The Düsseldorf Arena held fifty-four thousand people, and every single one of them seemed to be screaming at once. The noise was physical—a wall of sound that hit Ethan the moment he stepped onto the pitch for warm-ups. German fans in white. French fans in blue. Austrian fans in red and white. All of them creating an atmosphere that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Euro 2024 had finally arrived.
France's opening match against Austria. Group D. The beginning of their quest to win the European Championship for the first time since 2000.
Ethan jogged to the center circle, touched the grass with his right hand—a ritual he'd done before every important match since Monaco—and looked up at the stands. Somewhere up there, his parents were sitting with Marie and Sofia. They'd flown in yesterday from Barcelona, checked into a hotel in Düsseldorf's old town, and spent the afternoon touring the city like normal tourists.
Normal. That word had lost all meaning years ago for Ethan, but his family tried to maintain it anyway. His father still worked, even though Ethan had offered to set them up for life. His mother still volunteered at the local hospital. Marie had just finished her master's degree in psychology and was starting her own practice. They refused to let Ethan's success change who they were.
He loved them for that.
"You look nervous," Mbappé said, jogging up beside him. They were both wearing France's away kit—white shirts with blue trim, white shorts. Simple. Classic. Beautiful.
"I'm not nervous. I'm focused."
"You're gripping your hands behind your back. You only do that when you're nervous."
Damn. Mbappé knew him too well.
"Okay, maybe I'm a little nervous. This is the Euros. We've never won this tournament. Not together."
"Then let's change that tonight." Mbappé extended his fist. "The Princes ride together one more time?"
Ethan stared at the fist for a moment. In two months, they'd be enemies. But right now, right here, they were brothers.
He bumped the fist. "Together."
The anthems were brutal.
Ethan stood in line with his teammates, arm around Tchouaméni on his left and Theo Hernández on his right, while La Marseillaise thundered through the stadium. Fifty-four thousand people singing in unison. The French section going absolutely crazy. The weight of an entire nation on their shoulders.
He closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. This was what he played for. Not the money. Not the fame. Not even the trophies—though those were nice.
He played for moments like this. Representing France. Making his country proud. Giving millions of people something to believe in.
When the anthem ended, the referee—a stern-looking Norwegian man named Espen Eskas—called the captains to the center circle for the coin toss.
Griezmann, wearing the armband, walked out with Ethan and Mbappé flanking him like bodyguards. Austria's captain, David Alaba, met them at midfield with two of his teammates.
"Good luck," Alaba said in English, shaking Griezmann's hand.
"You too. May the best team win."
The coin toss went France's way. They'd kick off.
As Ethan walked back to his position on the right wing, he caught sight of Deschamps on the touchline. The manager looked calm, but Ethan could see the tension in his jaw. This opening match was crucial. Win, and France would control their destiny in the group. Draw or lose, and the pressure would multiply exponentially.
They had to win.
First Half - Tactical Chess
Austria set up exactly as Deschamps had predicted in training: a 5-3-2 formation designed to frustrate France's attack. Five defenders. Three holding midfielders. Two strikers ready to counter.
It was defensive, pragmatic football. Not pretty, but effective.
For the first twenty minutes, France dominated possession—seventy-three percent according to the stats board—but couldn't find a breakthrough. Every pass was met with two Austrian defenders. Every run into the box was blocked. It was like trying to punch through a brick wall.
In the twenty-first minute, Ethan received the ball on the right wing, about thirty meters from goal. Two Austrian defenders immediately closed him down—their game plan was clear: don't let Loki or Mbappé have time or space.
But Ethan didn't need time or space. He only needed three moves ahead.
He saw the pattern before it developed. Saw that if he took one touch inside, the first defender would commit. Saw that when the second defender came to cover, a gap would open between the center-backs. Saw that Mbappé was already timing his run to exploit that gap.
One touch inside with his right foot. The first defender lunged. Ethan rolled the ball behind him with his left foot, spinning away from the challenge. The second defender rushed over. Ethan's head was already up, eyes finding Mbappé.
