First Minute - The Opening
Barcelona kicked off. Lewandowski touched it to Pedri, who immediately played it back to Kimmich. The German midfielder surveyed the field, looking for openings.
Real Madrid set up exactly as expected—4-3-3, pressing high but not recklessly. They wanted to disrupt Barcelona's rhythm without leaving themselves exposed to counter-attacks.
The Camp Nou was a wall of noise. Ninety-five thousand people creating an atmosphere that made communication nearly impossible.
In the third minute, Real Madrid had the first real chance.
Valverde won the ball in midfield with a crunching tackle on Gavi. He played it immediately to Bellingham, who'd found space between Barcelona's lines. The English midfielder turned and threaded a pass to Mbappé, who'd timed his run perfectly.
Mbappé collected it at full sprint. Koundé was chasing desperately but couldn't match the pace. One-on-one with Ter Stegen now.
The Camp Nou held its breath.
Mbappé struck it with his right foot, aiming for the far corner.
Ter Stegen dove. Fingertips. Just enough.
The ball deflected wide for a corner.
Ninety-five thousand people exhaled in relief. That was close. Too close.
The corner was cleared. Barcelona counter-attacked immediately.
Eighth Minute - Ethan Strikes First
Pedri received the ball in Barcelona's half and immediately looked up. He saw what others didn't—Ethan had dropped deep to receive, dragging Militão with him. That movement created space for Raphinha to run into on the right wing.
Pedri's pass was perfect. Raphinha collected it at full sprint, drove forward, and as Mendy came across to cover, he cut it back to the edge of the box.
Ethan had already arrived. Timed his run perfectly. The ball sat up for him at the top of the penalty area.
Three moves ahead.
Rüdiger was closing from the left. Tchouaméni was rushing from midfield. Courtois was set in his goal, positioning himself for the expected shot.
But Ethan didn't shoot. Not yet.
He let the ball run across his body, shifted his weight, and as both defenders committed, he struck it with the outside of his right foot.
The ball curved wickedly, bending away from Courtois's dive, dipping at the last second.
Top corner. Unstoppable.
1-0 BARCELONA.
Camp Nou EXPLODED. Ninety-five thousand people screaming as one. The noise was so loud it registered on the Richter scale. Literally. Scientists would later confirm minor seismic activity during the celebration.
Ethan ran toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees in front of the Barcelona fans, arms spread wide, screaming wordlessly. This was it. This was the moment. Scoring in the eighth minute of the biggest Clásico in history.
His teammates mobbed him. Pedri jumped on his back. Gavi was screaming in his ear. Even Lewandowski, the veteran who'd seen everything, looked ecstatic.
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.
On the Barcelona bench, Flick pumped his fist once, then immediately started shouting: "STAY FOCUSED! ONE GOAL ISN'T ENOUGH!"
He was right. Real Madrid were too good, too dangerous, to sit back against.
Fifteenth Minute - Madrid Responds
Real Madrid didn't collapse. If anything, they raised their intensity. Ancelotti's tactical adjustments were immediate—Bellingham dropped deeper to help build play, Vinícius and Mbappé pushed wider to stretch Barcelona's defense.
In the fifteenth minute, it nearly paid off.
A Madrid corner. Bodies everywhere in Barcelona's box. The ball came in with pace, Rüdiger rose highest, his header powerful and accurate.
Ter Stegen at full stretch. Somehow got a hand to it. Pushed it onto the crossbar.
The rebound fell to Mbappé three yards out. Empty net. Simple finish.
But Araujo—somehow in the right place at the right time—threw his body in front of the shot. The ball cannoned off his chest and out for another corner.
Camp Nou roared its approval. Heroic defending.
The second corner was cleared. Barcelona survived.
Twenty-Third Minute - The Tactical Chess
The match settled into a pattern. Barcelona controlling possession—fifty-eight percent. Madrid sitting slightly deeper, waiting for their moment to counter.
Both managers were constantly adjusting. Flick wanted his full-backs higher to pin Madrid back. Ancelotti wanted his midfielders to press Barcelona's playmakers more aggressively.
It was tactical chess at the highest level.
In the twenty-third minute, Ethan nearly doubled Barcelona's lead.
Brilliant team move. Pedri to Gavi to Kimmich to Ethan, all in the space of eight seconds. Ethan received the ball at the edge of the box, took one touch to control, and struck with his left foot.
Courtois saved. Brilliantly. The Belgian goalkeeper at full stretch, tipping it over the bar.
So close.
The corner was cleared. Madrid counter-attacked immediately.
Thirty-Fourth Minute - Mbappé Equalizes
It happened so fast that most people in Camp Nou didn't process it until the ball was in the net.
Tchouaméni won the ball in midfield with a perfectly timed tackle on Pedri. He looked up and saw it immediately—both Mbappé and Vinícius had timed runs perfectly, exploiting Barcelona's high defensive line.
