À 19h30, le Santiago Bernabéu était un véritable bouillonnement de bruit et de lumière. Quatre-vingt-cinq mille supporters du Real Madrid avaient envahi le stade rénové, leurs écharpes blanches flottant à l'unisson, créant une vague visuelle qui se propageait dans les tribunes. L'atmosphère était électrique, hostile, enivrante.
Ethan se tenait dans le vestiaire de l'équipe visiteuse, son maillot du Barça accroché à son casier – le numéro 10, avec l'inscription « LOKI » en lettres capitales dans le dos. Il avait déjà joué ici, au Bernabéu, des dizaines de fois. Mais cette fois, c'était différent. C'était apocalyptique.
« Quinze minutes avant de sortir », a crié un membre du personnel. « Quinze minutes. »
Pedri était assis à côté de lui, tapotant nerveusement du pied. Gavi faisait des étirements dans un coin, le visage concentré. Lewandowski, le vétéran, lisait tranquillement quelque chose sur son téléphone. Ter Stegen était déjà en tenue complète, gants aux pieds, le regard dans le vide.
Chacun réagissait différemment à la pression.
Le téléphone d'Ethan vibra. Un message de son père : « On est dans les tribunes. Section 427. Ta mère pleure déjà, et le match n'a même pas commencé. Fais-nous honneur. On t'aime. »
Puis un message de Sofia : Je suis en tribune de presse. Je suivrai chaque seconde. Tu vas y arriver. Je t'aime.
Et enfin, surprise, un message de Mbappé : Bonne chance, hermano. Offrons-leur un spectacle inoubliable.
Ethan a répondu par écrit : À bientôt sur le terrain.
Hansi Flick se leva, imposant son autorité sans dire un mot. Un silence de mort s'abattit sur le vestiaire.
« Messieurs, commença Flick, d'une voix assurée malgré le chaos extérieur. Dans cinq minutes, nous entrons en enfer. Quatre-vingt-cinq mille personnes qui nous haïssent. Une équipe du Real Madrid qui veut nous anéantir. Le monde entier qui nous regarde pour voir si nous sommes toujours les meilleurs. »
Il marqua une pause, laissant le poids se stabiliser.
« Nous sommes les meilleurs. Nous l'avons prouvé à maintes reprises. Quatre Ligues des champions. Quatre titres de champion d'Espagne. Nous sommes Barcelone. Nous sommes la référence. Et ce soir, nous allons leur montrer pourquoi. »
Flick se dirigea vers le tableau tactique fixé au mur.
« Ils vont nous presser dès le début. Essayer de nous intimider. De nous faire paniquer. Ne le faites pas. Restez calmes. Faites circuler le ballon. Trouvez les espaces. Et quand nous aurons notre chance… » Il regarda Ethan droit dans les yeux. « …nous la saisirons. Sans pitié. »
Griezmann, qui n'était pas titulaire mais habillé et prêt sur le banc, se leva.
« Encore une chose », a déclaré le vétéran. « Il ne s'agit pas seulement d'un match entre Barcelone et le Real Madrid. Il s'agit de nous contre l'histoire. Aucune équipe n'a jamais remporté trois Ligues des champions consécutives à l'ère moderne. Aucune équipe n'a jamais remporté cinq titres de champion d'Espagne consécutifs. Nous avons l'opportunité de réaliser les deux. Tout commence ce soir. Ici et maintenant. »
La salle explosa de joie. Les joueurs se levèrent, crièrent, applaudirent, se nourrissant de l'énergie des uns et des autres.
"VISCA BARÇA!" someone yelled.
"VISCA BARÇA!" the entire team responded in unison.
The door opened. Time to walk out.
Pre-Match - The Theater
The tunnel at the Santiago Bernabéu was narrow and claustrophobic. Barcelona lined up on one side, Real Madrid on the other. Ethan found himself standing directly across from Mbappé.
Their eyes met. For a moment, all the noise faded away. It was just the two of them—two kids from France who'd dreamed impossible dreams and made them reality. Two brothers who were about to go to war.
Mbappé gave him a small nod. Ethan nodded back.
Then the UEFA officials gave the signal. Time to walk out.
