"For the next phase, we overload the left flank!"
As the unofficial manager on the pitch, Shane Carter had full authority to make real-time tactical changes. His teammates accepted the instruction without hesitation.
Shane's decision wasn't purely emotional, even if pissing off Dani Alves was a nice bonus. There were two clear tactical reasons.
First, the left side was Lionel Messi's territory. Flooding that zone let Atlético double down on restricting the Argentine.
Second, Alves had shown his hand. The moment a player starts diving and playing the dark arts, it usually means he no longer believes he can beat you with football. To Shane, that was a massive weakness he could exploit.
When opponents got desperate and dirty, their focus always slipped.
...
"That was a dive! Clear simulation!" Diego Simeone exploded.
He jabbed an angry finger toward the big screen, shouting at the fourth official.
The fourth official listened to Simeone's tirade while speaking into his earpiece with the referee.
The replay on the stadium monitors was painfully clear.
Shane had won the ball cleanly. Only after the ball was gone did Alves throw himself down dramatically. The only contact had come from Alves dragging his boot across Shane's stationary leg.
The referee felt a wave of irritation. He shot a sharp glare toward Alves.
The Brazilian's reputation for diving was well known. He just hadn't expected it to be used against him so blatantly.
...
Shane didn't waste time studying the referee's face. The whole stadium had seen the replay. Even with the yellow card hanging over him, he actually felt freer now.
As long as he didn't do anything stupid, the referee was unlikely to send him off in front of two hundred broadcast cameras. The official had already made one mistake and would be extra careful.
Three minutes later, Shane found himself in another 1v1 against Alves.
This time, Shane was the one pressing.
He dropped his shoulder, threw his body into Alves to knock him off balance, then planted his studs firmly on the bridge of the Brazilian's foot while cleanly taking the ball.
Alves screamed and collapsed to the ground, rolling around theatrically.
Shane casually pushed the ball forward a few meters and waited for the whistle.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The second time Alves hit the deck, the referee hesitated. He only blew the whistle after getting a prompt from the assistant.
Barcelona players immediately swarmed the referee.
"Hey! That was a foul! Yellow card!"
"You have to book him!"
They knew exactly how dangerous a player on a yellow could be and tried to force a second booking.
But the referee waved them away aggressively. He wasn't falling for it twice. After already being tricked by Alves once, and with the whole world watching, he didn't have the nerve to send Shane off for something so borderline.
Shane left the ball at the spot of the "foul" and jogged back.
As he passed the still-recovering Alves, he covered his mouth and spoke quietly:
"That's what a real foul feels like, old man."
Alves's face twisted with pure rage. His foot was throbbing, and the venom in his eyes could have killed someone.
Shane didn't even flinch. He dropped back into position and calmly told Gabi, "Keep the pressure on their right."
"That guy…" Alves muttered under his breath.
"Irrelevant," Shane replied with a faint smile. Thanks to his special condition, pain barely registered. He had zero fear. "His head is about to explode."
...
Over the next twenty minutes, the game turned into a brutal flank battle—Atlético hammering down the left, Barcelona pushing down the right.
Barcelona's attack lived and died with Messi.
Atlético's flowed entirely through Shane.
As a result, Shane and Alves kept colliding in the same areas over and over.
Whether by design or instinct, Shane kept demanding the ball, isolating Alves, and using his superior technique and athleticism to torture the Brazilian.
"Oh… Alves beaten again by Shane!"
"Drag-back… nutmeg! Alves is struggling badly!"
Alves was bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air.
Shane had targeted his zone relentlessly—constant duels, explosive sprints, sharp changes of direction. Every measurable category—technique, speed, stamina—Alves was coming up short.
Shane was running hard but still looked fresh.
Alves felt like his lungs were burning out.
The constant humiliation was eating away at him. His pride, his ego, and the street-hardened mentality from his favela days began to surface.
A dark, dangerous anger started to take over.
His desire for revenge was growing stronger by the minute.
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