"This is your ride?"
Carter stared down at the blindingly pink scooter. It was ridiculously small.
"Hey, this thing packs a 125cc engine," Ana said, wrinkling her nose. She handed him a bright pink helmet. "Put it on."
A pink scooter.
A pink helmet.
Carter had absolutely zero experience dealing with this kind of situation.
He bit the bullet, strapped the ridiculous helmet onto his head, and gingerly climbed onto the pillion seat.
Because the scooter was so compact, Carter tried to slide as far back as physically possible, leaving half of his backside hanging off the rear fender just to maintain a respectful distance from Ana.
"Sit closer, you're going to fall off," Ana scolded, the tips of her ears turning slightly pink.
She was seventeen. This was the closest she had ever been to a boy, too.
Vroom.
The tiny pink scooter sputtered to life and rolled out of the parking lot.
Up above, a dozen Atlético Madrid players pressed their faces against the locker room window, watching with absolute, soul-crushing envy.
"So... you actually hit him?"
"Yeah, I slapped him a few times. I wanted to use a closed fist, but breaking his nose probably would have landed me in actual legal trouble." Carter shrugged regretfully. "The rule of law saved that guy's life."
"Good!" Ana clapped her hands, throwing a tiny punch into the air. She bit her lower lip, looking ferociously adorable.
"And then Real Madrid kicked me out of their academy."
Carter laughed.
"Thank God they did. Otherwise, how would Atlético have ever signed you?" Ana curled up on her living room sofa, giggling. "We got so lucky."
"It worked out for me, too. I didn't have to travel anywhere else for trials. Though, when Germán Burgos first showed up, I thought he was a mobster trying to scam me."
The two of them talked for hours.
When Carter finally stood up to leave, Ana smiled confidently.
"I have the concept. The melody needs to be distinctly Southern European. Melodic, but easy to shout. The lyrics... hmm... that will take a little more work."
She held up one finger. "Give me one week. Exactly one week."
"That fast?"
Ana tapped her nose. "I told you. I am a musical genius."
"Then I look forward to witnessing your genius," Carter smiled.
Director Aguilera was completely right.
Once they actually spent time together and got familiar, the awkwardness vanished entirely.
The next morning.
Carter walked into the locker room, instantly feeling the burning glares of twenty grown men.
"Hey. Why are you guys looking at me like that?"
Saúl Ñíguez silently held up a newspaper.
It was the Madrid Fashion Daily, a notorious local tabloid.
The headline screamed in bold ink: THE DAUGHTER OF MADRID'S NEW BOYFRIEND? ATLÉTICO PRODIGY SHANE CARTER?
"New boyfriend? Where the hell did they get that?" Carter blinked.
Saúl pointed to the sub-heading.
Teenagers spend four hours alone in a private residence!
"Four hours! Four straight hours! You absolute animal!"
Koke ambushed him from behind, grabbing Carter by the shoulders and violently shaking him.
"How did a delicate flower like the Daughter of Madrid end up with a brute like you?!"
Ana was a beloved national treasure. The entire country had watched her grow up on television. She had millions of protective fans.
Seeing her scooped up by a giant American teenager was driving the tabloids insane.
"It's... it's not what you guys think," Carter quickly tried to explain.
Saúl let out a massive sigh of relief, turning to the rest of the squad. "See? I told you guys there was no way he could last four hours."
Huh?
Carter stared at him, completely derailed.
Your reading comprehension is absolutely psychotic, bro.
After Carter finally explained the actual situation, the locker room collectively realized what was going on.
"Honestly, just having her write a song for you is enough to make me hate you," Koke groaned, dramatically holding his head.
Then, his expression smoothly transitioned into a shameless grin.
"Can you get me her autograph next time?"
Carter stared at the midfielder's flawless, zero-hesitation pivot.
If I had his acting skills, I wouldn't have to reshoot that damn commercial next week, Carter thought.
For the next few days, Carter's routine became incredibly simple: Train, text Ana, train again.
Five days later, right before the squad traveled to face Sevilla, Carter returned to Ana's house.
"The night wind sweeps across Madrid..."
"He conquers the pitch, he raises the flag..."
"A curving strike, an immortal song..."
The opening was lyrical, slow, and melodic.
Then, the tempo surged.
"CAAAAAAARRRRRTEERRRR!!!"
"CAAAAAAARRRRRTEERRRR!!!"
