Bastille Day. July 14th, 2024. The most important date in French history—the day the Revolution began, the day France claimed its identity as a republic, the day that defined what it meant to be French.
And now, 235 years later, another kind of revolution was brewing.
The Olympiastadion in Berlin held seventy-one thousand people, and it felt like all of them were French. Blue jerseys everywhere. Tricolor flags waving. The sound of La Marseillaise echoing through the streets of Berlin since early morning. The entire nation had descended on Germany's capital for this moment.
France vs England. Euro 2024 Final.
Ethan Loki stood in the tunnel beneath the stadium at 8:47 PM, waiting for the signal to walk out. His heart hammered against his ribcage. His hands were clammy despite the cool evening air. His legs felt simultaneously heavy and weightless, like they belonged to someone else.
This was it. The tournament France had never won in his lifetime. The trophy that had eluded them for twenty-four years. The moment that could define his entire generation.
"You good?" Mbappé asked, appearing beside him in the tunnel. They were both wearing France's home kit—blue shirts, white shorts. The colors of the nation.
"Just thinking," Ethan replied.
"About?"
"About how this is probably our last match as teammates. After tonight, we're enemies."
Mbappé's expression flickered. "Don't say enemies. Rivals."
"Is there a difference?"
"There has to be. Otherwise what's the point of any of this?" Mbappé gestured vaguely at the tunnel, the stadium, the moment. "We've been brothers since we were kids. Real Madrid doesn't change that."
"Doesn't it?"
Before Mbappé could answer, the UEFA official gave the signal. Time to walk out.
The tunnel opened and seventy-one thousand people screamed as one. The noise was physical, overwhelming, beautiful. Ethan walked out behind Griezmann, who wore the captain's armband, with Mbappé on his right and the rest of the team behind them.
England emerged from the opposite tunnel. Harry Kane. Bukayo Saka. Phil Foden. Jude Bellingham. Declan Rice. A golden generation of their own, hungry for their first major trophy since 1966.
This would be a war.
Pre-Match - The Weight of History
The anthems were brutal.
God Save the King played first. The English fans sang with decades of heartbreak in their voices—semifinal losses, penalty shootout defeats, "It's Coming Home" jokes that had stopped being funny years ago.
Then La Marseillaise. And something happened in that stadium that Ethan had never experienced before.
The French fans sang so loudly, so passionately, that the stadium literally vibrated. Seventy-one thousand people—sixty thousand French, eleven thousand English—all feeling the weight of history, all understanding what this match meant.
Ethan closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. His father was in the stands. His mother. Marie. Sofia. They'd all made the journey to Berlin. They'd all sacrificed so much over the years so he could chase this dream.
Tonight, he'd make them proud.
When the anthem ended, the referee—an Italian named Daniele Orsato, one of Europe's best—called the captains forward.
Griezmann, Kane, and their respective vice-captains (Ethan for France, Rice for England) met at the center circle.
"Good luck," Kane said, shaking Griezmann's hand. "May the best team win."
"They will," Griezmann replied with a slight smile.
The coin toss went England's way. They elected to kick off.
As Ethan jogged back to his position on the right wing, he caught Deschamps' eye on the touchline. The manager gave him a single nod. No words needed. They'd been preparing for this moment for three weeks.
Time to execute.
First Half - Tactical Chess at the Highest Level
England set up in a 3-4-3 formation. Aggressive. Bold. Gareth Southgate had clearly decided that defending wouldn't win this final—they needed to attack France, needed to put them under pressure.
The first ten minutes were frantic. End-to-end football. Neither team willing to sit back.
In the eighth minute, England had the first real chance. Saka drove forward on the right wing, cut inside, and shot from twenty meters. Maignan dove and pushed it around the post. Corner.
The corner was cleared. France counter-attacked immediately.
Kanté won the ball and played it forward to Griezmann. The veteran turned and saw Mbappé making a run down the left channel. Perfect weight on the pass.
Mbappé collected it, took one touch, and crossed low into the box.
Ethan had timed his run perfectly. Arriving at the penalty spot just as the ball came across. Kyle Walker, England's fastest defender, sprinted to cover.
But Ethan had already decided three moves ahead.
Instead of shooting, he dummied the ball, letting it run across his body. Walker lunged. Missed. The ball reached Thuram at the back post.
Empty net. Simple finish.
1-0 France.
Nine minutes played. France leading the Euro 2024 final.
The Olympiastadion erupted. Sixty thousand French fans going absolutely mental. Thuram sprinted to the corner flag, Ethan and Mbappé chasing him down, the entire team piling on in celebration.
On the touchline, Deschamps pumped his fist once, then immediately started shouting instructions. Stay compact. Don't get carried away. The match was far from over.
He was right to be cautious.
England didn't collapse. If anything, they raised their intensity. Southgate made an immediate tactical adjustment—pushing his wing-backs higher, pressing France's center-backs, trying to force mistakes.
In the twenty-third minute, it almost worked.
