Chapter 3:
Return tothe Bernabéu
Getting tickets for this Champions League match had cost Kaka a good chunk of change.
Thankfully, he’d worked hard in his previous life. His bank account had enough to spare, and Ricardo had repeatedly told him to spend freely.
With hours still to go before kickoff, Kaka went out and bought a cap and a pair of sunglasses.
To be honest, he knew he was good-looking—but the sheer number of people staring at him on the street was getting out of hand!
The intensity of those gazes almost made him think he’d been transported back to his peak years, the days when stepping out to buy toothpaste meant risking being mobbed for autographs. But… he wasn’t famous right now, was he
Ricardo had long since retired, and this new identity of his—Kaka—had never been revealed in any media.
Kaka was utterly baffled. Clearly, he’d underestimated both his own looks and Ricardo’s enduring influence.
Truth be told, back at that little café just now, plenty of people had taken notice. Some thought he looked familiar; others were simply floored by how handsome he was.
Quite a few had even snapped photos of him on the sly, sending them to friends or uploading them to Instagram or Twitter.
[Instagram] Just ran into a total dreamboat!!!!! But I swear he looks so familiar. Does anyone know who this is?
Comments 📱:
🗣: OMGGGG he’s so hot!! Sis, where are you?? Is this the kind of man you randomly bump into in Madrid?! Why does this never happen to me? Drop your location now!!
🗣:My screen’s dirty, let me lick it clean prprpr
🗣:I’ve already fallen in love. Now all that’s left is to meet him, and we can get married.
🗣:I tripped over all the thirst in this comment section.
Though it had been years since Kaka last came to Madrid—and he couldn’t exactly reach out to his former teammates—he was still having a great time.
Maybe it was the seventeen-year-old body brimming with energy, but Kaka felt like his whole outlook had gone back to being seventeen too.
Everything felt beautiful.
He hadn’t yet gone through the accident that nearly left him paralyzed. He hadn’t yet borne the agony of those soul-crushing injuries.
This was fate’s gift, a do-over. And Kaka couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. Honestly, he’d been smiling for nearly ten hours straight.
His gleaming white teeth were probably catching a chill by now.
Still, even though life had given him another chance, the trauma from before lingered. He wasn’t ready to return to the pitch just yet.
He’d already given over twenty years of his life to football. Did he really want to do it all over again?
Logic told him he ought to think twice. But emotionally, the scale was already tipping.
Just the thought of the glories he’d achieved before made his heart race. He ached to chase after them again—to make history, once more.
Wait… again? But hadn’t those glories already been his?
Kaka startled himself with the thought.
Maybe this was the price of rebirth?
He figured he’d need a little more time to adjust.
Thankfully, he’d worked hard in his previous life. His bank account had enough to spare, and Ricardo had repeatedly told him to spend freely.
With hours still to go before kickoff, Kaka went out and bought a cap and a pair of sunglasses.
To be honest, he knew he was good-looking—but the sheer number of people staring at him on the street was getting out of hand!
The intensity of those gazes almost made him think he’d been transported back to his peak years, the days when stepping out to buy toothpaste meant risking being mobbed for autographs. But… he wasn’t famous right now, was he
Ricardo had long since retired, and this new identity of his—Kaka—had never been revealed in any media.
Kaka was utterly baffled. Clearly, he’d underestimated both his own looks and Ricardo’s enduring influence.
Truth be told, back at that little café just now, plenty of people had taken notice. Some thought he looked familiar; others were simply floored by how handsome he was.
Quite a few had even snapped photos of him on the sly, sending them to friends or uploading them to Instagram or Twitter.
[Instagram] Just ran into a total dreamboat!!!!! But I swear he looks so familiar. Does anyone know who this is?
Comments 📱:
🗣: OMGGGG he’s so hot!! Sis, where are you?? Is this the kind of man you randomly bump into in Madrid?! Why does this never happen to me? Drop your location now!!
🗣:My screen’s dirty, let me lick it clean prprpr
🗣:I’ve already fallen in love. Now all that’s left is to meet him, and we can get married.
🗣:I tripped over all the thirst in this comment section.
Though it had been years since Kaka last came to Madrid—and he couldn’t exactly reach out to his former teammates—he was still having a great time.
Maybe it was the seventeen-year-old body brimming with energy, but Kaka felt like his whole outlook had gone back to being seventeen too.
Everything felt beautiful.
He hadn’t yet gone through the accident that nearly left him paralyzed. He hadn’t yet borne the agony of those soul-crushing injuries.
This was fate’s gift, a do-over. And Kaka couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. Honestly, he’d been smiling for nearly ten hours straight.
His gleaming white teeth were probably catching a chill by now.
Still, even though life had given him another chance, the trauma from before lingered. He wasn’t ready to return to the pitch just yet.
He’d already given over twenty years of his life to football. Did he really want to do it all over again?
Logic told him he ought to think twice. But emotionally, the scale was already tipping.
Just the thought of the glories he’d achieved before made his heart race. He ached to chase after them again—to make history, once more.
Wait… again? But hadn’t those glories already been his?
Kaka startled himself with the thought.
Maybe this was the price of rebirth?
He figured he’d need a little more time to adjust.
....
Outside the Santiago Bernabéu, it was a sea of white.
Round of 16. Real Madrid vs. Paris Saint-Germain.
As it was Real’s home leg, the streets around the stadium were packed with fans in white jerseys.
PSG supporters were there too, but far fewer in number, having made the long journey to Madrid. The air buzzed with excitement and cheers.
Police patrolled the crowds, and several cruisers sat ready at key intersections.
Fans queued to enter the stadium, chatting animatedly about lineups and tactics, everyone eager for a win. Inside, the Bernabéu was a spectacle.
Five towering tiers, all packed to the brim. White flags fluttered through the air, massive tifos rose high into the sky, and the atmosphere burned like wildfire, ready to consume the stadium and everyone in it.
No matter how many times he’d seen it, Kaka was always in awe.
But sadly, the roars and passion now had nothing to do with him.
He queued up to enter with mixed emotions. When he finally reached his seat, he was stunned to find Steve sitting right next to him.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t so surprising. These seats were excellent—great view and angle. Steve had only agreed to sell him one ticket, keeping the other for himself. Makes sense.
But that wasn’t why Steve kept the other one. When Kaka greeted him with a smile, Steve’s face lit up with barely concealed excitement.
Ricardo was one. Beckham was another.
“Hey there. We meet again,” Kaka greeted politely.
Steve had clearly arrived early—the stands around them were still sparsely populated. In fact, it looked like they were the only two in that section.
Yep. Steve was definitely one of the first inside.
He hadn’t wanted to miss even the tiniest opportunity to interact with his former idol. As for the boy who looked 80% like a young Ricardo—was he a relative? A son? A nephew?
Didn’t matter. All Steve cared about was whether he could snag an autograph or a photo.
Still, no one who saw Kaka could deny the connection.
They looked way too alike. And devastatingly handsome, both of them. “Ricardo—!” Steve let out a squeal, more dramatic than one of those rubber chickens.
No way. Already? Kaka panicked a little and waved his hands. “I’m not Ricardo. We just happen to look alike.”
“You see, we are related,” he added with a wink, tapping his own face and shrugging like someone used to being mistaken for a cousin,
“People mix us up all the time.” Steve clapped a hand over his mouth, letting out something between a gasp and a sob. Oh my god!!! They really are related!!!
“I mean, you’re right, you do look alike, but also kinda different,” Steve blurted, trying to keep it together. “Ricardo’s more… mature-looking.
I mean, not that you’re not handsome—you are! But I’ve just admired Ricardo for so long. He’s in his thirties now—not that that’s old!
I still love him, even if he was old. I’ve loved him for years. I really do—”
Steve suddenly realized how that sounded.
He was gushing about Ricardo… to Ricardo’s supposed brother. As a straight guy.
