May 10th, 2029. Eight days before the Copa del Rey final. Ethan sat in his home office late at night, unable to sleep. Two finals in two weeks. Two chances to salvage a season that had already seen La Liga slip away.
Upcoming Schedule:
May 18: Copa del Rey Final vs Real Madrid (Sevilla) June 1: Champions League Final vs Inter Milan (Istanbul)
Two matches that would define the season. Two opportunities to write the final chapters of Flick's Barcelona tenure.
Sofia found him staring at his laptop, the screen showing tactical diagrams of Real Madrid's defensive shape.
"Come to bed," she said softly. "It's past midnight."
"I can't. My mind won't stop."
"You've played in ten Champions League finals. You've won nine. Why is this different?"
"Because it's Flick's last matches. Because we lost La Liga. Because I need to prove we're still capable of winning big trophies."
"To who? The media? The fans? Or yourself?"
The question hung in the air. Ethan didn't have an answer.
"Just promise me something," Sofia said. "Win or lose these finals, you're still coming home to us. You're still Lucas's father. You're still my husband. The trophies don't change that."
"I know."
"Do you? Because right now, you look like the old Ethan. The obsessed one. The one who couldn't sleep before big matches. I thought we'd moved past that."
She was right. Ethan had slipped back into old patterns. The pressure of the finals had triggered something in him—the need to prove himself, to dominate, to win at all costs.
"You're right," he admitted. "I'm sorry. I'll come to bed."
"Good. Because Lucas has already been asking for you all evening. And you know how he gets when bedtime routine is disrupted."
They went to bed. Ethan fell asleep eventually, Sofia's hand in his, grounding him.
May 18th, 2029 - Copa del Rey Final: Barcelona 2-1 Real Madrid
La Cartuja Stadium in Sevilla. 60,000 fans split evenly between Barcelona and Real Madrid. The atmosphere was electric—hostile from both sides, passionate, intense.
This was redemption for Barcelona. A chance to beat Madrid in a final after losing La Liga to them.
First Half - Tactical Battle
Madrid set up defensively, knowing Barcelona's attacking power. Ancelotti's 4-4-2 was compact, organized, difficult to break down.
Twenty-third minute: The deadlock broke.
Pedri's brilliant through ball found Ethan between Madrid's center-backs. He'd timed the run perfectly. One-on-one with Courtois.
The Belgian goalkeeper rushed out. Ethan dinked it over him—his signature finish.
1-0 Barcelona.
The Barcelona section erupted. Ethan ran toward them, arms spread wide. This was what he needed. Proof that Barcelona could still beat Madrid when it mattered.
Madrid responded aggressively. Pushed more players forward. Took more risks.
Forty-fifth minute: They got their reward.
Mbappé scored with a moment of individual brilliance. Beat two defenders, finished clinically past Ter Stegen.
1-1.
Halftime arrived with the score level. Everything still to play for.
Second Half - The Deciding Moment
Both teams came out cautiously in the second half. Neither willing to make the mistake that would cost them the trophy.
The match stayed 1-1 through the sixtieth minute. Through the seventieth. Through the eightieth.
Extra time loomed. Neither team wanted that—both had Champions League finals in two weeks. Energy needed to be conserved.
Eighty-seventh minute: Barcelona struck.
A Barcelona corner. Chaos in Madrid's box. The ball bounced around, fell to Kimmich at the edge of the area.
He struck it first time. The shot was heading wide—until it deflected off Rüdiger's leg, completely wrong-footing Courtois.
Own goal. 2-1 Barcelona.
Three minutes plus stoppage time remaining. Barcelona just needed to hold on.
Madrid threw everyone forward. Desperate. Furious. So close to a double (La Liga + Copa del Rey).
Ninety-fourth minute: Madrid had one final chance. Mbappé with a header from six yards. Ter Stegen saved brilliantly.
The referee blew the final whistle seconds later.
