The tunnel's roar was a living thing, hungry and electric. Femi Adeleye stood motionless in its maw, the frayed edges of his Lagos wristband brushing against the sweat-slick leather of his captain's armband. His heart thudded beneath ribs that still ached from the semifinal war, but his gaze never wavered from the glare of floodlights and the sea of faces at the end of the narrow corridor.
Beside him, Josip Van der Berg cracked his knuckles. "Ready to burn this place down?" he whispered, the smirk on his lips belying the tension in his eyes.
Femi said nothing. He didn't have to. The walls pulsated with 70,000 throats—Ajax chanting "Naija Jet!" in one corner, crimson flags snapping in the night breeze; Barcelona fans at the opposite end drumming "Guillén! Guillén!" like an ancient war call.
Out of the tunnel strode Marc Guillén, all effortless grace and predatory calm. In the space of a single breath he crossed the halfway line, flipped his hips, and slid onto the right wing—straight into Femi's domain. The two men paused for a heartbeat, assessment passing in their eyes. Then the referee's whistle cleaved the air and the final began.
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From the first whistle, Barcelona unleashed a relentless tide. The ball was alive, shifting from Delgado's feet to Gil's, back through Núñez and into Sanz—each pass a whispered threat, each movement choreographed to suffocate. Ajax's defenders chased air; even Josip's steel-hearted rushes found nothing but emptiness where the ball had been.
Guillén lingered in the pocket of space just beyond Femi's reach, watching. For four minutes he didn't touch the ball. He merely studied Femi's stance, tracked the rise and fall of his breaths. Then, as if a switch had flipped, Guillén ghosted past with the faintest smile and murmured, "You nervous yet, Jet?"
Femi's jaw tightened. "Not even close," he replied, voice low.
The first real threat arrived in the seventh minute. Enzo Duarte feinted down the left, then cut inside and curled a venomous shot toward the far post. Daan Visser launched himself full stretch, fingertips grazing the ball just enough to deflect it wide. The rebound fell invitingly to Pablo Medina—only for Ramon Dekker to hurl himself in front of the follow-up. Dekker's ribs absorbed the impact, and he went down in a gasp, pain flaring across his face.
"Hold the line!" Femi roared, yanking Dekker to his feet.
Guillén watched the chaos ripple through Ajax's back four. When the next recycling of possession pushed him forward, he seized it. Ten minutes in, he clipped the ball onto his left foot and flicked it inside, collecting Montoya's threaded pass. Femi stepped forward to cut off the angle. Guillén simply pirouetted away, sprinted, and left Femi lunging at empty pitch.
The stadium groaned; Guillén's grin gleamed in the floodlight glare. "Nice step, captain. Let's dance again."
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Twenty-one minutes in, Ajax found a spark. Josip thundered down the left flank, merciless as a runaway train, drawing a desperate foul from Esteban Díaz. Van Loon's free kick whipped into the penalty area. Sander Veenstra, whose thighs still shook from anxiety, leapt highest—only to see Alejandro Ramírez's outstretched fingers prod his header onto the post.
The Ajax faithful erupted in relief and fury. From that corner, Jacek Kowalski's delivery hovered, and Dekker met it with a nod, the header looping over the bar like a prayer unanswered.
Then Barcelona struck back on the counter. Guillén, sensing space, exploded into a breakaway. Femi sprinted ashore but from the first feint Guillén left him flat-footed. A lightning step past Willems stabbed the ball toward goal; only Willems's desperate slide, trailing studs and sweat, forced it just wide.
Femi ground his teeth. He's faster now. Cleaner.
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By minute 31, Ajax gathered itself and struck once more. Souleymane Traoré bulldozed through midfield, dragging defenders before laying the ball to Kowalski, who cut it back to Veenstra. The winger's shot—picture-perfect—skipped inches over the bar.
Guillén, hovering just beyond the fray, clapped slowly. "You needed the blonde," he taunted, nodding toward the unused Liam Janssen.
Femi whirled. "You need to stop talking," he growled.
But Guillén was far from done. As the clock tipped past 40 minutes, Barcelona seized control again. They slowed their tempo, coaxing Ajax into a lull, then Guillén struck like a cobra. He drifted inside, drew Femi's weight, then darted away, leaving a yawning gap. Dekker lunged, missed, and Guillén's square pass to Medina was a gift he needed only to tap in.
1–0 Barcelona.
Camp Nou detonated. Guillén jogged past Femi, breath warm in his ear. "You flinched."
Femi stood still, chest heaving. The final hadn't even reached halftime, and already Femi felt the weight of every gaze in the stadium.
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Souleymane refused to let his head drop. At the very edge of stoppage time, he bullied a loose ball across halfway, flicked to Kowalski, who spun and fired a low cross into the goalmouth. Sander Veenstra flung himself at it—but again, Ramírez was there, denying them.
Corner. Deep. Last chance before the break.
Then, like a bolt of lightning, the referee's whistle cut through the din. 1–0 at halftime.
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In the locker room, silence reigned. Visser sat on the bench, ice pressed to his shoulder. Dekker, stoic now, washed the blood from his ribs but refused to sit down. Josip dabbed at a cut on his eyebrow, smirking despite the swelling. Souleymane leaned against the wall, chest heaving, eyes burning.
Femi stood in the center of them, shoulders squared. Dekker hesitated. "I—I froze," he began.
Femi held up a hand. "We all flinched," he said, voice calm but hard as flint. "It ends now."
Bakker burst forward, eyes alight. He slammed a fist into the whiteboard until cracks spidered across its surface. "They think they've broken us!" he roared. "Show them how wrong they are!"
Femi nodded and turned to the squad. "Second half," he said, and looked each man in the eye, "we don't play football. We take ground."
Josip's grin split his face. "Let's f**king go."
A hush fell as they absorbed every word. Then they filed out—ready to finish the fight.
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To be continued in Chapter 18: The Final – FINALE