"CAAAAAAARRRRRTEERRRR!!!"
The rhythm exploded into a high-octane war cry.
When the final crescendo faded, the girl's voice dropped, shifting into a low, almost whispered finale.
"You are the Pride of the Calderón..."
"The Pride of the Calderón..."
"The Pride of the Calderón."
Carter sat frozen, staring at the teenage girl as she finished singing.
This was completely different from any football chant he had ever heard.
It started like a passionate ballad, accelerated into a terrifying stadium roar, and then slowly drifted back down into a quiet serenade.
It was simple, evocative, and wildly infectious. After hearing it just once, Carter already knew how to sing it.
"Hey. Earth to Shane. How is it?"
Ana waved her hand in front of Carter's face.
Seeing him staring blankly at her, the tips of her ears began to flush pink again.
Carter snapped out of his trance.
"It's beautiful," he said honestly.
"Good," Ana smiled, visibly relieved. "Let's go find Samuel and the ultras. I want to see what they think."
The song echoed through the empty stands of the Vicente Calderón.
When the ultra leaders finished singing the chorus together, their faces lit up with pure shock and excitement.
The shifting tempo made it incredibly unique. It allowed the stadium to build tension before exploding into the chorus.
"I have goosebumps just thinking about ninety thousand people singing this," Samuel muttered.
"Let me lead the chant on the megaphone!" Ana raised her hand, practically vibrating with excitement.
For the next few days, the heavy hitters of the Frente Atlético and other ultra groups secretly distributed the lyrics and melody to their members, preparing for the debut.
Meanwhile, Carter traveled with the squad to Andalusia.
La Liga, Matchweek 25. Atlético Madrid away at Sevilla.
This was a brutal "Top Four" six-pointer.
Sevilla was a historic giant of Spanish football. Sitting just below the Real Madrid-Barcelona duopoly, the Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán was a terrifying fortress.
The match was an absolute bloodbath.
The deadlock held until the seventieth minute.
Carter unleashed a venomous long-range strike, forcing the Sevilla keeper to tip it out for a corner.
Carter took the ensuing kick, whipping it to the back post. Godín headed it back across the face of goal, and Falcao tapped it in.
One-nil.
Atlético parked the bus and ground out an ugly, economical victory, stealing three massive points from Andalusia.
Carter didn't score.
But his suffocating midfield control earned him Man of the Match honors anyway.
Upon returning to Madrid, Carter used his mandatory day off to finish his corporate obligations.
This time, Director Aguilera was thrilled.
"Incredible, Shane! I finally see the fire in your eyes!" Aguilera laughed from behind the monitor.
"These prints are going to be plastered across every flagship store in Europe by next month."
With the commercial wrapped, Atlético prepared for their next war.
The UEFA Europa League, Round of 16.
The opponent: Turkish giants Besiktas.
Before kickoff, the broadcast cameras swept through the Fondo Sur and locked onto Ana Mena standing in the front row with the ultras.
When her face flashed on the stadium jumbotron, the entire Calderón erupted, chanting Carter's name.
The girl blushed furiously, pulling her scarf up over her chin.
"The biggest news in the Madrid tabloids this week has been the rumored romance between Shane Carter and Ana Mena. Her presence in the ultra section tonight certainly pours gasoline on that fire," the Spanish commentator noted.
Down in the stands, Samuel huddled with the other capos.
"Do we sing it now? As soon as the DJ reads his name?"
"No, no, no," Samuel shook his head. "We wait. We wait until he scores or assists. It has to be earned."
"What if he doesn't?"
"Are you joking? It's Carter."
"Just wait. He will score."
Ana listened to the ultras, her eyes locked onto the giant American teenager warming up on the pitch.
He was only eighteen, yet tens of thousands of hardened men placed their absolute, unquestioning faith in him.
She turned to the capos. "Samuel is right. He will score!"
Down on the grass, Carter scanned the stands.
He knew Ana was in the Fondo Sur, but the sea of red and white was too dense to spot her. He simply raised his hand and waved toward the section.
Ana's heart skipped a beat.
She knew he couldn't see her, but she felt exactly who that wave was meant for.
She stood up, leaned over the railing, and screamed into the Madrid night.
"VAMOS, SHANE!"
Before the match, the Spanish press predicted an easy home win for Atlético.
But European knockout football is never simple.
Besiktas had no intention of rolling over. Turkish clubs possess a terrifying trump card: their home stadium.