The pass was a laser. Sixty meters, perfectly weighted.
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 exact same finish Ethan had used in the first Clásico at the Bernabéu.
The ball floated into the empty net.
1-1.
The away section—five thousand Real Madrid fans—went absolutely mental. The rest of Camp Nou fell silent, stunned.
Mbappé ran toward the corner flag, arms spread wide, soaking in the adulation from the Madrid fans. His celebration was confident, almost defiant. This was his answer to Ethan's goal. This was him proving he belonged at this level.
Ethan watched from midfield, hands on his hips, frustrated but not surprised. He'd known Mbappé would score. Known that this match would be a battle to the end.
As Mbappé jogged back past him for the restart, their eyes met briefly. No words exchanged. None needed.
The war was on.
Forty-Second Minute - Controversy
Just before halftime, chaos erupted.
A Barcelona corner. The ball came in, bodies everywhere. Araujo rose for the header but was pulled back by Militão. Obvious foul. The entire Barcelona team appealed for a penalty.
Michael Oliver, the referee, pointed to the spot.
PENALTY TO BARCELONA.
The Madrid players swarmed him. Militão insisted he'd won the ball. Tchouaméni argued it was soft. Courtois was screaming from his goal.
But Oliver was unmoved. He'd made his decision. VAR checked it—thirty seconds of agonizing tension—and confirmed: penalty.
Ethan picked up the ball. He was Barcelona's designated penalty taker. This was his moment.
The Camp Nou was roaring, creating a wall of noise to intimidate Courtois.
Ethan placed the ball on the spot. Stepped back. Took a deep breath.
Courtois was bouncing on his line, trying to look bigger, trying to psych him out. They'd faced each other dozens of times—Courtois knew Ethan's tendencies.
Ethan ran up. Courtois committed left.
Ethan went right. Low. Hard. Placed.
But Courtois had guessed. His trailing leg caught the ball. Deflected it.
Wide.
SAVED.
Courtois had saved it. Camp Nou groaned in collective anguish. Ethan stood at the penalty spot, hands on his head, unable to believe it.
The referee blew for halftime seconds later. Barcelona still leading 1-1—no, wait. The score was 1-1. The penalty miss meant nothing to the scoreline.
But it felt catastrophic.
Halftime - The Reckoning
The Barcelona locker room was tense. Players sat in their stalls, processing what had just happened. Ethan sat with his head in his hands, replaying the penalty over and over.
Flick stood in the center, surprisingly calm.
"Forget the penalty," he said directly to Ethan. "It's done. It's in the past. We're still level. We're still in control. Now we go out and finish this."
"I should have scored," Ethan said quietly.
"Yes, you should have. But you didn't. So what are you going to do about it? Sit here feeling sorry for yourself? Or go out in the second half and score two more goals?"
Ethan looked up. Met Flick's eyes. The German manager was right. Dwelling on the miss accomplished nothing.
"I'm going to score two more goals," Ethan said.
"Good. Because that's what the best player in the world does. He doesn't let setbacks break him. He uses them as motivation."
Flick turned to the tactical board.
"Madrid are going to sit deeper in the second half. They'll be happy with a draw. They know a draw keeps them one point behind with a better goal difference. So we need to take risks. Push our full-backs higher. Be more aggressive in transition."
More tactical adjustments. More instructions.
"Forty-five minutes," Flick concluded. "Forty-five minutes to win the league. Let's go get it."
Second Half - The Storm
Barcelona came out with renewed intensity. The pressing was higher, the passing sharper. They were a team possessed.
But Madrid defended brilliantly. Rüdiger and Militão were imperious—winning every duel, reading every pass. Courtois looked unbeatable after the penalty save.
In the fifty-sixth minute, Ethan nearly scored.
Brilliant individual effort. He received the ball thirty yards from goal, beat one defender with a step-over, beat another with pure pace, and struck from the edge of the box.
Courtois saved. Again. Somehow. The Belgian goalkeeper was having the match of his life.
The Camp Nou was getting nervous. Time was ticking. Still 1-1. Madrid would be happy with this result.
In the sixty-third minute, Flick made a substitution. Raphinha off, Ferran Torres on. Fresh legs. More attacking intent.
In the sixty-seventh minute, Madrid nearly scored on the counter. Vinícius broke free down the left wing, cut inside, and shot from twenty yards. Ter Stegen saved brilliantly, tipping it over the bar.
The match was balanced on a knife's edge. One goal would decide everything.
Seventy-Fourth Minute - Redemption
It started with Kimmich winning the ball in midfield. Aggressive tackle, perfectly timed. He looked up immediately.
Ethan had dropped deep again, dragging Militão with him. That movement created space for Ferran Torres to run into behind the defense.
