Atlético Madrid was completely overwhelming Dani Alves.
Barcelona's bench had noticed. The manager's face tightened with real concern as he watched his right-back being dismantled.
Tito Vilanova leaned in beside him. "Should we slide Busquets over to help cover the left?"
The manager shook his head.
They were already losing. They couldn't afford to weaken the center just to patch up one flank. "We'll adjust at halftime. Right now we just need to hold on..."
Before he could finish, his expression froze.
"Goddamn it..."
...
On the pitch, Atlético won the ball in midfield and immediately launched a lightning-fast counter.
The move funneled down the left side.
Griezmann, Shane, Koke, and Filipe Luís all surged forward together. Shane played a quick pass to Griezmann, who returned it with a sharp one-two. The combination was perfect.
Shane exploded past Alves.
By the time the Brazilian turned, Shane was already gone. Alves gritted his teeth and chased desperately, his legs burning.
At the same time, Gerard Piqué stepped out to cut off the danger. Shane dropped his left shoulder, feinted, then cut sharply inside.
He arrived at the edge of the penalty area with a clear sight of goal. The moment was there. He planted his foot, ready to shoot.
In that split second, his peripheral vision caught Alves flying in from behind, eyes wild with pure fury.
Shane didn't hesitate. He abandoned the shot, gave the ball a tiny nudge forward, and jumped vertically.
Even with his special protection against serious injury, he wasn't about to let a deranged Alves snap his leg.
Behind him, Alves was completely lost to rage.
"I'll end you! You bastard!"
After all the humiliations, something inside the Brazilian had snapped. His body, fueled by exhaustion and fury, launched forward with terrifying intent.
"ALVES!"
The commentators cried out in horror.
Everyone could see what was coming. If those studs landed cleanly on a planted ankle at that speed, it would be devastating.
On the touchline, Simeone's eyes widened with fury. If Shane got seriously hurt, he would make sure Alves paid for it.
On the Atlético bench, players jumped up, teeth clenched.
In the away end, Atlético fans screamed in terror—only to be drowned out by the bloodthirsty roar from the Camp Nou crowd.
"Break him!"
"Take out the leg!"
"End his season!"
To them, it didn't matter that Shane was Spain's star. He was the enemy.
...
"Die!"
Alves launched a two-footed, studs-up tackle straight at Shane's ankle.
The impact happened in a flash.
Shane felt the heavy contact just as he left the ground. The force knocked him off balance and sent him crashing to the turf.
Even as he fell, Shane let out a quiet breath of relief.
Acceptable.
Jumping at the last moment had saved him. Because his foot wasn't planted, the energy of the tackle mostly just shoved his leg sideways instead of shattering the joint. It hurt like hell, but nothing was broken.
He rolled smoothly across the grass to kill the momentum.
For a brief moment, a dark flash of satisfaction crossed Alves's face. That should keep you out for months, you prick.
But as the adrenaline faded, reality hit him.
He quickly sat on the ground and started gesturing to the referee—waving his hands, claiming the tackle was clean, even trying to suggest Shane had dived.
It was a pathetic attempt.
Anyone with eyes could see he had completely missed the ball and gone straight for the man.
The referee stormed toward him.
Barcelona players immediately swarmed, pleading for leniency, claiming it wasn't intentional.
But everyone knew the truth. It was a malicious tackle from behind.
Alves stood up slowly. He walked over to Shane, who was still on the ground, and offered a hand with fake sportsmanship.
"How does your leg feel now, kid?" he hissed quietly, scanning Shane's face for signs of agony.
Instead, Shane turned and looked up at him with a completely calm expression.
"The only thing I'm thinking," Shane said coldly, "is that you're about to get sent off. And while you're watching from the tunnel, I'll be putting the free kick into your net."
Shane stood up smoothly, tested his ankle with a quick rotation, and gave a faint smile.
Behind Alves, the referee raised the red card high into the air.
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