The Inönü Stadium in Istanbul was universally recognized as one of the most hostile cauldrons on the planet.
In 2007, against Liverpool, the Besiktas fans set a world record by generating 132 decibels of pure, unadulterated noise.
Traveling to Turkey for the second leg was going to be a nightmare.
Away teams routinely suffered psychological warfare: fireworks outside the hotel at 3 AM, buses surrounded by flare-wielding mobs, and the constant paranoia of hotel staff poisoning the pre-match meals.
The Besiktas manager knew exactly what he was doing.
If they could secure a draw—or even a narrow one-goal loss—at the Calderón, they could drag Atlético into the Turkish hellscape for the second leg and destroy them.
The tactical blueprint was obvious.
Park the bus. Survive.
From the opening whistle, Besiktas dropped all eleven men behind the ball, completely surrendering the midfield.
"This is the ultimate test of Atlético's ability to break down a low block," Ian Darke noted on the broadcast.
The camera locked onto Carter.
The ball arrived at his feet.
He looked up and saw a suffocating, impenetrable wall of black and white shirts clogging the final third.
Trying to thread intricate short passes through that maze was pure fantasy.
The other option was bombing crosses from the flanks, but without a towering target man, the success rate was abysmal.
There were only two universal skeleton keys for breaking a low block.
Drawing fouls on the edge of the box.
And long-range artillery.
After five minutes of probing the Besiktas shape, Carter had seen enough.
Sixth minute.
Carter drove the ball forward, firing a crisp vertical pass into Falcao's feet.
Carter instantly sprinted horizontally across the face of the box.
Falcao shielded his defender and laid it off perfectly into Carter's path.
Without breaking stride, Carter opened his hips and whipped his right foot through the ball.
"Carter... pulls the trigger!"
The ball launched into the Madrid sky.
It traced a sickening, curling trajectory, bending completely around the wall of Turkish defenders.
The Besiktas goalkeeper stood rooted to his line, completely paralyzed.
SWISH.
The ball nestled violently into the side netting.
The impregnable low block?
It lasted exactly six minutes.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!"
"SHAAAAAAAANE CAAAAAARRRTEERRR!!!"
"Absolute perfection! A curling dagger from outside the box that bypasses the entire defense!"
"One-nil! Atlético Madrid draw first blood inside six minutes!"
As the commentary booth exploded, Carter watched the ball drop into the net.
He spread his arms wide and sprinted directly toward the Fondo Sur.
He leaped onto the advertising hoardings, standing tall before the militant heart of the Calderón, soaking in the deafening roar.
And then, he saw her.
Standing in the front row, Ana spread her arms wide, leading the thousands of ultras around her.
"The night wind sweeps across Madrid..."
"He conquers the pitch, he raises the flag..."
"A curving strike, an immortal song..."
The melody started slow, rippling through the South Stand.
And then... the crescendo hit.
"CAAAAAAARRRRRTEERRRR!!!"
"CAAAAAAARRRRRTEERRRR!!!"
"CAAAAAAARRRRRTEERRRR!!!"
The terrifying, high-octane roar instantly dominated the stadium.
At first, only the hardcore ultras knew the words.
But the rhythm was so infectious, so primal, that the entire stadium organically caught the beat.
In the broadcast booth, the Spanish commentator stopped speaking, pulling off his headset to listen.
"They are debuting a brand new anthem for Shane Carter..." he murmured in awe. "This is going to become an absolute classic."
As the roaring chorus faded, the melody dropped back down into a haunting, rhythmic serenade.
"You are the Pride of the Calderón..."
"The Pride of the Calderón..."
"The Pride of the Calderón."
The loop restarted.
This time, it wasn't just the South Stand.
Fifty thousand people inside the Vicente Calderón sang it in unison.
Hearing the spine-tingling roar of his own name, Carter's teammates swarmed him on the advertising board, slapping his back and ruffling his hair.
"You lucky bastard..."
"What an unbelievable song!"
"I already have it stuck in my head, hahaha!"
"Let's go! Let's bury them! Get another one!"
As Carter jogged back to the center circle, he looked up at the Fondo Sur and flashed a massive grin.
Driven by pure adrenaline, he raised his hand and blew a flying kiss toward the stands.
The broadcast camera immediately cut to Ana Mena in the crowd.
The teenager's face was completely flushed red.
But she couldn't stop herself from smiling.
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