"Carter steps up… strikes it… IT IS IN! THE WINNER!!!!"
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!"
"In the dying seconds of the match! Atlético Madrid pull off the impossible!"
"Shane Carter with the buzzer-beating dagger!"
"Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable!"
The broadcast booths are in a state of absolute bedlam.
The ace commentator for the Spanish national network has physically leaped onto his desk.
"An arc that sentences Barcelona to death! Look at the flight of this ball! Look at the bend! My God, it is the second coming of David Beckham's redemption free-kick against Greece in 2001! He has killed Barcelona!"
"This is indisputably the match of the season! Before a ball was kicked tonight, who gave Atlético Madrid a prayer at the Camp Nou? But they have done it. They have snatched victory from the jaws of defeat!"
"Carter's performance is spine-tingling. He scored two goals, including the game-winner. He assisted one, and he orchestrated another!"
"Four to three! This fatal arc has suffocated the Camp Nou!"
While the commentators lose their minds, the stands tell a different story.
Tens of thousands of fans.
Dead, horrifying silence.
Every single Barcelona supporter is staring in disbelief at the ball resting in the back of their net.
On the goal line, Víctor Valdés watches the ball bounce on the turf, hit the netting, and roll back.
His eyes are glazed.
He feels like he is trapped in a waking nightmare.
"A brushstroke of absolute genius, a monument of a goal!" Ian Darke roars on the Fox Sports feed, the poetry bleeding into his play-by-play.
"Out of the twenty-two men on this pitch, the spotlight has blacked everyone else out. There is only one man standing in the light tonight. Shane Carter has conquered Catalonia!"
On the television screens, Carter does not sprint to the corner flag.
His physical tank is completely empty.
He simply raises both arms and turns slowly to face the away section.
The Atlético players look at the ball in the net, their faces contorting into expressions of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
They scream his name and sprint toward him.
The first to arrive is Mario Suárez.
The defensive midfielder slides to his knees right in front of the American teenager.
"You magnificent bastard! My God, you are a deity!"
Suárez slaps his own thigh, aggressively motioning for Carter to put his foot up.
Carter knows exactly what his teammate wants.
He laughs, panting heavily, and rests his boot on Suárez's knee.
Suárez mimes polishing the kid's boot like a shoe-shine boy.
He jumps up and violently embraces Carter.
The rest of the squad crashes into them, swallowing the two midfielders in a mob of red and white.
"Baller! Generational baller!"
In the United States, fans are losing their minds in front of their screens.
On Reddit, the r/soccer match thread is moving so fast it is breaking the servers.
"CAAAAAAARRRRRTEERRRR!!!"
The American fanbase is flooding the internet.
Even neutral fans and a few shell-shocked Barcelona supporters are forced to bow to the sheer gravity of his performance.
"Why hasn't US Soccer called him up yet?!"
"We don't have an international break right now, idiot."
"Klinsmann needs to be on a plane to Madrid tonight!"
"Del Bosque is literally in the stadium! Spain is going to cap-tie him!"
"Honestly, with the state of the USMNT right now, keeping him away from that toxic environment might be a blessing."
The American soccer internet spirals into a frenzied debate.
Back on the touchline, Pep Guardiola sinks into his seat.
He shakes his head, a bitter smile on his face.
The truth is, the moment Fàbregas committed the foul, Pep felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
Giving a set-piece sniper an opportunity in that exact location, in the dying seconds of a match…
It felt like destiny had already written the script.
And Barcelona were just the tragic extras.
He turns to his assistant, Tito Vilanova.
"What difference would it have made if Cesc let him into the box?" Pep mutters. "Even if he shot, it probably would have just deflected off a defender."
Guardiola trails off, falling silent.
He knows it is completely unfair to pin this loss on Fàbregas.
If the team had not completely collapsed and conceded three goals earlier, they wouldn't be dealing with a last-second execution.
His gaze drifts over to Carter.
The frustration in Pep's eyes slowly gives way to quiet admiration.
In a moment like this.
In an environment this hostile.
Under the crushing weight of that pressure, to step up and bury a free-kick into the top corner…
The kid has absolute ice in his veins.
For an elite midfielder, technique is only half the equation.
Psychological stability is the true separator.
