Rain tapped steadily against the roof of the stadium as the second half of extra time began. Femi Adeleye sat on the bench, a towel draped over his shoulders, heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and urgency. His boots were soaked, his legs heavy—but his mind was still in the match. He scanned the field, eyes darting across positions, searching for the gap.
Josip Van der Berg was a whirlwind down the left. Minutes ago, he thought he'd won it. A bursting run, a clean finish, a scream of joy—and then the flag went up. Offside. The entire Ajax bench deflated. Josip looked furious, his fists clenched as he jogged back.
"We go again!" Liam Janssen yelled from midfield, voice hoarse.
From 110 to 115 minutes, Ajax pushed. Liam, Yassine, and Timo drove the ball forward with every drop of energy left in them. Jacek dropped deep, pulling defenders out of shape. Souleymane fought tooth and nail against the towering centre-backs. But the wall held.
Femi stood, wobbling slightly. He saw it. A sliver of space behind Heerenveen's right back. He turned toward the bench, shouting through the downpour.
"The gap! Right side of their box, when they shift left—it's always open!"
Coach Bakker spun, following Femi's gesture. "Push Josip higher! Liam—drag them central first!"
The ball moved. Ajax circulated it with trembling boots. Josip, now nearly a left winger, received the ball wide. He hesitated, remembering Femi's shout. He feinted inside, cut left, and whipped in a low pass. A defender's touch deflected it. Liam pounced, struck it low—saved!
But Yassine Bouali had gambled.
He surged in and slammed the rebound into the net.
2–1. Ajax.
The bench erupted. Femi leapt from his seat, barely able to stay on one leg, limped onto the pitch when the whistle blew. Liam hugged him. Timo tackled him playfully. Josip approached slowly, sweat and rain dripping down his face.
He offered a hand.
"You saw it before any of us," he said, voice low.
Femi shook it.
No words needed.
Across the pitch, Elias Rikken stood frozen. He had nothing left. All his brilliance, all his goals—undone. He walked alone toward the tunnel, soaked and silent.
Then came the voice.
"You made them work, kid."
Rikken turned. A tall man in a grey coat stepped from the shadows, umbrella steady.
"Real Madrid. We've been watching. You ready for a bigger stage?"
Rikken's eyes narrowed, a spark reigniting.
He didn't answer. But the game wasn't over. Not for him.