Oh god. What am I even saying?! “Wait, wait—I love him, but I’m not gay. You know what I mean? I just really love watching him play!”
Kaka had no idea what he’d just said.
The whole scene was absurd, almost comical—but seeing the boy so hopelessly flustered, Kaka kindly kept from laughing.
He bit his lower lip, trying to find a gentle way to respond.
And to be fair… he was touched.
These days, true Madrid fans of Kaka were rare—especially after the way things had ended. To see someone still supporting him so earnestly warmed his heart.
“Thanks for your support,” he said sincerely. “I’ll pass it on to Ricardo. I’m sure he’ll be moved. Knowing people like you were with him all the way… it made the journey less lonely.”
As Steve visibly relaxed, Kaka’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “And don’t worry—I’ll make sure to let him know how much you love him. All of it. Of course, we both know you’re not gay.”
He grinned like a prankster pulling off the perfect joke and turned back to enjoy the game, leaving Steve stunned and speechless.
As it was Real’s home leg, the streets around the stadium were packed with fans in white jerseys.
PSG supporters were there too, but far fewer in number, having made the long journey to Madrid. The air buzzed with excitement and cheers.
Police patrolled the crowds, and several cruisers sat ready at key intersections.
Fans queued to enter the stadium, chatting animatedly about lineups and tactics, everyone eager for a win. Inside, the Bernabéu was a spectacle.
Five towering tiers, all packed to the brim. White flags fluttered through the air, massive tifos rose high into the sky, and the atmosphere burned like wildfire, ready to consume the stadium and everyone in it.
No matter how many times he’d seen it, Kaka was always in awe.
But sadly, the roars and passion now had nothing to do with him.
He queued up to enter with mixed emotions. When he finally reached his seat, he was stunned to find Steve sitting right next to him.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t so surprising. These seats were excellent—great view and angle. Steve had only agreed to sell him one ticket, keeping the other for himself. Makes sense.
But that wasn’t why Steve kept the other one. When Kaka greeted him with a smile, Steve’s face lit up with barely concealed excitement.
Ricardo was one. Beckham was another.
“Hey there. We meet again,” Kaka greeted politely.
Steve had clearly arrived early—the stands around them were still sparsely populated. In fact, it looked like they were the only two in that section.
Yep. Steve was definitely one of the first inside.
He hadn’t wanted to miss even the tiniest opportunity to interact with his former idol. As for the boy who looked 80% like a young Ricardo—was he a relative? A son? A nephew?
Didn’t matter. All Steve cared about was whether he could snag an autograph or a photo.
Still, no one who saw Kaka could deny the connection.
They looked way too alike. And devastatingly handsome, both of them. “Ricardo—!” Steve let out a squeal, more dramatic than one of those rubber chickens.
No way. Already? Kaka panicked a little and waved his hands. “I’m not Ricardo. We just happen to look alike.”
“You see, we are related,” he added with a wink, tapping his own face and shrugging like someone used to being mistaken for a cousin,
“People mix us up all the time.” Steve clapped a hand over his mouth, letting out something between a gasp and a sob. Oh my god!!! They really are related!!!
“I mean, you’re right, you do look alike, but also kinda different,” Steve blurted, trying to keep it together. “Ricardo’s more… mature-looking.
I mean, not that you’re not handsome—you are! But I’ve just admired Ricardo for so long. He’s in his thirties now—not that that’s old!
I still love him, even if he was old. I’ve loved him for years. I really do—”
Steve suddenly realized how that sounded.
He was gushing about Ricardo… to Ricardo’s supposed brother. As a straight guy.
Oh god. What am I even saying?! “Wait, wait—I love him, but I’m not gay. You know what I mean? I just really love watching him play!”
Kaka had no idea what he’d just said.
The whole scene was absurd, almost comical—but seeing the boy so hopelessly flustered, Kaka kindly kept from laughing.
He bit his lower lip, trying to find a gentle way to respond.
And to be fair… he was touched.
These days, true Madrid fans of Kaka were rare—especially after the way things had ended. To see someone still supporting him so earnestly warmed his heart.
“Thanks for your support,” he said sincerely. “I’ll pass it on to Ricardo. I’m sure he’ll be moved. Knowing people like you were with him all the way… it made the journey less lonely.”
As Steve visibly relaxed, Kaka’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “And don’t worry—I’ll make sure to let him know how much you love him. All of it. Of course, we both know you’re not gay.”
He grinned like a prankster pulling off the perfect joke and turned back to enjoy the game, leaving Steve stunned and speechless.
...
As more fans poured in, the stadium began to buzz with life.
The massive screen lit up, playing this year’s Champions League trailer. Supporters belted out their team anthems in unison, their voices soaring into the air. It felt like the whole stadium was pulsing to the same rhythm.
As the commentators took their places, the clock ticked toward 8 p.m.
The match was about to begin.
Players emerged one by one from the tunnel.
Los Blancos in their home whites; PSG in their deep-hued away kits.
Most of the faces on the pitch were familiar to Kaka.
Neymar, his former national teammate, was rocking a new hairstyle tonight—looked good.
Marcelo, his old Real and Brazil comrade, still had that giant cloud of hair. Ramos looked calm and composed. And then his eyes landed on him. Cristiano Ronaldo.
It had been so long since Kaka last saw Cris. Outside of awards shows and unavoidable events, they hadn’t spoken privately in over four years.
Time was cruel that way.
Once inseparable, now strangers drifting apart.
His four years at Real Madrid had been dark—but because of Cristiano, those years were also unforgettable.
That’s what Kaka’s memory told him.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m your commentator for tonight’s match, Jack.” “And I’m his partner, Pete. Glad to be here.”
The broadcast team began their coverage with Cristiano Ronaldo, who was surrounded by cameras.
Superstars always draw the most lenses and the most attention.
Jack and Pete were long-time partners and very familiar with Real Madrid’s games.
Jack began to enthusiastically introduce Ronaldo as he appeared on the screen:
“We all know how incredible Cristiano is at scoring goals, but in this season’s Champions League, he’s been absolutely insane—like a goal machine! He’s scored in nearly every one of the six group stage matches!”
“That’s right,” Pete chimed in. “His scoring in La Liga has dipped slightly this season, but in the Champions League? Flawless performances!”
The camera then cut to Neymar, who was warming up on the other side of the pitch.
“Now we’re seeing Neymar on the screen.”
“Yeah, since moving to PSG, he’s become their undisputed star. Both his goals and assists are among the top in the squad.”
“Alright, let’s take a look at tonight’s starting lineups.”
“Real Madrid are going with a 4-3-1-2 formation, while Paris Saint-Germain have lined up in a 4-3-3. Both sides are sticking with their usual lineups.”
The two teams stood facing each other on the field, shaking hands. The match was about to begin.
Cristiano stood tall on the pitch, chest out, calmly soaking in the roar of the crowd. He was in a great mood.
He didn’t know why, but ever since last week, he’d been feeling an odd sense of anxiety—unable to settle down.
But this morning, the moment he woke up, he felt refreshed, energetic, and absolutely elated.
A happy Cristiano had even burst into song in the locker room.
Marcelo, while stuffing his clothes into his locker, grumbled, “Hey, Cristiano, I don’t know why you’re so cheerful today, but can you not sing?”
“Seriously,” Ramos, busy tying his boots, chimed in, “Sese really can’t take that noise before a match.”
Other teammates made similar complaints.
Hmph. Philistines.
Cristiano stopped singing, but he was still feeling fantastic—and inwardly looked down on his teammates’ lack of taste.
As long as someone out there could appreciate it, that was enough. Cristiano nodded to himself.
There are people in this world with refined taste.
UEFA Champions League Round of 16 – Real Madrid vs Paris Saint-Germain
With a single blow of the referee’s whistle, the match was officially underway.