The roar that greeted them was deafening. Eighty-five thousand Real Madrid fans screaming, whistling, jeering. The Barcelona section—maybe three thousand supporters tucked away in the corner—tried to make themselves heard but were drowned out completely.
The pyrotechnics went off. Smoke filled the air. The Champions League anthem played—both teams had earned the right to hear it before Clásicos now, having both won the competition multiple times in recent years.
Ethan stood in line next to Lewandowski, hands behind his back, trying to control his breathing. His heart hammered against his ribcage. His legs felt simultaneously heavy and weightless.
This was it. The biggest match of his life.
The anthems played. First Real Madrid's—eighty-five thousand people singing in perfect unison. Then Barcelona's—three thousand voices fighting to be heard against the hostile majority.
The referee—a German named Felix Brych, one of Europe's elite officials—called the captains forward. Ethan walked out as Barcelona's vice-captain alongside Ter Stegen. Nacho, Madrid's captain for the night, met them with Tchouaméni.
"Good luck," Nacho said professionally, shaking hands.
"You too," Ethan replied.
The coin toss went Barcelona's way. They'd kick off.
As Ethan jogged back to his position, he caught Ancelotti's eye on the Madrid bench. The Italian manager was studying him, analyzing, calculating. Ethan could almost hear his thoughts: How do we stop him?
The answer? You don't.
First Half - Chess Match
Real Madrid set up exactly as predicted—5-3-2 with Camavinga dropping from midfield to form a back three. Mbappé and Vinícius up front, ready to exploit any defensive mistakes on the counter.
Barcelona kicked off. Lewandowski touched it to Pedri, who immediately played it back to Kimmich. Possession football from the first second.
Real Madrid didn't press initially. They sat in their defensive shape, compact, organized, daring Barcelona to break them down.
For the first ten minutes, it was a chess match. Barcelona probing, Madrid defending. The crowd grew restless—they wanted blood, wanted action, wanted goals.
In the eleventh minute, the match exploded into life.
Kimmich received the ball in midfield, turned, and saw space opening on the right wing. Raphinha had drifted inside, dragging Mendy with him. That movement created a channel between Madrid's left wing-back and center-back.
Ethan saw it before Kimmich played the pass. He was already accelerating, timing his run to stay onside by inches.
The ball came over the top, perfectly weighted. Ethan controlled it with his first touch, pushing it slightly ahead of him. Camavinga was sprinting across to cover. Militão was closing from the other side.
Three moves ahead.
If he cut inside, Camavinga would tackle him. If he tried to shoot from this angle, Courtois would save it easily. But if he drove to the byline and cut it back...
He executed at full speed. Pushed the ball past Camavinga's lunging tackle, reached the byline, and looked up.
Lewandowski was arriving at the penalty spot. Pedri was at the top of the area. Both marked tightly. But Raphinha, having made a delayed run after dragging Mendy out of position, was completely free at the far post.
Ethan's cutback was inch-perfect. Low, driven, away from Courtois.
Raphinha struck it first time with his left foot.
The ball rocketed into the roof of the net.
1-0 Barcelona.
The away section erupted. Three thousand Barcelona fans going absolutely mental, their voices somehow cutting through eighty-five thousand silenced Madrid supporters.
Ethan sprinted toward Raphinha, who'd already slid on his knees toward the Barcelona fans. The entire team piled on, celebrating in front of the hostile crowd.
"THAT'S HOW WE DO IT!" Gavi screamed over the noise.
On the Madrid bench, Ancelotti was already making adjustments, barking instructions at his players. They'd fallen asleep for one moment and Barcelona had punished them.
The goal changed the match. Real Madrid couldn't sit deep anymore—they needed to push forward, needed to equalize. But pushing forward meant leaving space for Barcelona's counter-attacks.
In the twenty-third minute, Madrid nearly scored.
A Madrid corner. Rüdiger rose highest, his header powerful and accurate. Ter Stegen at full stretch, fingertips pushing it onto the crossbar. The ball bounced down—was it over the line?—and Koundé somehow cleared it while lying on the ground.
The Bernabéu screamed for a goal. The referee consulted VAR. Fifteen seconds of agonizing tension.
