was genius."
As the final whistle echoed through the Wanda Metropolitano, the Espanyol fans knew—they had just watched a legend in the making.
____________
After the match, Nico was exhausted. His body ached from all the tackles, but the adrenaline was still rushing through his veins. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment that free kick curled into the net.
With a small smile, he reached for his phone and called Aitana.
After a few rings, she picked up. "You really love scoring dramatic winners, huh?" she teased, her voice soft but filled with pride.
Nico chuckled. "You know me. Gotta put on a show."
"But are you okay?" she asked, concern slipping into her tone. "They were all over you the whole game."
He exhaled. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit sore, but that's nothing new."
She sighed. "I hate seeing you get kicked around like that."
Nico smirked. "That's the price of being great, princesa."
She laughed. "Fine, Mr. Great. But seriously, take care of yourself."
"I will." His voice softened. "Wish you were here, though."
Aitana was quiet for a moment. Then, almost shyly, she said, "Me too."
___________
After hanging up, Nico lay back on his bed, still feeling the rush from the match. His muscles ached, but the excitement of the win over Atlético kept him awake. He grabbed his phone and opened Instagram, curious about the reactions.
The first thing he saw was LaLiga's official account, posting a clip of his equalizer, dribbling past seven players, with the caption:
"A goal straight out of a video game. Nico Cryuff is unreal. 🎩🔥"
The comments were wild:
@barcacentre: "La Masia's prince doing his thing. What a player."@atleticomadrid (official account): "Sometimes, all you can do is applaud. 👏"@espanyolfc (official account): "OUR STAR. OUR PRINCE. 💙"@officialfifaworldcup: "At 14 years old. Insanity."@ysl: "Elegance on and off the pitch. 🖤⚽"
Then, he scrolled to another post from ESPN, showing a split-screen: one side was him dribbling past defenders, and the other was his free kick flying in at the last second.
Caption: "He's only 14. Let that sink in."
Some of the comments made him chuckle:
@rioferdy5: "14??? What are they feeding this kid??"@barcabloh: "Bro plays like he knows he's in a reincarnation novel."@laligaiconic: "When your body is 14 but your soul is 28."@culeplanet: "They say life is unfair, and then there's Nico Cryuff."
Nico smirked, shaking his head. He locked his phone and set it aside. This was only the beginning.
_________
Author's note : Vote if you like what you're reading , he will play against barcelona in the upcoming chapters . It'll be crazy , Do comment about things you dont like , so i can fix it in the upcoming chapters