He struck the through ball with the outside of his right foot. The ball curved between Austria's center-backs with perfect weight, landing exactly where Mbappé would be in 1.7 seconds.
Mbappé collected it without breaking stride. One-on-one with the goalkeeper now. The Austrian keeper rushed out, trying to close the angle.
Mbappé dinked it over his head.
The ball floated toward the empty net. An Austrian defender sprinted back desperately, lunging, reaching—
Too late.
The ball crossed the line.
1-0 France.
The Düsseldorf Arena erupted. The French section went absolutely mental. Mbappé ran toward the corner flag, Ethan chasing after him, and they celebrated like they used to at Monaco—jumping, screaming, pounding each other's chests.
"Perfect pass!" Mbappé shouted over the noise.
"Perfect finish!" Ethan shouted back.
For ninety seconds, they were eighteen-year-old kids again. The Princes of Monaco. Before the rivalry. Before Real Madrid. Before everything got complicated.
Then the celebration ended, and they jogged back to their positions for the restart. Professionals again.
Austria didn't collapse after conceding. If anything, they became more aggressive. Pushed higher. Took more risks. In the thirty-fourth minute, they had their best chance of the match—a header from a corner kick that Maignan somehow tipped over the bar.
"Stay focused!" Griezmann shouted. "They're not done yet!"
He was right. Austria were dangerous. But France had the quality to hurt them.
In the forty-second minute, just before halftime, France doubled their lead.
Kanté—somehow still the best defensive midfielder in the world at thirty-three—won the ball in midfield with a perfectly timed tackle. He played it immediately to Griezmann, who'd dropped deep.
Griezmann turned and saw Ethan making a diagonal run from the right wing into the channel between Austria's left center-back and left wing-back. A pass into space, weighted perfectly.
Ethan collected it at the edge of the box. The goalkeeper was coming out. Two defenders were converging. He had maybe 0.8 seconds to make a decision.
Three moves ahead.
If he shot with his left foot, the goalkeeper would save it—the angle was too tight. If he tried to cut inside, the defenders would block. But if he chipped it with his right foot—his weaker foot—over the goalkeeper who was still advancing...
He executed without thinking. Pure instinct. Pure technique. The ball left his right foot with perfect backspin, floating over the goalkeeper's outstretched hand, dropping under the crossbar, and settling into the net.
2-0 France.
The celebration was different this time. More subdued. More professional. A simple point to the sky, a hug from Griezmann, a high-five from Mbappé.
They were in control now. The job wasn't done, but the momentum had shifted decisively.
Halftime arrived with France leading 2-0. Comfortable. In command.
Halftime - The Talk
The France locker room at the Düsseldorf Arena was modern but cramped. Twenty-six players plus coaching staff crammed into a space designed for maybe twenty.
Deschamps stood in the center, tactical board in hand.
"Good first half," he said. "But we can't get complacent. Austria will come out desperate in the second half. They'll take more risks. That means space for us on the counter."
He drew on the tactical board, showing where the space would appear.
"Kylian, Ethan—when they push up, you two need to be ready to run in behind. Griezmann, you're the link. Win the ball, find them immediately. Don't hold it. Don't try to dribble. Just release."
Everyone nodded.
"And defense—" Deschamps looked at Tchouaméni, Saliba, Upamecano "—stay compact. Don't get pulled out of position. If they score one, they'll believe they can score two. We can't give them hope."
More nods.
"Forty-five minutes," Deschamps said. "Then we're one step closer to winning this tournament. Let's finish the job."
Second Half - Closing It Out
Austria came out with nothing to lose. They pushed high, pressed aggressively, and created several half-chances in the first ten minutes of the second half.
But France's defense held firm. Saliba and Upamecano were imperious—reading every pass, winning every duel, organizing the defensive line with veteran composure despite both being only twenty-three.
In the sixty-seventh minute, Deschamps made a substitution. Dembélé off, Marcus Thuram on. Fresh legs to maintain the intensity.
In the seventy-third minute, France killed the game.
Austria pushed too many players forward for a corner kick. The ball was cleared. Suddenly France had a four-on-three counter-attack.