Decision: No goal. Not fully over the line.
Barcelona survived.
In the thirty-fourth minute, the match turned on its head.
Tchouaméni won the ball in midfield with a crunching but fair tackle on Pedri. He looked up immediately and saw what Barcelona's defenders hadn't—both Mbappé and Vinícius had timed runs perfectly, exploiting the high defensive line Barcelona employed.
The pass was a laser. Sixty meters, into the space between Koundé and Araujo.
Mbappé collected it at full sprint. His pace was frightening—neither Barcelona defender could get close. Ter Stegen rushed out, trying to close the angle.
One-on-one. The moment every striker dreams of.
Mbappé didn't hesitate. He dinked it over Ter Stegen with outrageous confidence, the ball floating into the empty net.
1-1.
The Bernabéu exploded. Eighty-five thousand people screaming as one. Mbappé sprinted toward the corner flag, arms spread wide, soaking in the adulation.
Ethan watched from midfield, hands on his hips, frustrated but not surprised. He'd known Mbappé would score. Known that this Real Madrid team was too dangerous to keep quiet for ninety minutes.
Mbappé jogged back past him for the restart. Their eyes met briefly. No words exchanged. None needed.
The battle was on.
The rest of the first half was frantic. Both teams sensing blood, both wanting to land the next blow.
In the forty-first minute, Ethan nearly restored Barcelona's lead. A brilliant team move—Pedri to Gavi to Bruno Guimarães to Ethan, all in the space of six seconds. Ethan struck from eighteen yards, top corner bound.
Courtois somehow got a hand to it. Tipped it over the bar.
Unbelievable save.
The corner was cleared. Halftime arrived with the score still 1-1.
Halftime - Adjustments
The Barcelona locker room at the Bernabéu was functional but unwelcoming. White walls. Madrid's crest everywhere. A constant reminder that this was enemy territory.
Flick stood in the center, tactical board in hand, surprisingly calm despite the tension.
"We're fine," he said simply. "Actually, we're better than fine. We're dominating possession—sixty-three percent. We're creating chances. Their goal was against the run of play."
He drew on the board, showing Madrid's defensive weaknesses.
"They're vulnerable in transition. When they commit numbers forward for their own attacks, they can't get back quickly enough. Next time we win the ball after they attack, we go immediately. No extra touches. Just release Ethan or Raphinha."
He looked at Ethan specifically. "You're doing everything right. Your movement is excellent. Your work rate is excellent. The goal will come. Keep doing what you're doing."
"And what about stopping Mbappé?" Araujo asked. "He's too fast for us."
"We don't stop him one-on-one," Flick admitted. "We stop him by not giving Tchouaméni and Valverde time to find him. Press higher. Force Madrid to play longer passes that we can intercept."
It was a risky strategy—pressing higher meant leaving even more space for Mbappé's pace. But staying deep meant defending for forty-five minutes against Real Madrid's attack.
"Trust the plan," Flick said. "Trust each other. And trust that we're the better team."
Second Half - War
Real Madrid came out with renewed intensity. Ancelotti had clearly given them an inspired halftime talk—they pressed higher, tackled harder, took more risks.
The crowd sensed it too. The Bernabéu was bouncing, creating a wall of noise that Barcelona had to fight through.
In the fifty-fourth minute, Madrid took the lead.
A Madrid corner. Bodies everywhere in Barcelona's box. The ball came in, deflected off Koundé's head, fell to Bellingham eight yards out.
The English midfielder struck it first time. Powerful. On target.
Ter Stegen saved but couldn't hold it. The rebound fell to Vinícius.
Empty net. Simple finish.
2-1 Real Madrid.
The Bernabéu erupted again. Players celebrating wildly. Ancelotti pumping his fist on the touchline. The entire stadium on its feet.
Barcelona were losing at the Bernabéu. Losing the biggest match of the season.
Ethan stood at midfield, watching the celebration, feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on him. This was his moment. This was why Barcelona paid him forty million euros per year. This was why he was supposed to be the best player in the world.
Time to prove it.
For the next twenty minutes, Barcelona threw everything forward. Wave after wave of attacks. The ball spent ninety percent of the time in Madrid's half.