Right from the kickoff, Real Madrid launched into an aggressive attack, pushing most of their players past the halfway line. By the third minute, Isco had already found a golden opportunity.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Ronaldo—who had somehow already made a run into the box. Years of playing together meant he knew exactly wheere Cristiano would go. Without hesitation, he struck the ball from midfield.
The ball soared in a beautiful, high arc—landing precisely at Ronaldo’s feet.
“Fantastic pass! Ronaldo receives it! That was brilliant vision from Isco!”
Kaka watched the players intently.
But the moment Ronaldo took his shot, Kaka knew something was off. That angle wasn’t ideal.
Tough to get it on target.
Sure enough, Ronaldo raised his leg and shot, but the ball bounced off the turf and slid wide of the goal. A scare for PSG, but no damage done.
The massive screen lit up, playing this year’s Champions League trailer. Supporters belted out their team anthems in unison, their voices soaring into the air. It felt like the whole stadium was pulsing to the same rhythm.
As the commentators took their places, the clock ticked toward 8 p.m.
The match was about to begin.
Players emerged one by one from the tunnel.
Los Blancos in their home whites; PSG in their deep-hued away kits.
Most of the faces on the pitch were familiar to Kaka.
Neymar, his former national teammate, was rocking a new hairstyle tonight—looked good.
Marcelo, his old Real and Brazil comrade, still had that giant cloud of hair. Ramos looked calm and composed. And then his eyes landed on him. Cristiano Ronaldo.
It had been so long since Kaka last saw Cris. Outside of awards shows and unavoidable events, they hadn’t spoken privately in over four years.
Time was cruel that way.
Once inseparable, now strangers drifting apart.
His four years at Real Madrid had been dark—but because of Cristiano, those years were also unforgettable.
That’s what Kaka’s memory told him.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m your commentator for tonight’s match, Jack.” “And I’m his partner, Pete. Glad to be here.”
The broadcast team began their coverage with Cristiano Ronaldo, who was surrounded by cameras.
Superstars always draw the most lenses and the most attention.
Jack and Pete were long-time partners and very familiar with Real Madrid’s games.
Jack began to enthusiastically introduce Ronaldo as he appeared on the screen:
“We all know how incredible Cristiano is at scoring goals, but in this season’s Champions League, he’s been absolutely insane—like a goal machine! He’s scored in nearly every one of the six group stage matches!”
“That’s right,” Pete chimed in. “His scoring in La Liga has dipped slightly this season, but in the Champions League? Flawless performances!”
The camera then cut to Neymar, who was warming up on the other side of the pitch.
“Now we’re seeing Neymar on the screen.”
“Yeah, since moving to PSG, he’s become their undisputed star. Both his goals and assists are among the top in the squad.”
“Alright, let’s take a look at tonight’s starting lineups.”
“Real Madrid are going with a 4-3-1-2 formation, while Paris Saint-Germain have lined up in a 4-3-3. Both sides are sticking with their usual lineups.”
The two teams stood facing each other on the field, shaking hands. The match was about to begin.
Cristiano stood tall on the pitch, chest out, calmly soaking in the roar of the crowd. He was in a great mood.
He didn’t know why, but ever since last week, he’d been feeling an odd sense of anxiety—unable to settle down.
But this morning, the moment he woke up, he felt refreshed, energetic, and absolutely elated.
A happy Cristiano had even burst into song in the locker room.
Marcelo, while stuffing his clothes into his locker, grumbled, “Hey, Cristiano, I don’t know why you’re so cheerful today, but can you not sing?”
“Seriously,” Ramos, busy tying his boots, chimed in, “Sese really can’t take that noise before a match.”
Other teammates made similar complaints.
Hmph. Philistines.
Cristiano stopped singing, but he was still feeling fantastic—and inwardly looked down on his teammates’ lack of taste.
As long as someone out there could appreciate it, that was enough. Cristiano nodded to himself.
There are people in this world with refined taste.
UEFA Champions League Round of 16 – Real Madrid vs Paris Saint-Germain
With a single blow of the referee’s whistle, the match was officially underway.
Right from the kickoff, Real Madrid launched into an aggressive attack, pushing most of their players past the halfway line. By the third minute, Isco had already found a golden opportunity.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Ronaldo—who had somehow already made a run into the box. Years of playing together meant he knew exactly wheere Cristiano would go. Without hesitation, he struck the ball from midfield.
The ball soared in a beautiful, high arc—landing precisely at Ronaldo’s feet.
“Fantastic pass! Ronaldo receives it! That was brilliant vision from Isco!”
Kaka watched the players intently.
But the moment Ronaldo took his shot, Kaka knew something was off. That angle wasn’t ideal.
Tough to get it on target.
Sure enough, Ronaldo raised his leg and shot, but the ball bounced off the turf and slid wide of the goal. A scare for PSG, but no damage done.
...
Though the shot didn’t go in, Real Madrid adjusted quickly and mounted another fierce attack, this time organized by Kroos.
But it also ended without a result. After enduring early pressure in their own half, PSG began to regain their rhythm.
They tried to exploit Real Madrid’s defense with long balls over the top, while Neymar made constant forward runs looking for space.
Both teams were excellent going forward, so the match pace was fast and fierce, leaving the audience breathless. Real Madrid regained possession. Isco, just outside the penalty area, tried to dribble past the defense.
A PSG defender stuck out a foot to stop him—but fouled instead. The referee immediately issued a yellow card and awarded Madrid a dangerous free-kick. Cristiano stepped up to take it.
All around, Madrid fans rose to their feet instinctively. Kaká stood up, too. It was easy to understand why the fans were so excited.
This was a great spot for a free-kick—very close to goal. But that closeness also posed a challenge: how to get the ball over the wall and still dip it into the goal?
Even Kaká thought it was a tricky one. But Cristiano was a better free-kick taker than he was—maybe he’d pull it off. From this distance, Kaká couldn’t make out Cristiano’s expression clearly.
All he could do was silently pray for him. Then a pair of binoculars appeared in front of his face. “Wanna use them?” It was Steve.
“Binoculars! You’ll get a clearer view!” The stadium was far too noisy—they had to shout just to hear each other. “Aren’t you using them?” “I’m good with the big screen.
Go on, take ‘em!” Steve shoved the binoculars into Kaká’s hands before he could refuse, then immediately turned away and pretended to focus on the match.
Kaká had no choice but to shout a quick “Thanks.” And truth be told, he really did need them.
The stadium screen kept switching to wide shots, but through the binoculars, he could focus solely on Cristiano’s face.
Cristiano looked determined, eyes darting between the ball and the defensive wall, searching for the right angle.
That new haircut looked pretty good… maybe worth trying next time… Wait, what are you thinking, Kaká?
You’re a professional athlete! He shook himself back to focus, just as Cristiano began his run-up.
Jack tried to anticipate what Ronaldo was planning: “It’s so close to the goal—getting the ball over the wall won’t be easy.
Let’s see what route he chooses. He runs up—” The ball soared high—but too high. It flew over the crossbar and into the stands.
A chorus of disappointed sighs echoed through the stadium. Kaká’s expression mirrored everyone else’s in the crowd.
Collectively, they all facepalmed and sighed in disappointment.
The fans hadn’t recovered yet, but the players were already gearing up for the next chance. Pete analyzed what went wrong:
“Ronaldo aimed high to get it over the wall, but from this distance, the ball didn’t have enough time to dip—it just sailed out.”
Possession passed back to PSG. While the commentators were still discussing Ronaldo’s miss, the match quickly shifted—PSG had already brought the ball into Madrid’s half.
“Neymar cuts inside—past one! Will he shoot or pass? Careful now—” But just then, Neymar lost his footing slightly, and the ball rolled out of his control—cleared by a Madrid defender.
“He hesitated! Just one second of hesitation and the chance was gone! That’s how it is on the pitch—one moment of indecision, and the opportunity slips.”