Tchouaméni drove forward with the ball. Mbappé left. Ethan right. Thuram center. Three Austrian defenders backpedaling frantically.
Tchouaméni played it to Mbappé. The PSG—soon to be Real Madrid—star cut inside, drawing two defenders toward him.
Ethan saw the space opening on the right. Saw Thuram making a run through the middle. Calculated which pass would be most effective.
Mbappé threaded a ball through to Thuram. The striker took one touch and finished clinically.
3-0 France.
Game over. Austria deflated visibly. The fight went out of them.
The final fifteen minutes were a formality. France controlled possession. Austria chased shadows. The referee blew the final whistle at exactly 10:02 PM Central European Time.
France 3-0 Austria.
Perfect start to the tournament.
Post-Match
The mixed zone was chaos. Journalists from every major media outlet in Europe trying to get quotes from France's stars.
Ethan, as one of the goal scorers and co-captains, was in high demand.
"Ethan, a goal and an assist. Are you feeling confident about France's chances?"
"It's one match. A good start, but we can't get carried away. Netherlands and the playoff winner are still to come. We need to stay focused."
"Your connection with Mbappé looked excellent. Any concerns about it continuing when you're club rivals?"
Ethan had prepared for this question. "When we wear the France shirt, we're teammates. Brothers. That's all that matters. Club rivalries stay at club level."
"You're now on twenty-seven goals for France. Do you think you can break Olivier Giroud's record of fifty-seven?"
"That's a long-term goal. Right now, I'm focused on helping France win this tournament. Individual records come second."
Perfect answers. Professional. Measured. Exactly what Deschamps wanted to hear.
Later, back at the team hotel in Düsseldorf, Ethan found Mbappé in the hotel restaurant. Most of the team had already gone to bed—it was past midnight—but Mbappé sat alone at a corner table, scrolling through his phone.
"Mind if I join you?" Ethan asked.
"Please. I was just reading the Spanish media's reaction to us playing well together. They're not happy."
"Real Madrid fans?"
"And Barcelona fans. Everyone wants us to fail. They want drama, conflict, beef."
Ethan sat down. A waiter appeared immediately—even at midnight, the hotel staff were ready to serve France's national team.
"Just water, please," Ethan said.
"Same," Mbappé added.
When the waiter left, Mbappé put his phone down. "Can I tell you something?"
"Of course."
"I'm terrified of playing at the Bernabéu. I know that sounds stupid. I've played in World Cup finals. Champions League finals. But joining Real Madrid... it's different. The pressure, the expectations, the history."
Ethan had never heard Mbappé sound uncertain before. His friend had always been confident to the point of arrogance. This vulnerability was new.
"You'll be fine," Ethan said. "You're one of the best players in the world. The Bernabéu will love you."
"What if I'm not enough? What if Vinícius is better? What if I can't handle the pressure?"
"Then you'll work harder. Train more. Become better." Ethan paused. "That's what I did when I moved to Barcelona. I was replacing Messi—the greatest player in the club's history. The pressure was insane. But I didn't run from it. I embraced it. And you'll do the same."
Mbappé nodded slowly. "You make it sound so easy."
"It's not easy. It's the hardest thing you'll ever do. But you're Kylian Mbappé. You scored a hat-trick in a World Cup final at eighteen. You can handle Real Madrid."
Their water arrived. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both processing the evening's match and the conversation.
"I'm glad we talked before this all gets complicated," Mbappé finally said. "Once the season starts, once we're wearing different colors... it's going to be hard to separate the professional from the personal."
"We'll figure it out. Messi and Ronaldo did. We can too."
"Messi and Ronaldo weren't best friends."
"True. But that just means we'll have to work harder at it."
They finished their water and headed upstairs to their respective rooms. As Ethan lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he thought about what was coming.
Four more matches in the Euros—if they made it to the final. Then two months of rest. Then the 2024-25 season.
Then the war would begin.
But for now, for these few precious weeks, they were still on the same side.
And they were going to win this tournament.
Together.
End of Chapter 53