Upamecano miscontrolled a pass under pressure from Kane. The ball fell to Foden, who immediately played it to Bellingham. The Real Madrid midfielder drove forward and shot from the edge of the box.
Maignan saved brilliantly, tipping it over the bar.
The corner came in. John Stones rose highest. Headed it goalward.
Kanté—somehow in the exact right position despite being six inches shorter than everyone else—cleared it off the line.
France survived. But the message was clear: England weren't done.
The match settled into a pattern. England controlling possession—fifty-eight percent. France defending deep and hitting on the counter. Tactical chess at the highest level.
In the thirty-ninth minute, Ethan nearly doubled France's lead.
Mbappé won the ball high up the pitch and immediately looked for Ethan. The pass was slightly behind, but Ethan adjusted his body mid-stride, controlled it with the outside of his right foot, and struck in one fluid motion.
Pickford dove. Got a strong hand to it. Pushed it onto the post.
So close.
Halftime arrived with France still leading 1-0. Narrow advantage. Everything still to play for.
Halftime - Deschamps' Message
The France locker room in Berlin's Olympiastadion was modern but sterile. White walls. Blue lockers. Fluorescent lighting that made everyone look slightly ill.
Deschamps stood in the center, tactical board in hand, looking more stressed than Ethan had ever seen him.
"Forty-five minutes," the manager said. "Forty-five minutes between us and becoming European champions. But it's going to be the hardest forty-five minutes of your lives."
He drew on the tactical board, showing England's expected adjustments.
"They'll come out desperate. They'll throw everything forward. Kane will drop deeper to create. Saka and Foden will push wider. They'll try to stretch us, create space in the middle."
Everyone nodded, absorbing the information.
"So we stay compact. No gaps between the lines. If they go wide, we shift as a unit. And when we win the ball—" Deschamps looked directly at Mbappé and Ethan "—you two need to punish them. They're going to push high. That means space in behind. One good counter-attack and this match is over."
Ethan glanced at Mbappé. Their eyes met. A silent understanding passed between them.
This was their last dance as teammates. They'd make it count.
Second Half - England's Assault
England came out like a team possessed. Wave after wave of white shirts attacking France's goal. The intensity was suffocating.
In the fifty-second minute, they got their reward.
Saka drove inside from the right wing. Theo Hernández slid in for the tackle. Caught him late. The referee pointed to the spot immediately.
Penalty.
Kane stepped up. England's captain. Their all-time leading scorer. The man who'd carried them to this final.
Maignan set himself on the line. Bouncing on his toes. Trying to look bigger than his six-foot-two frame.
Kane ran up. Shot low to the right.
Maignan dove. Got a hand to it.
But the power was too much. The ball squeezed under his body and crossed the line.
1-1.
The English section of the stadium exploded. Their players celebrated like they'd already won. Momentum had shifted.
Deschamps immediately started making adjustments. Fresh legs. More defensive security. But Ethan could see the concern in his manager's eyes.
This was England's moment. France needed to weather the storm.
For the next fifteen minutes, England dominated. Sixty-seven percent possession. Seven shots. Three on target. France were pinned in their own half, desperately defending.
In the seventy-first minute, Deschamps made a bold substitution. Took off Griezmann—the veteran warrior who'd given everything—and brought on Ousmane Dembélé. Fresh pace. Another counter-attacking threat.
The substitution changed everything.
In the seventy-fourth minute, with England pushed high up the pitch, France won the ball.
Kanté—always Kanté—intercepted a pass in midfield. He looked up and saw Mbappé already running.
The through ball was perfect. Mbappé collected it at the halfway line. Three English defenders sprinting back desperately.
Mbappé drove forward, pace that no defender in the world could match. Walker tried to catch him. Failed.
Into the box now. Just Pickford left. Mbappé shaped to shoot.
But instead, he looked to his right. Saw Ethan arriving on the overlap, completely unmarked because all three English defenders had focused on Mbappé.
The pass across the six-yard box was simple. So was the finish.
Ethan side-footed it into the empty net.
2-1 France.
The goal that won the Euros.
The celebration was pure chaos. Ethan ran toward the French fans, sliding on his knees, screaming wordlessly. Mbappé jumped on his back. Dembélé piled on. Then the entire team.
Somewhere in that pile of blue jerseys, Ethan realized this was it. This was the moment he'd remember forever. Not just scoring in a Euro final. But scoring the winning goal. Being the hero.
When they finally untangled themselves, Ethan looked at Mbappé. His brother. His best friend. His soon-to-be enemy.
"Last time as teammates," Mbappé said, somehow reading his mind.
"Made it count," Ethan replied.
They bumped fists. The Princes. One last time.
The final fifteen minutes were agonizing. England threw everything forward. Pushed eight players into France's half. Desperate. Furious. So close to history.
In the eighty-ninth minute, Kane had a header from six yards out. Maignan saved.
In the ninety-second minute, Foden struck from distance. Hit the post.
In the ninety-fifth minute, Bellingham shot from the edge of the box. Deflected wide.
Then the referee looked at his watch. Checked with VAR. Raised the whistle to his lips.