Kimmich threaded the pass through. Perfect weight. Ferran collected it, drove into the box, and as Courtois came out, he squared it across the six-yard box.
Ethan had already arrived. Timed his run perfectly. The ball came across at waist height.
He didn't think. Pure instinct. Pure technique.
Bicycle kick.
The ball left his foot at an awkward angle, spinning wildly, dipping at the last second.
Courtois dove. Reached. Couldn't get there.
The ball hit the inside of the post.
Bounced along the goal line.
And crossed.
2-1 BARCELONA.
Camp Nou ERUPTED. The noise was seismic. Ninety-five thousand people losing their minds. The goal was outrageous—bicycle kick, in a Clásico, to take the lead with fifteen minutes left.
Ethan ran toward the corner flag, shirt off, muscles rippling, screaming at the sky. This was redemption. This was answering the penalty miss with pure brilliance.
His teammates mobbed him. Ferran jumped on his back. Pedri was screaming something in Spanish. Even the substitutes poured off the bench to celebrate.
This was what football at the highest level looked like. Drama. Tension. Moments of pure magic that made ninety-five thousand people believe in something bigger than themselves.
On the Madrid bench, Ancelotti looked devastated. They'd defended so well for seventy-four minutes, and then one moment of brilliance had undone everything.
On the Barcelona bench, Flick was jumping—actually jumping—celebrating like a fan.
Fourteen minutes plus stoppage time left. Barcelona leading 2-1. So close to victory. So close to effectively winning the league.
Eighty-Second Minute - The Dagger
Madrid threw everything forward. They needed a goal. Any goal. Ancelotti made attacking substitutions—Brahim Díaz on for Tchouaméni, pushing more players forward.
But that left space. Dangerous space.
In the eighty-second minute, Barcelona exploited it perfectly.
Madrid corner. Bodies everywhere in Barcelona's box. The ball was cleared. Suddenly Barcelona had numbers.
Pedri drove forward with the ball. Ethan on his left. Lewandowski on his right. Ferran trailing behind. Four Barcelona attackers versus two Madrid defenders.
The Madrid defenders had to make a choice: commit to Pedri or cover the runners?
They committed to Pedri. Mistake.
Pedri slipped the ball to Ethan with perfect timing. One touch to control. Into the box now.
Courtois rushed out. The angle was tight. Most players would shoot.
But Ethan saw Lewandowski arriving at the back post, completely unmarked.
The pass across the six-yard box was simple. So was Lewandowski's finish.
3-1 BARCELONA.
Game over.
The Camp Nou went from celebration to absolute delirium. This wasn't just a win—this was domination. This was a statement.
Ethan and Lewandowski embraced, both understanding what this goal meant. Four points clear with nine matches left. The title was essentially Barcelona's.
Madrid's players looked devastated. Rüdiger on his knees. Mbappé with hands on hips, staring at the sky. They'd given everything and it wasn't enough.
Final Minutes - Running Down the Clock
The last eight minutes plus stoppage time were pure game management. Barcelona kept the ball, playing short passes, making Madrid chase shadows.
The Camp Nou was singing now. Not chanting—singing. Songs of celebration. Songs of victory. Songs of champions.
In the eighty-ninth minute, Madrid had one final chance. A free kick from thirty yards. Mbappé stepped up to take it.
The free kick was perfect. Curling, dipping, heading for the top corner.
But Ter Stegen saved. One final heroic moment from the German goalkeeper.
The corner was cleared.
The referee looked at his watch. Four minutes of stoppage time had elapsed. He raised the whistle to his lips.
And blew three times.
FULL TIME. BARCELONA 3-1 REAL MADRID.
The Celebration
Ethan collapsed to his knees at the final whistle. Tears streaming down his face. He'd done it. They'd done it. Beat Real Madrid at Camp Nou when everything was on the line.
Pedri pulled him to his feet. "YOU'RE A LEGEND! THAT BICYCLE KICK WAS INSANE!"
The entire team piled on. Ninety-five thousand people in the stands were bouncing, singing, celebrating. This was what Barcelona lived for—Clásico victories that essentially won the league.
Ethan walked toward the Madrid players, showing respect. Started with Mbappé.
They hugged without saying anything. What was there to say? Mbappé had scored. So had Ethan. But Barcelona had won. That was all that mattered.
"Next time," Mbappé finally said, his voice hollow.
"Next time," Ethan agreed.
They exchanged jerseys—Ethan's number 10 for Mbappé's number 9. A gesture of respect between warriors.
But both knew what this result meant. Barcelona were four points clear with nine matches left. The title race was essentially over.
Post-Match - The Media Circus
The mixed zone was absolute chaos. Every journalist in the world trying to get quotes from Barcelona's heroes.
Ethan, shirtless (he'd given his jersey to Mbappé), stood in front of dozens of cameras.