Barcelona 2-1 Real Madrid.
BARCELONA WON THE COPA DEL REY.
The celebration was joyful but controlled. They'd won a trophy. Beaten Madrid in a final. But this wasn't the main event. The Champions League final was in two weeks. They couldn't celebrate too much.
In the locker room, Flick addressed the team: "One trophy secured. One more to go. Rest. Recover. We have Istanbul in two weeks. The biggest match of the season."
May 25th - The Final Week
Barcelona spent the week between finals preparing meticulously. Video analysis of Inter Milan. Tactical sessions. Light training to keep fitness without risking injury.
Ethan was rested for the final La Liga match of the season. No point risking anything before the Champions League final.
At home, Lucas was oblivious to the pressure. At twenty-five months old, his concerns were simpler: learning new words (his vocabulary had exploded to over 100 words), mastering the art of climbing (everything, constantly), and demanding "Dada play!" every waking moment.
"You're lucky you don't understand pressure yet," Ethan told his son one evening while playing with toy cars.
"What pressure?" Lucas asked—his new favorite question for everything.
"The pressure of wanting to win. Of needing to be the best. Of carrying everyone's expectations."
"Why?"
"Because... I don't know. Because that's who I am."
"You Dada. That all."
The simplicity of a toddler's perspective was profound. Yes, Ethan was Lucas's father. That was his primary identity. Footballer was secondary.
"You're right, mijo. I'm Dada. That's all."
Lucas smiled and went back to crashing toy cars into each other. Problem solved in his two-year-old mind.
May 31st - The Day Before
Barcelona flew to Istanbul on May 30th. The Atatürk Olympic Stadium—where they'd won in 2027 and 2028. A good omen.
Inter Milan were formidable opponents. They'd had an incredible season—won Serie A, beaten Manchester United in the semifinals. Their defense was the best in Europe.
This would be a tactical war.
The night before the match, Ethan couldn't sleep again. But this time, he called Sofia instead of obsessing over tactics.
"Can't sleep?" she asked, answering immediately despite it being 2 AM Barcelona time.
"No. Mind racing."
"About the match?"
"About everything. The match. Flick's last game. My career. Lucas growing up. The future."
"That's a lot for 2 AM."
"I know. But Sofia, what if we lose tomorrow? What if Flick's Barcelona tenure ends with a defeat? What if I don't reach ten Champions Leagues?"
"Then you go home to your family and you try again next year. Ethan, listen to me: you have nine Champions Leagues. Nine. If you retire tomorrow with nine, you're already legendary. Ten would be incredible. But it's not life or death."
"It feels like it."
"That's the obsession talking. The old Ethan who needed to win everything to feel worthy. But you're not that person anymore. Remember?"
She was right. Again. Ethan took a deep breath.
"You're right. Thank you for being my anchor."
"That's what wives are for. Now try to sleep. Lucas wants you to come home and play cars with him."
"Tell him I'll play all the cars he wants. After I win a Champions League final."
"That's my confident husband. Go get your tenth. Then come home."
June 1st, 2029 - Champions League Final: Barcelona 3-2 Inter Milan (AET)
The Atatürk Olympic Stadium. 70,000 fans. Barcelona vs Inter Milan. For Barcelona's potential tenth Champions League. For Flick's final match. For everything.
First Half - Defensive Masterclass
Inter set up exactly as expected—5-3-2, compact, organized, designed to frustrate Barcelona's attack.
For forty-five minutes, it worked perfectly. Barcelona dominated possession—seventy-one percent—but created nothing. Every attack died against Inter's wall of defenders.
0-0 at halftime. Frustrating. Tense.
Flick's halftime talk was direct: "They can't defend like this for ninety minutes. Eventually, they'll tire. Eventually, they'll make a mistake. Stay patient. Trust the process."
Second Half - The Goal That Changed Everything
Inter continued their defensive approach in the second half. Barcelona probing. Searching for openings. Finding none.