And blew.
FULL TIME. FRANCE 2-1 ENGLAND.
FRANCE - EUROPEAN CHAMPIONS 2024.
Ecstasy and Heartbreak
Ethan collapsed to his knees at the final whistle. Hands over his face. Sobbing. Twenty-five years old and he'd just won the Euros for France.
His teammates mobbed him. Pulled him up. Jumped on him. Screamed in his ears.
Across the pitch, English players lay on the grass. Devastated. Destroyed. Sixty years of hurt extended to sixty-two. Kane sat at midfield, head in hands. Saka stared blankly at the sky. Bellingham punched the turf in frustration.
Ethan forced himself to walk over to them. Started with Kane.
"You played brilliantly," Ethan said, helping the English captain to his feet. "This team will be back. I know it."
"Congratulations," Kane said, his voice hollow. "You deserved it."
They exchanged shirts. Then Ethan moved to Bellingham, Saka, Foden—offering condolences, showing respect. He knew how they felt. He'd been there in the 2022 World Cup final.
But this time, he was on the winning side.
Trophy Presentation
The trophy presentation felt surreal. Like watching himself from outside his body.
UEFA officials brought out the Henri Delaunay Trophy—the iconic piece of silverware that represented European supremacy. Michel Platini, the president of UEFA and a French legend himself, stood ready to present it.
Griezmann, as captain, was called up first. But before lifting the trophy, he called Ethan and Mbappé to join him.
"We do this together," Griezmann said. "Three captains. Three generations. One trophy."
They lifted it together. Griezmann in the center. Mbappé on his left. Ethan on his right.
The cameras flashed. Confetti exploded. Fireworks lit up the Berlin sky.
And seventy-one thousand people—well, sixty thousand French fans and eleven thousand devastated English supporters—witnessed history.
France. European Champions. For the first time since 2000.
Post-Match
The mixed zone was absolute chaos. Every journalist in Europe trying to get quotes from France's heroes.
Ethan, as a goal scorer and co-captain, was in highest demand.
"Ethan, you scored the winning goal in the Euro final. How does it feel?"
"Indescribable. This is the trophy that eluded us. 2016, we lost at home. Tonight, we won. I'm just... I don't have words."
"Your partnership with Mbappé was crucial. Are you sad this might be your last match as teammates?"
Ethan's throat tightened. "Of course. Kylian is my brother. We've played together since we were teenagers. But this is football. Players move. Careers diverge. I'll always love him and wish him the best. Even when he's playing for Real Madrid."
The journalists laughed.
"You now have one World Cup, one Euros, four Champions Leagues, four La Liga titles, and two Ballons d'Or. At twenty-five, you've already won everything. What's left?"
"Everything," Ethan said immediately. "More Champions Leagues. More Ballons d'Or. Another World Cup in 2026. I want to be remembered as one of the greatest ever. Winning the Euros is amazing, but I'm not satisfied. I'll never be satisfied."
Later, at 2:17 AM, in the France team hotel in Berlin, Ethan sat on the balcony of his room with the Henri Delaunay Trophy beside him. Someone had to guard it overnight—rotating shifts among the players. This was his hour.
He took a photo of the trophy with the Berlin skyline behind it and sent it to Sofia.
Her response came immediately: I'm so proud of you I can't stop crying. I love you. Come home soon.
Then he called his parents. They were still celebrating somewhere in Berlin with Marie and what sounded like several hundred other French supporters.
"My son!" his father shouted over the noise. "My son is a European champion!"
"Papa, are you drunk?"
"Yes! And I don't care! Today, I drink! Tomorrow, I go back to work! But today, we celebrate!"
Ethan laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard his father this happy.
His mother took the phone. She was crying. "I'm so proud of you. So, so proud. Your grandmother would have been so proud too."
His grandmother had passed away two years ago. She'd never missed one of his matches on television. Never stopped believing he'd become something special.
"I know, Maman. I wish she could have seen this."
"She did. I know she did."
They talked for another twenty minutes. About the match. About the celebration. About the future. Then Ethan said goodbye and hung up.
He sat alone on the balcony, looking at the trophy, thinking about the journey that had led here.
From Bondy to Lyon to Monaco to Barcelona. From street football to the biggest stages in world football. From a kid with impossible dreams to a man who'd achieved them all.
But Sofia's words from months ago echoed in his mind: "What's left?"
Everything, he'd said in the interview. And he meant it.
Because winning was addictive. Success bred hunger. And Ethan Loki was the hungriest player in world football.
Three moves ahead, he could already see the next chapter:
Move one: Start the 2024-25 season with Barcelona. Show the world that last year's double Champions League wasn't a fluke.
Move two: First Clásico against Mbappé at the Bernabéu in October. Make a statement. Prove that Barcelona was still the best team in Spain.
Move three: Win a third Ballon d'Or in November. Cement his legacy as the player of this generation.
The Euros were won. History was made.
But the hunger remained.
And Ethan Loki was just getting started.
End of Chapter 55