"Ethan, you scored two goals including a bicycle kick. How does it feel?"
"It feels like we did what we needed to do. Real Madrid are an incredible team, but tonight we were better. That's all that matters."
"You missed a penalty but responded with two goals. Talk about mental strength."
"Missing the penalty hurt. But I told myself I'd make up for it. That's what champions do—they respond to adversity."
"With this win, you're four points clear with nine matches left. Is the title essentially yours?"
"Nothing is over until it's mathematically over. But yes, we're in a very strong position. We control our destiny."
"Your bicycle kick—where does that rank among your career goals?"
Ethan thought for a moment. "Top three. Clásico at Camp Nou, with the league on the line, seventy-fourth minute. That's the kind of goal you dream about as a kid."
"Final question: you now have forty-seven goals this season. Mbappé has forty-six. The Pichichi race is incredibly close. Do you care about individual honors?"
"Of course I care. I'm competitive. But team success comes first. If Barcelona wins the league and I finish second in the Pichichi race, I'll be thrilled. Individual awards are nice, but trophies with your team are what you remember."
Perfect answer. Team-first mentality wrapped in confidence.
Midnight - The Aftermath
Ethan finally made it home at 1:37 AM. The celebration had gone on for hours—team dinner, media obligations, congratulations from Barcelona executives. Exhausting but exhilarating.
Sofia was waiting up for him, still in the dress she'd worn to the match.
"You were magnificent," she said, pulling him into a hug.
"We won. That's all that matters."
"No. You were magnificent. Two goals. Missed penalty and responded like a champion. That bicycle kick will be replayed forever."
They sat on the couch, Ethan still in his suit, Sofia curled up beside him.
"I interviewed Kylian after the match," she said. "For my article. He looked devastated."
"He should be. This probably cost them the league."
"He said something interesting though. He said beating you is the hardest thing he's ever tried to do in football. That you're the only player who makes him feel like he might not be good enough."
Ethan felt his chest tighten. "I feel the same way about him sometimes."
"Really?"
"Of course. He's incredible. On another day, he scores twice and they win. The margins between us are so small."
"But you won tonight. You were better tonight."
"Tonight, yes. But next time might be different. That's what makes this rivalry so compelling."
They sat in comfortable silence, processing the evening's events.
"Four points clear," Sofia finally said. "Nine matches left. You've essentially won the league."
"Don't jinx it."
"I'm a journalist, not a superstitious footballer. You've won the league. Admit it."
Ethan smiled. "Okay. Fine. We've probably won the league."
"And you're going to win the Pichichi. And probably another Champions League. And maybe a fourth Ballon d'Or next year."
"You're very confident in me."
"That's because you're Ethan Loki. Three-time Ballon d'Or winner. The best player in the world. My fiancé. You make impossible things look routine."
He kissed her. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now go to sleep. You have training tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? After the biggest match of the season?"
"Champions don't take days off, remember? You told me that."
She was right. He had said that. Many times.
They went to bed. Ethan's body was exhausted but his mind was still racing, replaying moments from the match. The penalty miss. The bicycle kick. Mbappé's goal. The final whistle.
Three moves ahead, he could already see what was coming:
Move one: Win the league. Nine matches left, four-point cushion. Finish the job.
Move two: Win the Champions League. Quarterfinals coming up. Three-peat within reach.
Move three: Win another Ballon d'Or in 2025. Cement his legacy as one of the all-time greats.
But for now, on this night after the biggest Clásico of his career, Ethan allowed himself to simply feel satisfied.
They'd beaten Real Madrid. At Camp Nou. When everything was on the line.
And he'd been the difference. Two goals. The winning goal. The hero.
This was why he played football. For nights like this.
End of Chapter 65
MATCH STATISTICS:
Barcelona 3-1 Real Madrid
Ethan Loki 8', 74' (bicycle kick) Lewandowski 82' Mbappé 34'
Match Stats:
Possession: Barcelona 57% - Real Madrid 43% Shots: Barcelona 16 - Real Madrid 9 Shots on Target: Barcelona 9 - Real Madrid 5 Player of the Match: ETHAN LOKI
Updated La Liga Table:
Barcelona - 83 points (26-2-1, GD +59) ⬆️ Real Madrid - 79 points (26-2-1, GD +54)
GAP: 4 POINTS with 9 matches remaining
Season Statistics:
Ethan Loki: 47 goals, 15 assists in 34 matches Kylian Mbappé: 46 goals, 11 assists in 34 matches
What This Result Means:
Barcelona essentially secured La Liga title Ethan proved he's better than Mbappé in head-to-head His bicycle kick will be remembered as iconic Clásico moment Real Madrid's title hopes nearly dead
Next: Chapter 66 - The Final Sprint (Securing the Titles)
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