“Exactly! Hesitate and you lose!” Too bad.
Kaká couldn’t help but sigh. That was such a good chance. Neymar was a younger teammate of Kaká’s on the national team—they had a good relationship.
Kaká really admired Neymar’s skills, and the kid had always been such a bright, lively presence during training—always goofing around, making everyone laugh.
Even though Neymar was all grown up now, Kaká still saw him as that cheerful kid he first met.
The momentum shifted again. The ball flew through the air and landed at Marcelo’s feet.
He controlled it quickly, picked his spot, and struck hard with his right foot.
The ball curved through the air like a guided missile—flying straight toward Cristiano, who was sprinting full-speed into PSG’s box.
“Great pass! Ronaldo’s on it!!! SHOOT!!!” The stadium erupted in deafening cheers.
It was a perfect one-on-one opportunity! “Cristiano!!!!” Real Madrid fans were screaming.
Cristiano charged forward with the ball, a defender closing in fast, and the keeper rushing out.
Everyone was converging on the ball at once. Not a good angle!
It was a tight situation, and Ronaldo’s instincts told him it wasn’t the right moment to shoot.
He adjusted his position quickly with two small steps—then took the shot. But those two seconds of hesitation made the angle too narrow.
The ball sailed over the crossbar. Another collective sigh from the crowd.
And in that desperate save attempt, PSG keeper Alphonse Areola went down injured. The referee immediately blew the whistle to pause the match. PSG’s medical team rushed in to check on their keeper.
But it also ended without a result. After enduring early pressure in their own half, PSG began to regain their rhythm.
They tried to exploit Real Madrid’s defense with long balls over the top, while Neymar made constant forward runs looking for space.
Both teams were excellent going forward, so the match pace was fast and fierce, leaving the audience breathless. Real Madrid regained possession. Isco, just outside the penalty area, tried to dribble past the defense.
A PSG defender stuck out a foot to stop him—but fouled instead. The referee immediately issued a yellow card and awarded Madrid a dangerous free-kick. Cristiano stepped up to take it.
All around, Madrid fans rose to their feet instinctively. Kaká stood up, too. It was easy to understand why the fans were so excited.
This was a great spot for a free-kick—very close to goal. But that closeness also posed a challenge: how to get the ball over the wall and still dip it into the goal?
Even Kaká thought it was a tricky one. But Cristiano was a better free-kick taker than he was—maybe he’d pull it off. From this distance, Kaká couldn’t make out Cristiano’s expression clearly.
All he could do was silently pray for him. Then a pair of binoculars appeared in front of his face. “Wanna use them?” It was Steve.
“Binoculars! You’ll get a clearer view!” The stadium was far too noisy—they had to shout just to hear each other. “Aren’t you using them?” “I’m good with the big screen.
Go on, take ‘em!” Steve shoved the binoculars into Kaká’s hands before he could refuse, then immediately turned away and pretended to focus on the match.
Kaká had no choice but to shout a quick “Thanks.” And truth be told, he really did need them.
The stadium screen kept switching to wide shots, but through the binoculars, he could focus solely on Cristiano’s face.
Cristiano looked determined, eyes darting between the ball and the defensive wall, searching for the right angle.
That new haircut looked pretty good… maybe worth trying next time… Wait, what are you thinking, Kaká?
You’re a professional athlete! He shook himself back to focus, just as Cristiano began his run-up.
Jack tried to anticipate what Ronaldo was planning: “It’s so close to the goal—getting the ball over the wall won’t be easy.
Let’s see what route he chooses. He runs up—” The ball soared high—but too high. It flew over the crossbar and into the stands.
A chorus of disappointed sighs echoed through the stadium. Kaká’s expression mirrored everyone else’s in the crowd.
Collectively, they all facepalmed and sighed in disappointment.
The fans hadn’t recovered yet, but the players were already gearing up for the next chance. Pete analyzed what went wrong:
“Ronaldo aimed high to get it over the wall, but from this distance, the ball didn’t have enough time to dip—it just sailed out.”
Possession passed back to PSG. While the commentators were still discussing Ronaldo’s miss, the match quickly shifted—PSG had already brought the ball into Madrid’s half.
“Neymar cuts inside—past one! Will he shoot or pass? Careful now—” But just then, Neymar lost his footing slightly, and the ball rolled out of his control—cleared by a Madrid defender.
“He hesitated! Just one second of hesitation and the chance was gone! That’s how it is on the pitch—one moment of indecision, and the opportunity slips.”
“Exactly! Hesitate and you lose!” Too bad.
Kaká couldn’t help but sigh. That was such a good chance. Neymar was a younger teammate of Kaká’s on the national team—they had a good relationship.
Kaká really admired Neymar’s skills, and the kid had always been such a bright, lively presence during training—always goofing around, making everyone laugh.
Even though Neymar was all grown up now, Kaká still saw him as that cheerful kid he first met.
The momentum shifted again. The ball flew through the air and landed at Marcelo’s feet.
He controlled it quickly, picked his spot, and struck hard with his right foot.
The ball curved through the air like a guided missile—flying straight toward Cristiano, who was sprinting full-speed into PSG’s box.
“Great pass! Ronaldo’s on it!!! SHOOT!!!” The stadium erupted in deafening cheers.
It was a perfect one-on-one opportunity! “Cristiano!!!!” Real Madrid fans were screaming.
Cristiano charged forward with the ball, a defender closing in fast, and the keeper rushing out.
Everyone was converging on the ball at once. Not a good angle!
It was a tight situation, and Ronaldo’s instincts told him it wasn’t the right moment to shoot.
He adjusted his position quickly with two small steps—then took the shot. But those two seconds of hesitation made the angle too narrow.
The ball sailed over the crossbar. Another collective sigh from the crowd.
And in that desperate save attempt, PSG keeper Alphonse Areola went down injured. The referee immediately blew the whistle to pause the match. PSG’s medical team rushed in to check on their keeper.
...
At this point, the stadium cameras started scanning the stands.
This was a common move during stoppages—when there wasn’t much happening on the pitch, the broadcast would cut to the crowd to see if there were any celebrities, or maybe just good-looking fans to boost ratings.
Jack and Pete took this opportunity to review the last few plays.
“PSG’s fullback was already pressing Ronaldo physically, and Areola had charged out early—there really wasn’t much space left to shoot.”
“Yeah, we can see on the replay—Ronaldo adjusted twice before taking the shot. He hesitated.”
“Such a shame. Both sides missed out on great opportunities.”
Steve, meanwhile, was completely distracted. Honestly, he couldn’t focus on the match at all.
He swore to the heavens—he was a straight man, 100 percent. But God help him, he had almost leaned over to catch a whiff of that faint, sweet scent coming off of Kaká while he was so focused on the game.
It was a little too much… Just then, the broadcast camera, still wandering through the crowd, suddenly froze.
The director stared at the image, not quite believing his eyes. That face—even with a hat on, he was unfairly handsome.
Looked oddly familiar. Ricardo? Ricardo?!?! But how could Ricardo suddenly look so young? He remembered recent news reports—Ricardo had been rocking an unkempt beard just a while ago.
He nudged his colleague and pointed at the screen. “Do you believe in anti-aging serum?”
His coworker, focused on monitoring the broadcast flow, shot him a look. “Are you dreaming? It’s the middle of the day—we’re working, stay focused—”
But then he saw the ‘teenage version’ of Ricardo on the screen—and both their worldviews wobbled a bit.
“Maybe it’s Ricardo’s younger brother?”
“You ever seen him?” “No…” “But this is definitely newsworthy!!”
The colleague immediately locked onto the angle. “Ricardo only just retired—maybe we can ride the hype.
‘Ricardo’s brother spotted at Bernabéu, sparking rumors of lingering Real Madrid ties.
Classic journalist move—headline first, facts later. He pointed at another screen showing Cristiano.
“Aren’t they close friends? Today’s post-match interviews just got more interesting.”