Sixty-seventh minute: The breakthrough.
Kimmich's brilliant through ball split Inter's defense. Ethan made the run, staying onside by inches.
One-on-one with the goalkeeper. But the angle was tight. Two defenders closing down fast.
Ethan saw Lewandowski arriving at the back post. Completely unmarked. The pass was the better option.
He squared it across the six-yard box. Lewandowski tapped it into the empty net.
1-0 Barcelona.
Camp Nou-style celebrations in Istanbul. Barcelona had finally broken through.
But Inter didn't collapse. They pushed forward. Took more risks. Attacked desperately.
Seventy-eighth minute: They equalized.
Lautaro Martínez scored with a brilliant header. 1-1.
The match was level again. Everything still to play for.
Eighty-ninth minute: Disaster for Barcelona.
Inter scored again. A counter-attack that caught Barcelona completely off guard. Marcus Thuram finished clinically.
2-1 Inter.
Two minutes plus stoppage time remaining. Barcelona were losing the Champions League final.
The Barcelona bench was in panic. Flick screaming instructions. Players gesturing frantically.
Ninety-third minute: Ethan saved Barcelona.
A Barcelona corner. One final chance. The ball came in, headed away by an Inter defender.
It fell to Ethan twenty yards from goal. He controlled it with his chest and struck it on the volley with his left foot.
The ball flew through a crowd of players and nestled into the bottom corner.
2-2.
Ethan ran toward the Barcelona fans, shirt off, screaming. The equalizer in the ninety-third minute of a Champions League final. Iconic.
No time for Inter to respond. The referee blew for full time.
Extra time.
Extra Time - The Finale
Both teams were exhausted. Thirty minutes of extra time felt like torture.
Inter defended. Barcelona attacked. The pattern continued.
One hundred and eighth minute: Ethan delivered one final time.
Pedri's brilliant through ball. Ethan's perfectly timed run. One-on-one with the goalkeeper.
He could have dinked it. Could have gone low. But this time he struck it with power.
The ball flew past the goalkeeper's outstretched hand.
3-2 Barcelona.
Twelve minutes plus stoppage time remaining. Barcelona just needed to hold on.
Inter threw everyone forward. Desperate. Furious. So close to their first Champions League since 2010.
They had three clear chances. Each saved by Ter Stegen or blocked by desperate defending.
Then the referee looked at his watch. Checked with VAR. Raised the whistle to his lips.
And blew three times.
FULL TIME. BARCELONA 3-2 INTER MILAN.
BARCELONA HAD WON THEIR TENTH CHAMPIONS LEAGUE.
The Celebration
Ethan collapsed to his knees at the final whistle. Tears streaming down his face. Not from joy alone. From relief. From exhaustion. From emotion.
Ten Champions Leagues. Something no player in history had achieved. A fitting way to end Flick's tenure.
His teammates mobbed him. Pedri was screaming. Ter Stegen was crying. Even Lewandowski looked emotional.
Flick walked onto the pitch, pulled Ethan into a hug. "Thank you," the German manager said. "Thank you for making my time here magical."
"Thank you for believing in me," Ethan replied. "For managing my minutes. For helping me find balance."
The trophy presentation was beautiful. Ethan lifted the Champions League trophy for the tenth time—an absurd number that would likely never be matched.
As confetti rained down and fireworks exploded, Ethan looked at the trophy in his hands and thought: This is enough. This is more than enough.
In the post-match interview, he was asked the inevitable question:
"Ethan, ten Champions Leagues. Are you the greatest player in history?"
"I'm one of the greatest. Whether I'm THE greatest is subjective. But ten Champions Leagues is special. And I'm grateful for every one."
"What's next? An eighth Ballon d'Or?"
"Maybe. But right now, I just want to go home to my son and my wife. They've sacrificed so much this season. It's time to give them my full attention."
Perfect answer. Priorities clear. Balance maintained.
End of Chapter 85