The tunnel at the Santiago Bernabéu always felt like the throat of a beast. For Max, Devin, and Prince, the walk toward the pitch was a ritual of fire. Outside, eighty thousand fans were a sea of white, their chants vibrating through the concrete walls.
Devin adjusted his kit, feeling the weight of the No. 7 on his back. It was a heavy number to wear in this stadium, a number usually reserved for kings. Beside him, Dowman checked his boots, sporting the No. 17 for the time being. Prince stood between them, the heartbeat of their midfield, eyes fixed on the rectangle of blinding light at the end of the tunnel.
"Hey, look at Carvajal," Prince whispered, nodding toward the Real Madrid captain.
Devin turned. The veteran defender looked like a gladiator, eyes focused, jaw set. But Devin didn't see a threat; he saw a puzzle. He noticed the way Carvajal leaned slightly too far on his left heel while stretching.
"Oh," Devin murmured, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "An opening? I see it."
The whistle blew, and the match erupted. Real Madrid didn't just play; they attacked like a tidal wave. White jerseys flooded the midfield, led by the relentless engine of Federico Valverde and the dancing feet of Vinícius Júnior.
"Stay calm everyone!" Prince roared over the deafening noise. "Keep your shape!"
By the 14th minute, the pressure was suffocating. Vinícius Jr. was putting on a masterclass, giving Junior Firpo a nightmare on the flank. The Brazilian winger twisted and turned, eventually whipping a lethal ball into the box. Hector Bellerín had to lunging-clearance it out for a corner, his face beaded with sweat.
But from that clearance, the counter-attack was born.
The ball fell to Prince. With a velvet touch, he turned and ignited the engine. Max and Devin flanked him like jet fighters. What followed was a blur of "tiki-taka" perfection—one-touch passes that left the Madrid midfield chasing shadows.
Devin received the ball on the wing, spotted Max making a darting run, and whipped in a cross. Antonio Rüdiger, the towering German wall, rose high to head it away, but he underestimated Max's athleticism. Max didn't just jump; he contorted. With incredible flexibility, he hooked the ball back into the path of Prince.
Prince didn't wait. He hit it first time. The strike was a thunderbolt that rattled the crossbar so hard the sound echoed over the crowd. The ball Ricocheted back into the fray.
Devin was there. He saw Carvajal closing in like a freight train. Instead of panicking, Devin chopped the ball back, sending the defender sliding past. In one fluid motion, he executed a breathtaking rabona cross. The ball curved unnaturally, striking Rüdiger's outstretched hand.
The referee didn't hesitate. He pointed to the spot. Penalty.
Prince stepped up. The stadium whistled, a piercing wall of sound designed to break a man's nerves. Prince ignored it. He placed the ball, took three steps back, and slotted it into the bottom corner with the cold-blooded ease of an assassin. 1-0.
Madrid responded with fury. In the 25th minute, Kylian Mbappé picked up the ball 30 yards out. He didn't look for a pass. He unleashed a signature long-range rocket that seemed destined for the top corner, but Pau López produced a fingertip save to tip it around the post.
From the resulting corner, Arda Güler swung in a masterpiece. Rüdiger, seeking redemption for the penalty, rose like a titan and powered a header toward the back of the net. The stadium erupted. 1-1.
As the players walked back to the center circle, Devin gathered Max and Prince. His eyes were different now—sharper, almost glowing.
"Hey, so you guys remember the breathing techniques I taught you?" Devin asked, his voice eerily calm amidst the chaos.
"To get into 'Flow'?" Prince wiped sweat from his brow. "Yeah, we remember."
"You gotta use them now," Devin said. "I'm gonna kick things up a gear."
Max looked at him. "What about you? Are you gonna use Flow?"
Devin smirked, a look of pure confidence. "No. Not yet. But I know exactly when to."
In the 35th minute, the plan clicked. Betis started a move from the back. Sofyan Amrabat threaded a needle to Max. Max, without looking, backheeled it into Devin's path. Devin cut into the box, lured two defenders toward him, then doubled back, creating a pocket of space that shouldn't have existed.
