In the split second before the red card went up, the entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.
"Holy shit! That was a leg-breaking tackle!"
"Fuck Alves!"
"Goddamn it! Is Shane okay?!"
"Please tell me he's not seriously hurt!"
Across the world, whether they were Atlético fans, neutral viewers, or even some Chinese supporters glued to their screens, the reaction was the same—pure disgust at what Dani Alves had just done.
Inside Camp Nou, Diego Simeone's face twisted with rage.
"You bastard! I'll kill you, Brazilian!" he roared.
The Argentine manager clenched his fists and charged past the technical area, storming straight toward Alves. His assistant, Germán Burgos, barely managed to wrap both arms around him and hold him back.
"Calm down, Diego! Calm down!"
Burgos could stop Simeone, but he couldn't stop the rest of the Atlético squad.
For a brief moment, every Atlético player—on the pitch and on the bench—froze when the tackle landed. Then their fury exploded. With fists clenched and eyes blazing, they surged toward Alves.
Barcelona players immediately formed a human wall, trying to shield their teammate. They knew if the Atlético players reached him, things would get ugly.
Fernando Torres, wearing a substitute bib, was screaming bloody murder from the sidelines.
Xavi desperately wrapped his arms around his Spain teammate. "Fernando! Relax! You need to calm down!"
"Calm down? I'm going to rip him apart!"
It was rare to see Torres this furious—he was usually one of the calmer guys.
"Oh my God… we've got a full-scale brawl breaking out here!"
"Players and staff from both sides are involved. The pitch has completely lost control…"
In the commentary boxes, the analysts watched their monitors with grim expressions. Maybe this kind of chaos was the only way to truly show how intense this La Liga title race had become.
At that exact moment, everyone was focused on one thing: Was Shane Carter okay?
Then Shane stood up.
He looked completely fine. Not just fine—he even shot Alves a mocking glance. He was totally unharmed.
The entire stadium seemed to glitch for a second.
Even the Atlético medical team and stretcher crew, who had sprinted onto the pitch, skidded to a stop and stared at him in disbelief.
The commentators were equally shocked. "Shane… he's not injured? After a tackle like that?"
Given how violent Alves's challenge had looked, everyone expected the worst. It wasn't until the referee finally raised the red card that the whole stadium seemed to breathe again.
"Red card! Dani Alves has been sent off! From the moment he went in from behind like that, this was inevitable. It's the correct decision… but somehow Shane looks completely okay?"
Alves stood there staring at Shane, stunned.
He had sacrificed himself with a red card, fully intending to take Shane out for months. And yet here the kid was, standing tall without a scratch.
But Alves being Alves, he quickly switched tactics.
"Ref! Ref! Hey! He's not even hurt! I didn't touch him! I missed completely!" he shouted, waving his arms frantically.
Hearing it, Shane almost burst out laughing. He just shrugged toward the overhead camera in pure exasperation.
At the same time, the global broadcasts switched to slow-motion replay.
When viewers saw Shane's quick jump right before impact, a collective sigh of relief swept through the audience.
"Thank God Shane reacted in time…"
"That was incredible awareness…"
"Alves's tackle was completely unacceptable! That red card should come with extra punishment!"
As the replays rolled, the chaos on the pitch slowly started to calm. The logic was simple: the target was unharmed, Alves was off, and Atlético had come out on top. It was a perfect result.
For everyone except Barcelona, that is.
The Atlético doctor still reached Shane and began checking him thoroughly.
"I'm fine," Shane said.
"That's not for you to decide," the doctor replied firmly. "I need to check anyway. That tackle looked horrific."
He pressed different spots. "Pain here?"
"Nope."
"Here?"
"Nothing."
"And here?"
"Just a little."
The doctor's eyes widened in panic. "What kind of pain?"
"The kind you get when someone pokes you," Shane said dryly.
The doctor wiped sweat from his forehead. "Don't joke around during a medical check, please."
Shane let out a short laugh. "Haha, okay."
The doctor shook his head at the eighteen-year-old. As long as there was no real damage, everything was good. He finally stepped away.
On the touchline, a massive weight lifted off Simeone's shoulders. He still glared at Alves as the Brazilian walked off.
"This isn't over!" Simeone shouted, rolling up his sleeves. If his staff hadn't kept holding him back, he probably would've gone after Alves himself.
On the other side, Barcelona's manager stood with a cold, stony expression.
If Alves had actually taken Shane out, the red card might have been worth it. But now? Shane was perfectly fine, Barcelona were down to ten men, and they were already losing.
Even with the home advantage of Camp Nou, their chances of turning this around had just crashed.
He watched silently as Shane carefully placed the ball on the spot for the free kick.
At that moment, the 98,000 Barcelona fans suddenly realized the nightmare they were facing.
They were about to watch the deadliest set-piece taker in La Liga.
Barcelona's players knew it too. Their defensive wall started creeping forward in tiny steps, trying to close the distance illegally.
The referee immediately stepped in and pushed them back the required distance.
But even then, the wall kept inching forward again once his back was turned. No one could really blame them—Shane's free-kick ability was feared for a reason.
Alves, standing at the mouth of the tunnel, looked back toward the pitch. He had paid the ultimate price with that red card. If Shane scored from this, the cost of his actions would be devastating.
After a long, tense delay, the wall was finally set.
The referee blew his whistle.
Shane took his run-up. Using the inside of his foot like a precise golf club, he scooped the ball, lifting it over the wall with vicious spin. The ball soared in a perfect arc, curving beautifully.
Víctor Valdés dove desperately, but the angle was too good. His fingertips came up ten centimeters short.
Under the keeper's helpless gaze, the ball kissed the underside of the crossbar and nestled into the back of the net.
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