The camera stopped moving—and then began zooming in.
So when Steve finally snapped out of it, he saw his own stunned face blown up on the corner of the big screen.
Fortunately, not many people were looking at him. Everyone’s attention was locked on the face in the center of the screen.
Kaká had instinctively covered his face when the camera panned toward him, but then hesitated. There was nothing scandalous about his identity.
All his information checked out. So he quietly shifted his fingers, trying to sneak a peek to see if the camera was still on him—only to lock eyes with a massive version of himself.
On screen, the teenager had one hand over his face, but through the gaps in his fingers, his bright eyes peeked out with a tentative gaze—so charmingly adorable it made people smile without meaning to.
Realizing he couldn’t dodge the camera, Kaká simply lowered his hand, trying hard to maintain a serious and composed expression.
But truth be told, now that his body had returned to its seventeen-year-old form, it felt like his heart had gone back too.
Confident. Happy. Unrestrained. It felt like nothing in the world could stop him.
So why hide? If even a miracle like this had to be hidden away, then what was the point of it all? With that thought, he lifted his head and beamed at the camera, flashing that iconic row of pearly white teeth.
His smile was radiant, his eyes sparkling with laughter. At seventeen, Kaká’s face was still youthful, his shoulders still slender, but the sharp lines of his brows and eyes exuded the free-spirited air of youth.
His thick black hair shimmered with a soft luster, and his warm, gentle smile could melt anyone’s heart into spring water.
A collective gasp rippled through the stadium. UEFA Champions League, Round of 16: Real Madrid vs. PSG This was the Santiago Bernabéu.
Though Ricardo had left Real Madrid four years ago, most of the fans hadn’t forgotten the once-glorious Son of God.
So when they saw a younger version of Ricardo on screen, the shock was immediate. “OMG! Oh my God! Is that Ricardo??
Am I seeing things? He looks just like Ricardo!” Jack shouted. As a commentator, recognizing players—especially global stars—was a basic job requirement.
Recognizing Kaká? Child’s play. “Of course, it can’t be him.
There’s no such thing as a reverse-aging drug, and this isn’t some fairy tale.
We even reported on Ricardo’s retirement a few months ago, remember?” Pete replied, trying to reason with Jack, though he himself was in disbelief.
“But they really do look alike,” Pete murmured into the mic.
“Honestly, it feels like I’ve traveled back in time to when Ricardo first arrived in Serie A. That same youthfulness.”
Pete had been in the industry a long time and had called many of Ricardo’s matches. Ricardo had once lit up his career.
So watching that young genius fade under the weight of injury had left him with no small amount of regret.
But before he could continue reminiscing about Ricardo’s dramatic career, Jack’s strange tone interrupted him.
“God, he’s so handsome,” Jack said, eyes glued to Kaká’s face.
“Like some fairytale prince.” Pete chuckled helplessly. “Hey, keep it together—we’re live.”
“But seriously, that face alone could earn the club a fortune.” Pete speculated, “If he has even half Ricardo’s talent—or even just knows how to kick a ball—I bet clubs will be lining up with blank checks.”
“Like…” They turned and grinned at each other, then spoke in unison.
“AC Milan.” Laughter broke out in the studio.
This was a common move during stoppages—when there wasn’t much happening on the pitch, the broadcast would cut to the crowd to see if there were any celebrities, or maybe just good-looking fans to boost ratings.
Jack and Pete took this opportunity to review the last few plays.
“PSG’s fullback was already pressing Ronaldo physically, and Areola had charged out early—there really wasn’t much space left to shoot.”
“Yeah, we can see on the replay—Ronaldo adjusted twice before taking the shot. He hesitated.”
“Such a shame. Both sides missed out on great opportunities.”
Steve, meanwhile, was completely distracted. Honestly, he couldn’t focus on the match at all.
He swore to the heavens—he was a straight man, 100 percent. But God help him, he had almost leaned over to catch a whiff of that faint, sweet scent coming off of Kaká while he was so focused on the game.
It was a little too much… Just then, the broadcast camera, still wandering through the crowd, suddenly froze.
The director stared at the image, not quite believing his eyes. That face—even with a hat on, he was unfairly handsome.
Looked oddly familiar. Ricardo? Ricardo?!?! But how could Ricardo suddenly look so young? He remembered recent news reports—Ricardo had been rocking an unkempt beard just a while ago.
He nudged his colleague and pointed at the screen. “Do you believe in anti-aging serum?”
His coworker, focused on monitoring the broadcast flow, shot him a look. “Are you dreaming? It’s the middle of the day—we’re working, stay focused—”
But then he saw the ‘teenage version’ of Ricardo on the screen—and both their worldviews wobbled a bit.
“Maybe it’s Ricardo’s younger brother?”
“You ever seen him?” “No…” “But this is definitely newsworthy!!”
The colleague immediately locked onto the angle. “Ricardo only just retired—maybe we can ride the hype.
‘Ricardo’s brother spotted at Bernabéu, sparking rumors of lingering Real Madrid ties.
Classic journalist move—headline first, facts later. He pointed at another screen showing Cristiano.
“Aren’t they close friends? Today’s post-match interviews just got more interesting.”
The camera stopped moving—and then began zooming in.
So when Steve finally snapped out of it, he saw his own stunned face blown up on the corner of the big screen.
Fortunately, not many people were looking at him. Everyone’s attention was locked on the face in the center of the screen.
Kaká had instinctively covered his face when the camera panned toward him, but then hesitated. There was nothing scandalous about his identity.
All his information checked out. So he quietly shifted his fingers, trying to sneak a peek to see if the camera was still on him—only to lock eyes with a massive version of himself.
On screen, the teenager had one hand over his face, but through the gaps in his fingers, his bright eyes peeked out with a tentative gaze—so charmingly adorable it made people smile without meaning to.
Realizing he couldn’t dodge the camera, Kaká simply lowered his hand, trying hard to maintain a serious and composed expression.
But truth be told, now that his body had returned to its seventeen-year-old form, it felt like his heart had gone back too.
Confident. Happy. Unrestrained. It felt like nothing in the world could stop him.
So why hide? If even a miracle like this had to be hidden away, then what was the point of it all? With that thought, he lifted his head and beamed at the camera, flashing that iconic row of pearly white teeth.
His smile was radiant, his eyes sparkling with laughter. At seventeen, Kaká’s face was still youthful, his shoulders still slender, but the sharp lines of his brows and eyes exuded the free-spirited air of youth.
His thick black hair shimmered with a soft luster, and his warm, gentle smile could melt anyone’s heart into spring water.
A collective gasp rippled through the stadium. UEFA Champions League, Round of 16: Real Madrid vs. PSG This was the Santiago Bernabéu.
Though Ricardo had left Real Madrid four years ago, most of the fans hadn’t forgotten the once-glorious Son of God.
So when they saw a younger version of Ricardo on screen, the shock was immediate. “OMG! Oh my God! Is that Ricardo??
Am I seeing things? He looks just like Ricardo!” Jack shouted. As a commentator, recognizing players—especially global stars—was a basic job requirement.
Recognizing Kaká? Child’s play. “Of course, it can’t be him.
There’s no such thing as a reverse-aging drug, and this isn’t some fairy tale.
We even reported on Ricardo’s retirement a few months ago, remember?” Pete replied, trying to reason with Jack, though he himself was in disbelief.
“But they really do look alike,” Pete murmured into the mic.
“Honestly, it feels like I’ve traveled back in time to when Ricardo first arrived in Serie A. That same youthfulness.”
Pete had been in the industry a long time and had called many of Ricardo’s matches. Ricardo had once lit up his career.
So watching that young genius fade under the weight of injury had left him with no small amount of regret.
But before he could continue reminiscing about Ricardo’s dramatic career, Jack’s strange tone interrupted him.