He dinked a delicate ball toward Prince. Prince saw the keeper coming and dropped low, distracting the defense, allowing the ball to skip through to Max. Max didn't miss. He fired it into the roof of the net. The three of them celebrated in front of the stunned Madrid ultras.
The halftime whistle blew. As they walked into the dressing room, the air was thick with adrenaline.
"Prince, speed up your shots. You can, right?" Max asked. Prince simply nodded.
Meanwhile, Devin was sitting in the corner, eyes closed. He wasn't resting; he was calculating. He was in "Analyzing Mode." He called Amrabat and the veteran Isco over to a tactical board.
"Around the ninety-minute mark," Devin whispered, "I'm gonna cross into the box, very close to the keeper. It's gonna be a slow-cross. I need you both to body-push Courtois. Just slightly. Just enough to throw his timing off."
Isco scratched his head, looking at the young prodigy. "So what happens after that?"
"He's gonna punch the ball out," Devin said, "and then I'll do my thing."
"Okay," Isco replied, sensing the sheer certainty in the boy's voice.
The second half was a war of attrition. Vinícius Jr. was a whirlwind, performing spinning scissors kicks to bypass Firpo. He unleashed a finessed shot that looked like a certain goal, but Natan cleared it off the line.
Betis surged back. Isco, fueled by Devin's vision, pulled off a stunning roulette to bypass Valverde. He fed Prince, who feinted one way, drawing the defense, before leaving the ball for Isco to ghost in and smash it into the top left corner.
But Madrid wouldn't die. They clawed another back, and as the clock ticked into the 89th minute, the score was deadlocked. The tension was a physical weight.
Then came the 90th minute.
Devin gestured to Isco and Amrabat. They moved into the box. Devin, stationed on the wing, sent in exactly what he promised: a dinked, slow, low pass that hung in the air like an invitation. Thibaut Courtois, arguably the best keeper in the world, came out to claim it. But Isco and Amrabat were there, legally but firmly jostling him.
Courtois, off-balance, couldn't catch it. He was forced to punch the ball out.
The ball soared high, looping over Devin's head toward the edge of the penalty box. Time seemed to slow down. The crowd went silent.
"Don't tell me..." Isco breathed, watching from the thick of the fray.
Devin wasn't just playing anymore. He was fully immersed in Flow. He didn't look at the goal; he didn't have to. He already knew where it was. He knew the wind speed, the position of the keeper, and the exact trajectory of the falling ball.
He leapt. His body leaned back into a perfect, horizontal line.
"Goodbye, Madrid," he whispered.
His boot connected with a sound like a gunshot. The bicycle kick was a work of art—a violent, beautiful arc that sent the ball screaming into the roof of the net. Courtois didn't even move. Nobody moved.
The stadium, for the first time in its history, was hushed in awe. A Puskas-worthy goal to win the match at the death.
The Aftermath
In the tunnel after the match, a swarm of reporters surrounded the young star.
"Devin! How did you manage to get to that position? How did you know the ball would be there?"
Devin smirked, looking remarkably unfazed for someone who had just silenced the Bernabéu. "I like analyzing stuff. I already analyzed it happening before I made it happen. That's why I told Isco and Amrabat to body-block Courtois. I knew he'd have to punch it to that exact spot."
"How did you know they'd do it perfectly?" another reporter asked.
"I trusted them," Devin said simply. "That's all."
"Devin, two of your goals have already been nominated for the Puskas Award—the one in the FA Cup final and now this one. Are you confident you can win?"
"Yes," Devin replied, his eyes flashing with a new ambition. "And even win the Ballon d'Or."
"One last thing," a British reporter pushed forward. "Do you believe you can be called up to the England national team? You, Prince, and Max are all Englishmen..."
Devin looked at his two friends, who were waiting for him by the team bus. "I don't see why not? We can even be the starting front three."
As he walked away, a veteran coach whispered to him, "Good luck, Devin Williams."
Devin didn't need luck. He had the plan. And as the world would soon find out, when Devin Williams entered the "Flow," the rest of the world was just playing for second place.
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Devin Williams did indeed win the Puskas Award that year. The image of his silhouette against the Madrid sky, mid-bicycle kick, became the defining image of a new era in football. The "Three Lions" of Max, Prince, and Devin were ready to take on the world.