But Courtois was unbeatable. A save from Lewandowski's header. A save from Pedri's shot. A save from Raphinha's volley. The Belgian goalkeeper was having the match of his life.
On the Barcelona bench, Flick was running out of ideas. In the seventy-sixth minute, he made his final substitution. Ferran Torres on for Raphinha. Fresh legs. One last roll of the dice.
The clock ticked down. Eighty minutes. Eighty-two. Eighty-four.
Barcelona were running out of time.
Eighty-Seventh Minute - The Moment
Bruno Guimarães won the ball in midfield—a perfectly timed tackle on Valverde. He looked up immediately and saw the situation developing.
Ethan was making a run between Madrid's two center-backs—Rüdiger and Militão—both exhausted from defending for thirty minutes straight.
Kimmich had dropped deep, available for the pass. Pedri was wide left. Ferran Torres wide right.
Bruno had options. But he saw what others didn't—Ethan's run was timed perfectly, and if the pass was weighted correctly, if it dropped into the space between the center-backs...
He struck it with the outside of his right foot. The ball curved through the air, over Rüdiger's outstretched leg, dropping into the channel exactly where Ethan would arrive.
Ethan's first touch was perfect. Chest control, ball dropping at his feet as he entered the penalty area.
Courtois was already coming out. Militão was desperately trying to recover. The entire Bernabéu holding its breath.
Three moves ahead.
If he shot with his right foot, Courtois would save it—the angle was covered. If he tried to go around the goalkeeper, Militão would catch him. But if he let the ball run across his body, shifted left, created a new angle...
He executed in a fraction of a second. Let the ball run. Shifted his body. Courtois committed to the first angle.
Ethan struck it with his left foot. Low. Hard. Placed.
The ball flew past Courtois's outstretched hand.
Hit the inside of the far post.
And crossed the line.
2-2.
Time stopped.
Then the away section—three thousand Barcelona fans—exploded with noise that somehow drowned out eighty-five thousand silenced Madrid supporters.
Ethan ran toward them, arms spread wide, screaming wordlessly. This was it. This was the moment. Equalizing at the Bernabéu in the eighty-seventh minute of the biggest Clásico in history.
His teammates mobbed him. Pedri jumped on his back. Gavi was screaming in his ear. Lewandowski grabbed his face and shouted something in Polish that probably translated to "YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARD."
On the touchline, Flick was jumping, actually jumping, celebrating like a fan.
In the Madrid section, eighty-five thousand people sat in stunned silence.
And in the press box, Sofia was wiping tears from her eyes while trying to type her live blog update.
The final minutes were chaos. Real Madrid threw everyone forward desperately, trying to find a winner. Barcelona defended with everything they had.
Ninety minutes became ninety-three. Ninety-three became ninety-five.
In the ninety-sixth minute, Mbappé had one final chance. A brilliant run down the left wing, cutting inside past two defenders, shooting from the edge of the box.
Ter Stegen saved. Somehow. The German goalkeeper at full stretch, pushing it around the post.
The corner was cleared.
The referee looked at his watch. Checked with his assistant. Raised the whistle to his lips.
And blew three times.
FULL TIME. REAL MADRID 2-2 BARCELONA.
Aftermath
Ethan collapsed to his knees at the final whistle. Exhausted. Emotionally drained. He'd played ninety-six minutes at maximum intensity against the best team in Spain.
Pedri pulled him to his feet. "You saved us. That goal was everything."
Players from both teams were exchanging handshakes, jerseys, brief words of respect. Ethan walked toward the Real Madrid players, finding Mbappé near the center circle.
They hugged without saying anything. What was there to say? They'd both scored. Both been brilliant. Both proven they belonged at this level.
"Next time," Mbappé finally said.
"Next time," Ethan agreed.
They exchanged jerseys—Ethan's blaugrana number 10 for Mbappé's white number 9. A gesture of respect between warriors.
The media would call it disappointing—a draw when both teams wanted to win. But everyone who'd watched knew: this was one of the greatest Clásicos ever played. Two titans at the peak of their powers, neither willing to back down.