“God, he’s so handsome,” Jack said, eyes glued to Kaká’s face.
“Like some fairytale prince.” Pete chuckled helplessly. “Hey, keep it together—we’re live.”
“But seriously, that face alone could earn the club a fortune.” Pete speculated, “If he has even half Ricardo’s talent—or even just knows how to kick a ball—I bet clubs will be lining up with blank checks.”
“Like…” They turned and grinned at each other, then spoke in unison.
“AC Milan.” Laughter broke out in the studio.
...
Even the players on the field were drawn by the commotion in the stands, turning their eyes toward the big screen. And they, too, were stunned.
“When did Ricardo get a little brother that old?”
Marcelo blurted, standing not far from Cristiano, looking utterly shocked. “How come I never knew?”
Considering he and Ricardo had been teammates on both club and national teams, this was a shocking revelation.
Marcelo couldn’t believe it. Truth be told, neither could Cristiano. He’d been neighbors with Ricardo for years—they were close enough to know each other’s families.
But he had never once heard of Ricardo having a younger brother. Ramos, confused, asked, “What about Ricardo’s brother?”
“Nothing, just… how did I not know?!” Marcelo looked to Cristiano, hoping to find a fellow sufferer.
“Cris, did you know?” Cristiano shook his head, looking slightly pale. He hated to admit it, but no—he hadn’t known either. “See?
Even Cris didn’t know!” Marcelo said indignantly. “And we’re good friends!” “Well, even close friends keep secrets,”
Ramos said with a shrug. “Maybe Ricardo just didn’t want his brother in the spotlight. You know how the media is…” He motioned vaguely and didn’t finish the sentence. Marcelo was convinced—but unsure who to be mad at, so he decided to be mad at Ramos.
Why was this lunkhead suddenly so insightful today? Cristiano, meanwhile, lowered his head, his mood plummeting.
His good spirits from earlier that morning were now completely gone. Maybe he’d been overthinking things.
He tugged at the corner of his mouth, trying to smile, but couldn’t. Just then, another round of cheers erupted.
Cristiano looked up to see the screen had switched to Neymar.
Neymar was waving enthusiastically in the boy’s direction—perhaps afraid he wouldn’t be seen, he even bounced a few times to make himself more visible.
The camera caught the gesture immediately.
The crowd’s excitement had stemmed from this. Neymar hadn’t thought too deeply about it.
He’d always gotten along well with Ricardo, and the boy was obviously family. So he’d just wanted to give a friendly wave.
Kaká, of course, noticed. Neymar saw himself on the big screen too, and decided to lean in: he gave a charming wink, tilted his mouth into a grin, and made a heart with his hands toward Kaká.
Watching Neymar’s cheeky little act, Kaká couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing. Childish and handsome—that was Neymar to a tee.
So Kaká formed a heart above his own head and gave the camera a little shake for good measure.
The scene was too delightful. Screams erupted all around.
Cristiano stood watching from a distance, his expression darkening.
The medical team quickly finished treating Areola’s injury, and the game resumed.
PSG kicked off, and the two sides entered a phase of tactical probing.
Mbappé carried the ball to the edge of Real Madrid’s box.
Everyone expected him to take the shot—defenders rushed to close him down.
But Mbappé feinted, then suddenly sent a cross from the right wing.
Cavani sidestepped to let the ball through, and it landed cleanly at Neymar’s feet. “NEYMARRRR!!! Neymar’s got the ball—Madrid’s in serious danger!!” Jack shouted.
Ramos tried to intercept but failed.
Neymar passed to Rabiot. Rabiot seized the chance and took a powerful shot—into the net.
“GOALLLLLLLLLL!!!
PSG scores the opener! It’s 0–1!” “A dream link-up! What a goal! Rabiot has changed the tide of the match! Madrid now trails by one!”
Kaká’s expression turned serious. This was bad news for Real Madrid. PSG’s goal not only put them ahead in this match, it also gave them an away goal advantage.
If Madrid couldn’t equalize, the pressure for the return leg would be immense. Kaká didn’t even want to imagine what kind of media storm Cristiano would face if Madrid crashed out in the Round of 16.
The very thought suffocated him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Sitting in the stands, there was nothing he could do—except believe in Cristiano. Believe that he could turn things around.
The tide was against Real Madrid. To shift the momentum, they pushed their formation forward, aiming to press high and disrupt PSG’s defense.
It was the right move—PSG’s backline had always been a weak spot. Despite spending €220 million this season on Neymar, the club hadn’t fixed the core problem.
If anything, it made their “top-heavy” lineup even more lopsided. World-class forwards.
Second-rate defenders. Against an offensively aggressive team like Madrid, PSG’s defense looked especially vulnerable.
If Madrid could capitalize on that, they might just come back. But chance after chance was squandered—and they nearly conceded again.
PSG wasn’t the only team good at attacking tonight. In the 37th minute, PSG launched another assault. Neymar broke to the edge of the box and sent a cross to Cavani.
Cavani struck with his left—but Madrid’s keeper launched himself and smothered the ball. “Cavani—Cavani shoots!!”
“Saved! Madrid’s still alive!” “That shot didn’t go in, but PSG’s firepower is terrifying!” “Absolutely. Madrid’s clearly struggling tonight.”
“But what a game—it’s a visual feast for fans!” The score remained unchanged after several more exchanges.
Benzema delivered a brilliant on-target shot—but Areola responded with a world-class save. Finally, after a blatant pull by a PSG defender, Madrid earned a penalty.
The referee placed the ball twelve yards from goal.
Cristiano would take the kick. The entire stadium rose to their feet. The Madrid fans looked especially tense, the weight of the moment bearing down like a boulder. Cristiano stood over the ball.
Kaká’s hands clenched tightly together. He began to pray in silence. This was a critical penalty. Until now, Madrid had been behind.
If Cristiano scored, they’d be back in it. If not, it could crush the team’s morale. Considering Madrid was already out of La Liga title contention, the Champions League was their last shot at redemption.
Failing here would be devastating—for the team, for the fans, for everyone. This penalty could very well decide their fate.
And all the pressure now rested on the man standing over the ball. Kaká brought his hands to his mouth, praying.
He could feel his heart pounding wildly. At that moment, he was like every other Madrid fan in the stadium—desperate to stand beside Cristiano and give him all his strength.
Cristiano. Cristiano. Cristiano. You can do this. Kaká repeated his name silently, as if by doing so, he could pass on his strength.
Cristiano took a deep breath, ran up, and struck the ball with force. Areola guessed the right direction—but didn’t reach it.
The ball soared straight into the net. GOAL!!! “Cristiano runs up—he shoots!!!” “GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!
He did it! Cristiano didn’t miss this time!”
“That’s his 10th Champions League goal this season—a new record! That’s Cristiano for you!”
“In the dying moments of the first half, Madrid finally claw back a crucial goal!”
The score was 1–1. Madrid had come back from the brink of elimination!
“When did Ricardo get a little brother that old?”
Marcelo blurted, standing not far from Cristiano, looking utterly shocked. “How come I never knew?”
Considering he and Ricardo had been teammates on both club and national teams, this was a shocking revelation.
Marcelo couldn’t believe it. Truth be told, neither could Cristiano. He’d been neighbors with Ricardo for years—they were close enough to know each other’s families.
But he had never once heard of Ricardo having a younger brother. Ramos, confused, asked, “What about Ricardo’s brother?”
“Nothing, just… how did I not know?!” Marcelo looked to Cristiano, hoping to find a fellow sufferer.
“Cris, did you know?” Cristiano shook his head, looking slightly pale. He hated to admit it, but no—he hadn’t known either. “See?
Even Cris didn’t know!” Marcelo said indignantly. “And we’re good friends!” “Well, even close friends keep secrets,”
Ramos said with a shrug. “Maybe Ricardo just didn’t want his brother in the spotlight. You know how the media is…” He motioned vaguely and didn’t finish the sentence. Marcelo was convinced—but unsure who to be mad at, so he decided to be mad at Ramos.