Players who are unstoppable when the sun is shining but disappear in the trenches only poison a locker room.
A player who stays ice-cold while the world is burning is a player you can trust with your life.
On the pitch, Xavi lets out a long, heavy exhale.
He looks at his teammates.
Inside the penalty area, the Barcelona players look like statues.
Piqué is sitting on the grass, his head bowed.
Messi stands with his hands on his hips, staring blankly at the turf.
Xavi walks over and pats Iniesta on the back.
He reaches down and pulls Piqué to his feet.
He claps his hands together.
"Heads up, everyone. We are Barcelona."
Barcelona are not invincible.
Even the greatest empires bleed.
As the captain on the pitch, Xavi refuses to let them shatter completely.
Over in the technical area, Diego Simeone is locked in a bear hug with Germán Burgos.
A win at the Camp Nou is monumental.
Especially with the context of the league table.
Málaga just beat Real Madrid at home, and Valencia secured three points this weekend.
If Atlético had lost tonight, Málaga would be breathing down their necks, and Valencia would have pulled five points clear.
Behind the Real Madrid and Barcelona duopoly, the bloodbath for the third and fourth Champions League spots is ruthless.
The referee signals for the restart.
Messi rests his foot on the ball at the center spot.
"Barcelona have time for exactly one more possession!" the Spanish commentator declares.
The Catalan broadcaster in the next booth is openly praying.
The whistle blows.
Messi taps it back to Iniesta and instantly sprints forward.
Atlético Madrid instantly contract, packing their shape tightly to deny any breathing room.
It is like watching a basketball team set up for a final buzzer-beating shot down by one point.
Who takes the final shot?
The superstar.
Barcelona circulate the ball rapidly, pushing into the final third.
In the away end, the Atlético fans are chanting, "Time is up!"
Some are blowing fake whistles to try and confuse the players.
On the touchline, Simeone is losing his mind.
"They've passed it ten times! We are in the ninety-eighth minute!" he screams at the fourth official.
When Carter scored, the five minutes of stoppage time were already over.
By the time the celebrations ended and the game restarted, the clock hit ninety-eight.
The referee can blow the final whistle at any microsecond.
"We have to move it faster!" the Catalan commentator begs.
He nearly suffers a heart attack when Alexis Sánchez plays a diagonal ball backward to Iniesta.
In this scenario, playing a backward pass is usually the universal trigger for a referee to end the game.
Fortunately for Barcelona, the whistle stays silent.
Play continues.
"The allotted time is over! The referee needs to end this!" Ian Darke notes on the broadcast.
On the screens, the ball finds the feet of Lionel Messi.
Messi receives it on the right flank and instantly drops his shoulder to initiate a dribble.
Tiago and Carter immediately step up, forming a two-man wall in front of him.
Messi takes a micro-touch, faking outside, before violently chopping the ball inside, attempting to thread the needle right between them.
"Messi! Messi is through! Messi!" the Catalan commentator screams.
The Camp Nou surges with one final roar of hope.
If Messi breaks the double-team, he is in on goal. He can save them.
"Shut the door!" Carter barks.
He and Tiago step into the gap simultaneously, slamming the door shut like a steel vault.
Messi cannot save Barcelona this time.
He crashes into the twin pillars of the Atlético midfield and goes down to the turf.
Carter smoothly strips the ball away.
"Atlético slam the door shut! Magnificent defending!" Ian Darke roars.
And right as Carter secures possession.
The referee blows the whistle.
Three sharp blasts.
"FULL TIME!"
Carter instantly boots the ball high into the Catalan sky.
He throws both fists into the air.
The final surge of noise in the Camp Nou dies instantly.
The Barcelona fans are broken. They slump back into their seats.
And in that exact moment.
Inside Carter's mind, the familiar mechanical chime rings out.
[Ding! Match concluded. Calculating performance...]
[Match Intensity: Hell. Match Rating: Excellent.]
[Ding! Congratulations! Post-Match Reward Acquired: Barcelona - Legendary Random Chest.]
A legendary player chest from Barcelona?
Carter's eyes light up with anticipation.
Open the chest.
[Ding! Congratulations! You have acquired: S-Class Legend. The Midfield Brain. Deco. Rhythm Control Module!]
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