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Oblak bellowed toward Saúl as he watched the ball sail out for a throw-in.
Saúl knew the mistake was his. He raised a hand in apology—a misjudged header that could have cost them everything. If Oblak hadn't anticipated the danger and charged off his line, that error might have decided the match.
On the touchline, Simeone was furious. He jabbed a finger at his temple, screaming at his players. Focus. Stay calm. Don't be reckless.
Half angel, half devil.
Saúl, who had nearly gifted Barcelona the winner, was about to create Atlético's golden opportunity.
Alba stood at the touchline, preparing a long throw into the box. Godín rose first, claiming position, and headed the ball clear. It dropped toward Saúl on the flank.
This time, Saúl didn't misjudge. He controlled before Umtiti could close him down, cut past the defender, and launched a long ball toward the front.
Honestly, it looked more like a clearance than a pass.
Eighty-third minute.
Saúl's clearance-turned-pass flew toward midfield. The trajectory was strange—low, fast, driven with tremendous force. André, positioned near the centre circle ready to contest, didn't even touch it. The ball sailed over his head toward the attacking half.
But that miss gave him time to accelerate.
André exploded into a sprint. To avoid Busquets's tricks, he deliberately took a wider arc when turning, circling around his marker rather than engaging him directly.
Four players converged on the dropping ball. Three wore Barcelona shirts: Busquets, Piqué, and Lenglet. Only André represented Atlético.
Lenglet was closest. Everyone instinctively assumed the chance was gone.
Three seconds later, they abandoned that thought entirely.
Once free of Busquets, André hit top speed. The man who had been furthest from the ball was suddenly, visibly, the closest. The gap closed with terrifying velocity.
Lenglet's expression shifted from relaxed to horrified in the space of a heartbeat.
André reached the ball first. A delicate toe-poke, then a slight leap to clear Lenglet's desperate sliding challenge.
But he couldn't break into the box.
Piqué arrived from the side and clattered into him, sending André sprawling.
The referee's whistle shrieked.
Yellow card. Piqué didn't argue—he knew he was lucky. A stricter official might have shown red. If he hadn't fouled, André would have been through on goal.
Piqué offered his hand and pulled André to his feet.
Eighty-fifth minute. Atlético had a direct free kick, roughly twenty-six metres out, slightly left of centre.
Griezmann usually took Atlético's attacking set pieces.
Ter Stegen wasn't surprised to see the Frenchman standing over the ball. Even when André walked back from the crowd of players jostling in the box, exchanged a few words with Griezmann, and positioned himself beside the ball, the Barcelona players assumed it was a decoy run.
André had scored free kicks in the Segunda División, but he'd never taken one in La Liga since joining Atlético. In Ter Stegen's mind, Griezmann would be the one striking the ball.
The wall was arranged accordingly.
What Barcelona didn't know was the conversation that had just taken place.
"Antoine. I'll take this one. They won't expect it."
"You sure?"
"Trust me. They definitely won't expect me."
Griezmann considered for a moment, then nodded. He'd seen André's technique in training—the kid had a wicked dead ball. He just never asked to take them.
Griezmann glanced toward the touchline. Simeone gave a thumbs-up.
"Want me to cover for you?"
"Yeah. I'll start my run first. They'll focus on you."
While Barcelona nervously organised their wall, the Atlético players—knowing André would strike—harassed and distracted the defenders.
The referee blew his whistle.
André began his run-up. After a few steps, Griezmann also started moving toward the ball. Ter Stegen's eyes locked onto the Frenchman. So did the wall's.
What happened next left Barcelona in shock.
André—the decoy they'd dismissed—arrived at the ball and swung his right foot. To them, it looked like a dummy, a feint to let Griezmann strike.
But André's foot didn't sweep over the ball.
It connected.
The ball took flight instantly, bending with a vicious curve that kissed the edge of the wall and arced toward the left side of the goal. As it crossed the line of the crossbar, it dipped sharply—a knuckleball effect that made it almost impossible to judge.
Ter Stegen, wrong-footed and slow to react, stretched out a hand. A token gesture. His head turned to watch the ball nestle into the corner of the net.
2-1 Atlético Madrid.
Eighty-sixth minute.
André wheeled away and embraced Griezmann.
"Told you they wouldn't expect me."
"And it was a beautiful strike, too."
The Camp Nou fell silent.
Ninety-eight thousand Barcelona supporters, stunned into disbelief.
Twenty thousand Atlético fans, absolutely delirious.
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