Why was this lunkhead suddenly so insightful today? Cristiano, meanwhile, lowered his head, his mood plummeting.
His good spirits from earlier that morning were now completely gone. Maybe he’d been overthinking things.
He tugged at the corner of his mouth, trying to smile, but couldn’t. Just then, another round of cheers erupted.
Cristiano looked up to see the screen had switched to Neymar.
Neymar was waving enthusiastically in the boy’s direction—perhaps afraid he wouldn’t be seen, he even bounced a few times to make himself more visible.
The camera caught the gesture immediately.
The crowd’s excitement had stemmed from this. Neymar hadn’t thought too deeply about it.
He’d always gotten along well with Ricardo, and the boy was obviously family. So he’d just wanted to give a friendly wave.
Kaká, of course, noticed. Neymar saw himself on the big screen too, and decided to lean in: he gave a charming wink, tilted his mouth into a grin, and made a heart with his hands toward Kaká.
Watching Neymar’s cheeky little act, Kaká couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing. Childish and handsome—that was Neymar to a tee.
So Kaká formed a heart above his own head and gave the camera a little shake for good measure.
The scene was too delightful. Screams erupted all around.
Cristiano stood watching from a distance, his expression darkening.
The medical team quickly finished treating Areola’s injury, and the game resumed.
PSG kicked off, and the two sides entered a phase of tactical probing.
Mbappé carried the ball to the edge of Real Madrid’s box.
Everyone expected him to take the shot—defenders rushed to close him down.
But Mbappé feinted, then suddenly sent a cross from the right wing.
Cavani sidestepped to let the ball through, and it landed cleanly at Neymar’s feet. “NEYMARRRR!!! Neymar’s got the ball—Madrid’s in serious danger!!” Jack shouted.
Ramos tried to intercept but failed.
Neymar passed to Rabiot. Rabiot seized the chance and took a powerful shot—into the net.
“GOALLLLLLLLLL!!!
PSG scores the opener! It’s 0–1!” “A dream link-up! What a goal! Rabiot has changed the tide of the match! Madrid now trails by one!”
Kaká’s expression turned serious. This was bad news for Real Madrid. PSG’s goal not only put them ahead in this match, it also gave them an away goal advantage.
If Madrid couldn’t equalize, the pressure for the return leg would be immense. Kaká didn’t even want to imagine what kind of media storm Cristiano would face if Madrid crashed out in the Round of 16.
The very thought suffocated him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Sitting in the stands, there was nothing he could do—except believe in Cristiano. Believe that he could turn things around.
The tide was against Real Madrid. To shift the momentum, they pushed their formation forward, aiming to press high and disrupt PSG’s defense.
It was the right move—PSG’s backline had always been a weak spot. Despite spending €220 million this season on Neymar, the club hadn’t fixed the core problem.
If anything, it made their “top-heavy” lineup even more lopsided. World-class forwards.
Second-rate defenders. Against an offensively aggressive team like Madrid, PSG’s defense looked especially vulnerable.
If Madrid could capitalize on that, they might just come back. But chance after chance was squandered—and they nearly conceded again.
PSG wasn’t the only team good at attacking tonight. In the 37th minute, PSG launched another assault. Neymar broke to the edge of the box and sent a cross to Cavani.
Cavani struck with his left—but Madrid’s keeper launched himself and smothered the ball. “Cavani—Cavani shoots!!”
“Saved! Madrid’s still alive!” “That shot didn’t go in, but PSG’s firepower is terrifying!” “Absolutely. Madrid’s clearly struggling tonight.”
“But what a game—it’s a visual feast for fans!” The score remained unchanged after several more exchanges.
Benzema delivered a brilliant on-target shot—but Areola responded with a world-class save. Finally, after a blatant pull by a PSG defender, Madrid earned a penalty.
The referee placed the ball twelve yards from goal.
Cristiano would take the kick. The entire stadium rose to their feet. The Madrid fans looked especially tense, the weight of the moment bearing down like a boulder. Cristiano stood over the ball.
Kaká’s hands clenched tightly together. He began to pray in silence. This was a critical penalty. Until now, Madrid had been behind.
If Cristiano scored, they’d be back in it. If not, it could crush the team’s morale. Considering Madrid was already out of La Liga title contention, the Champions League was their last shot at redemption.
Failing here would be devastating—for the team, for the fans, for everyone. This penalty could very well decide their fate.
And all the pressure now rested on the man standing over the ball. Kaká brought his hands to his mouth, praying.
He could feel his heart pounding wildly. At that moment, he was like every other Madrid fan in the stadium—desperate to stand beside Cristiano and give him all his strength.
Cristiano. Cristiano. Cristiano. You can do this. Kaká repeated his name silently, as if by doing so, he could pass on his strength.
Cristiano took a deep breath, ran up, and struck the ball with force. Areola guessed the right direction—but didn’t reach it.
The ball soared straight into the net. GOAL!!! “Cristiano runs up—he shoots!!!” “GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!
He did it! Cristiano didn’t miss this time!”
“That’s his 10th Champions League goal this season—a new record! That’s Cristiano for you!”
“In the dying moments of the first half, Madrid finally claw back a crucial goal!”
The score was 1–1. Madrid had come back from the brink of elimination!
......
The Bernabéu erupted. They’d waited far too long for this moment.
No exaggeration—it felt like this goal had saved the hearts of every Madrid fan. Players, coaches, substitutes—everyone went wild.
They hugged, they shouted, releasing all the tension from before.
Cries of “Cristiano!” echoed throughout the stadium.
“Cristiano!!!” Steve leapt to his feet, not knowing how to vent his emotions—he just shouted Cristiano’s name, over and over.
“This is Cristiano!!!” As the halftime whistle blew, the exhausted players slowly made their way off the pitch and into the dressing rooms.
But the stands were still buzzing with energy.
Real Madrid fans, thrilled to see their team equalize, were singing their anthem loudly and cheering with uncontainable joy.
On the other side, PSG supporters looked a little downcast, having seen their lead slip away. Kaká was still immersed in the excitement when he suddenly felt his phone vibrating in his pocket.
He took it out and saw it was Ricardo calling.
A good number of fans around him had left temporarily to take care of business, so although the place was still noisy, it wasn’t enough to drown out a phone call.
Kaká answered directly.
“Hello? Ricardo, what’s up?” To avoid confusion, they’d agreed beforehand on how to address each other. “Kaká, are you watching the match?”
“Yeah, Real Madrid versus Paris—Champions League round of 16.” There was still a trace of excitement in his voice.
“I know. I’m watching the livestream too.” “You are? Then did you see that goal from Cris just now? Absolutely insane! Let me tell you—”
Kaká tried to share his overflowing excitement, and Ricardo listened patiently. Only after Kaká finished did he finally speak again.
“Actually, someone called me and told me you were at the game,” Ricardo said. “Your photo’s all over social media now.”
“Huh? Why? That’s kind of unnecessary.” Kaká was a little confused.
The match was only halfway through—shouldn’t everyone be focused on the game? Why were his pictures being shared around? It had only been a couple of camera shots at most.
“That’s not the main point. What matters is—Paolo called me,” Ricardo paused for a second, then decided to get straight to it.
“He asked me when I got a younger brother.” Kaká’s heart jumped a little at the mention of Maldini. “What did you say?”
“I used the story we came up with—said we kept you in Brazil with Mom to protect you from media exposure while you were studying.
Anyway, it worked. He didn’t press further.”
“That’s good.” Kaká let out a breath of relief. He’d always felt a mixture of affection and reverence toward his former captain, who had taken great care of him back in the day.
“But he also asked if you played football,” Ricardo said, exhaling deeply.
“What do you think I should’ve said to that?” Kaká had kept in touch with many of his former teammates.