Post-Match
The mixed zone was absolute chaos. Every journalist in the world trying to get quotes from the players.
Ethan, dripping with sweat and exhaustion, faced the cameras.
"Ethan, you scored a crucial equalizer. How does it feel?"
"It feels like we showed character. Real Madrid is an incredible team. To come back from 2-1 down at the Bernabéu is never easy. But we believed. We fought. We earned a point."
"Are you satisfied with a draw?"
"Satisfied? No. We wanted three points. But I'm proud of how we played. We dominated for long periods. We created chances. On another day, we win this match."
"Your goal celebration seemed particularly emotional. What were you feeling?"
Ethan paused, thinking carefully about his answer.
"I was feeling the weight of expectations. Barcelona invested everything in me. The fans believe in me. My teammates believe in me. In that moment, I was proving to everyone—and to myself—that I belong at this level. That I can deliver when it matters most."
"Final question: you and Mbappé both scored. Who's currently the better player?"
Ethan smiled despite his exhaustion. "The one who wins the Ballon d'Or next month will be the answer to that question."
Perfect answer. Confident without being arrogant. Competitive without being disrespectful.
Late Night
Ethan arrived back at his Barcelona apartment at 2:34 AM. The team bus had been stuck in traffic for hours—both sets of fans celebrating or commiserating in the streets of Madrid.
Sofia was waiting up for him, still in her work clothes from covering the match.
"You were incredible," she said as he walked through the door and collapsed onto the couch.
"We didn't win."
"You equalized in the eighty-seventh minute at the Santiago Bernabéu. In the biggest Clásico in history. Against your best friend. Ethan, that was heroic."
He pulled her down next to him. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
"The Ballon d'Or ceremony is in three weeks," Ethan finally said. "November 18th in Paris. It's going to be me versus Kylian."
"Who do you think will win?"
"I don't know. We've both had incredible years. Him winning Euro 2024 Golden Boot. Me winning back-to-back Champions Leagues. It could go either way."
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters. It's the Ballon d'Or. It's everything."
Sofia looked at him seriously. "No. What matters is that you played one of the greatest matches of your career tonight. What matters is that ninety-two thousand people watched you do something special. What matters is that you're healthy, happy, and building an incredible life. The Ballon d'Or is just a trophy."
"A trophy I desperately want to win."
"I know. And you probably will. But if you don't, you're still Ethan Loki. You're still one of the greatest players in the world. You're still the man I'm going to marry."
He kissed her. "Have I mentioned that you're the best thing that ever happened to me?"
"Once or twice. But I don't mind hearing it again."
They sat together until the sun started rising over Barcelona, processing everything that had happened, everything that was still to come.
Three moves ahead, Ethan could already see the next chapter:
Première étape : Continuer à dominer la Liga et la Ligue des champions. Continuer à marquer. Continuer à gagner.
Deuxième étape : remporter le Ballon d'Or en trois semaines. Prouver qu'il était le meilleur joueur du monde, meilleur que Mbappé, meilleur que tous les autres.
Troisième étape : remporter le Clásico retour au Camp Nou en mars. Terminer le travail entamé ce soir.
Mais pour l'instant, blotti dans les bras de Sofia tandis que le soleil se levait sur Barcelone, Ethan s'accordait un moment de satisfaction.
Il avait marqué au Bernabéu. Contre le Real Madrid. Lors du plus grand Clásico de l'histoire.
Et ce n'était que le début.
Fin du chapitre 59
STATISTIQUES FINALES DU CLÁSICO :
Real Madrid 2-2 Barcelone
Raphinha 11' (Assisté par Ethan) Mbappé 34' Vinícius 54' Ethan 87'
Statistiques du match :
Possession : Barcelone 58 % - Real Madrid 42 % Tirs : Barcelone 18 - Real Madrid 11 Tirs cadrés : Barcelone 8 - Real Madrid 6 Homme du match : Thibaut Courtois (8 arrêts)
Statistiques de la saison après le Clásico :
Ethan Loki : 17 buts, 7 passes décisives en 10 matchs. Kylian Mbappé : 15 buts, 5 passes décisives en 10 matchs.
Suite : Chapitre 60 - Ballon d'Or 2024
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