Even though they didn’t meet often, they’d still message each other from time to time.
So naturally, he knew what Maldini had been up to lately.
AC Milan had invited Maldini back to serve as technical director. After agreeing, Maldini hadn’t kept it a secret—so Kaká had known for a while.
“So that call…” Kaká began. “Exactly,” Ricardo confirmed. If you can play, Maldini wants you at AC Milan.
The two of them understood each other perfectly, even without spelling everything out. A brief silence fell.
“I don’t know what to do,” Kaká finally said. “Or maybe… I’m not sure what path I should take from here.” Ricardo didn’t rush him.
There was only the steady sound of his breathing on the other end, a quiet presence. “I get it,” Ricardo replied softly.
“Let’s talk about it when we meet in person, okay?” Kaká didn’t say much more. He simply answered, “Okay,” and ended the call.
He rubbed his phone thoughtfully, feeling a strange mix of emotions—then noticed Steve fidgeting restlessly beside him.
Steve couldn’t hold back anymore once he saw Kaká hang up. He pointed at the phone. “Ricardo?” Kaká blinked, then suddenly realized— Steve was a fan of Ricardo!
“Oh!” Kaká smacked his forehead with a little yelp. “I forgot to tell him!” It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was supposed to pass along a message from a fan this time.
“I totally forgot,” he said sheepishly, spreading his hands.
“Want me to call him back?”
“No, no, it’s fine, totally fine.” Steve shook his head so fast it was like a bobblehead.
No way was he going to bother Ricardo. Just knowing that he’d been on the other end of that call was more than enough.
The second half began with the two teams switching sides.
PSG launched the first attack. Lo Celso started the play from the back with a high-arching ball that soared over the midfield line, landing precisely at Neymar’s feet on the flank.
Neymar passed to Mbappé, who didn’t hesitate—he took a shot right away.
But Real Madrid’s keeper, Keylor Navas, pulled off a world-class save, deflecting the ball wide.
After that missed chance, PSG began to struggle. Real Madrid’s squad was deep and brimming with talent, while PSG couldn’t afford to waste opportunities.
Fatigue started to take its toll, and cracks appeared in the Parisian defense. Asensio spotted the opening and slid a pass into the box for Ronaldo.
Ronaldo, cool as ever, nudged it into the net with a subtle strike. 2–1.
Real Madrid had taken the lead! Cristiano Ronaldo with a brace!! And then, just two minutes later, Madrid struck again.
Asensio again! He delivered another perfect ball into the box.
In the chaos of bodies jostling for position, Marcelo stepped in and gently tapped it home. 3–1. Home side in front, visitors trailing.
Real Madrid had sealed the win.
Three goals in a row on home turf—Madrid came from behind to win the first leg!
No exaggeration—it felt like this goal had saved the hearts of every Madrid fan. Players, coaches, substitutes—everyone went wild.
They hugged, they shouted, releasing all the tension from before.
Cries of “Cristiano!” echoed throughout the stadium.
“Cristiano!!!” Steve leapt to his feet, not knowing how to vent his emotions—he just shouted Cristiano’s name, over and over.
“This is Cristiano!!!” As the halftime whistle blew, the exhausted players slowly made their way off the pitch and into the dressing rooms.
But the stands were still buzzing with energy.
Real Madrid fans, thrilled to see their team equalize, were singing their anthem loudly and cheering with uncontainable joy.
On the other side, PSG supporters looked a little downcast, having seen their lead slip away. Kaká was still immersed in the excitement when he suddenly felt his phone vibrating in his pocket.
He took it out and saw it was Ricardo calling.
A good number of fans around him had left temporarily to take care of business, so although the place was still noisy, it wasn’t enough to drown out a phone call.
Kaká answered directly.
“Hello? Ricardo, what’s up?” To avoid confusion, they’d agreed beforehand on how to address each other. “Kaká, are you watching the match?”
“Yeah, Real Madrid versus Paris—Champions League round of 16.” There was still a trace of excitement in his voice.
“I know. I’m watching the livestream too.” “You are? Then did you see that goal from Cris just now? Absolutely insane! Let me tell you—”
Kaká tried to share his overflowing excitement, and Ricardo listened patiently. Only after Kaká finished did he finally speak again.
“Actually, someone called me and told me you were at the game,” Ricardo said. “Your photo’s all over social media now.”
“Huh? Why? That’s kind of unnecessary.” Kaká was a little confused.
The match was only halfway through—shouldn’t everyone be focused on the game? Why were his pictures being shared around? It had only been a couple of camera shots at most.
“That’s not the main point. What matters is—Paolo called me,” Ricardo paused for a second, then decided to get straight to it.
“He asked me when I got a younger brother.” Kaká’s heart jumped a little at the mention of Maldini. “What did you say?”
“I used the story we came up with—said we kept you in Brazil with Mom to protect you from media exposure while you were studying.
Anyway, it worked. He didn’t press further.”
“That’s good.” Kaká let out a breath of relief. He’d always felt a mixture of affection and reverence toward his former captain, who had taken great care of him back in the day.
“But he also asked if you played football,” Ricardo said, exhaling deeply.
“What do you think I should’ve said to that?” Kaká had kept in touch with many of his former teammates.
Even though they didn’t meet often, they’d still message each other from time to time.
So naturally, he knew what Maldini had been up to lately.
AC Milan had invited Maldini back to serve as technical director. After agreeing, Maldini hadn’t kept it a secret—so Kaká had known for a while.
“So that call…” Kaká began. “Exactly,” Ricardo confirmed. If you can play, Maldini wants you at AC Milan.
The two of them understood each other perfectly, even without spelling everything out. A brief silence fell.
“I don’t know what to do,” Kaká finally said. “Or maybe… I’m not sure what path I should take from here.” Ricardo didn’t rush him.
There was only the steady sound of his breathing on the other end, a quiet presence. “I get it,” Ricardo replied softly.
“Let’s talk about it when we meet in person, okay?” Kaká didn’t say much more. He simply answered, “Okay,” and ended the call.
He rubbed his phone thoughtfully, feeling a strange mix of emotions—then noticed Steve fidgeting restlessly beside him.
Steve couldn’t hold back anymore once he saw Kaká hang up. He pointed at the phone. “Ricardo?” Kaká blinked, then suddenly realized— Steve was a fan of Ricardo!
“Oh!” Kaká smacked his forehead with a little yelp. “I forgot to tell him!” It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was supposed to pass along a message from a fan this time.
“I totally forgot,” he said sheepishly, spreading his hands.
“Want me to call him back?”
“No, no, it’s fine, totally fine.” Steve shook his head so fast it was like a bobblehead.
No way was he going to bother Ricardo. Just knowing that he’d been on the other end of that call was more than enough.
The second half began with the two teams switching sides.
PSG launched the first attack. Lo Celso started the play from the back with a high-arching ball that soared over the midfield line, landing precisely at Neymar’s feet on the flank.
Neymar passed to Mbappé, who didn’t hesitate—he took a shot right away.
But Real Madrid’s keeper, Keylor Navas, pulled off a world-class save, deflecting the ball wide.
After that missed chance, PSG began to struggle. Real Madrid’s squad was deep and brimming with talent, while PSG couldn’t afford to waste opportunities.
Fatigue started to take its toll, and cracks appeared in the Parisian defense. Asensio spotted the opening and slid a pass into the box for Ronaldo.
Ronaldo, cool as ever, nudged it into the net with a subtle strike. 2–1.
Real Madrid had taken the lead! Cristiano Ronaldo with a brace!! And then, just two minutes later, Madrid struck again.
Asensio again! He delivered another perfect ball into the box.
In the chaos of bodies jostling for position, Marcelo stepped in and gently tapped it home. 3–1. Home side in front, visitors trailing.
Real Madrid had sealed the win.
Three goals in a row on home turf—Madrid came from behind to win the first leg!
