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[90]
Rakim was now driving into the box from the left, forcing Silva to co to close him down, but a quick stepover and change of direction left the Brazilian wrong-footed as he cut back outwards. With space opening up, Rakim pulled the trigger, striking it low and hard toward the near post.
Rico got down brilliantly, palming it away, but only as far as Volland on the six-yard box. The German struck it first-ti on the volley, but the angle was too awkward, not allowing him to wrap his foot around it. Kimpembes’ challenge didn’t help matters either, as he sent the ball flying high into the stands behind the goal.
"Volland!" Drury bellowed. "Oh no, that’s one he’ll want back!"
[90 4’]
At the end of the added minute, PSG was awarded a free kick following a harsh tackle from Baumgartlinger on Neymar. The spot was slightly to the left, just outside the D of the Leverkusen box, and the Barazzilian talisman stood behind it. Neymar placed the ball with ticulous care, his hands smoothing the turf around it.
The entire stadium seed to hold its breath. Twenty-five yards out, slightly left of centre, perfect territory for a dead-ball specialist of Neymar’s calibre. The Leverkusen wall ford quickly, five players standing shoulder to shoulder: Tah, Sven Bender, Havertz, Demirbay, and Wirtz. Hradecky organised them frantically, positioning them to cover the near post while he guarded the far corner. His voice carried across the penalty area, barking instructions, adjusting positions by inches.
"This is it," Drury said, his voice barely above a whisper. "One kick. One mont. One opportunity, and this could decide who goes to the final."
With everything ready, Neymar took four deliberate steps back, his eyes never leaving the target. Di María and Mbappé stood nearby, creating uncertainty about who would take it, but everyone knew. Despite the club having a battle of egos when it ca to the two star wingers, this was Neymar’s mont.
PSG had paid two hundred million euros for a reason; he ca with certain expectations to deliver in big monts. Following the final checks, the referee raised his whistle to his lips and blew. He took a deep breath as Di Maria began his run-up up moving as if he would float the ball into the chaotic throng.
Despite knowing who would most likely take it, Wirtz, at the far right of the wall, couldn’t help but move. As expected, the Argentine hopped over the ball, sprinting past the wall, forcing Wirtz to follow. Neymar followed up a second later, not giving the wall ti to react, but his run-up wasn’t hurried, looking almost deceptively casual.
But as his left foot planted and his right foot swung through the ball, the explosive power was evident. The strike lifted the ball over the wall with power, taking a vicious dip and swerve, bending around the jumping bodies. Hradecky read it instantly and launched himself to his right, arms fully extended, fingers stretching desperately.
For a split second, it looked like he might reach it with his fingertips, inching ever closer to the incoming ball. However, he only barely managed to graze it with his fingertips, but it wasn’t enough. The ball dipped at the last mont, kissing the inside of the post before nestling into the top right corner.
The net bulged violently, and ti stopped for all those watching. "NEYMAR DA SILVA SANTOS JUNIOR!" Drury’s voice exploded with emotion. "HE’S DONE IT! He has sent PSG to the promised land!"
The Brazilian tore away toward the corner flag, his shirt pulled over his head, screaming into the empty stadium. His teammates mobbed him, a mass of navy and red jerseys jumping and celebrating. Di María grabbed his face and kissed his forehead. The PSG bench emptied, substitutes and staff flooding onto the pitch, joining the celebrations.
"What a way to win it!" Beglin added, his voice mixing admiration with sympathy. "That is world-class. Absolutely world-class. Hradecky got a touch, but when a free-kick is struck that perfectly, there’s simply nothing you can do."
[PSG 3-2 Leverkusen - Neymar 90 4’]
On the other side of the spectrum, Leverkusen players collapsed where they stood. Tah fell to his knees, hands covering his face. Sven Bender sat on the turf, staring blankly ahead. Baumgartlinger, the man who had conceded the foul, buried his face in his shirt, his body shaking.
Rakim stood frozen near the edge of the box where his man had been monts ago, trying to process what had just happened. Twenty minutes ago, he’d done what he always did: score to level the match, to give his team hope. Now, that hope had been ripped away in the cruellest fashion imaginable.
Wirtz walked over to him, tears welling up in his eyes, and his head leaning forward, stopping at his chest as his tears freely dropped. Raising an arm to cover his own eyes, he quickly felt himself sweating from his eyes. The two stayed like that for a mont as the PSG grew more turbulent around them.
(FWEEET!) The referee’s whistle, signalling them to restart, drew them back in. In a daze, they sohow managed to regroup for the kick-off, and Volland rolled it back to Havertz, who imdiately launched it long toward PSG’s half. But Marquinhos headed it clear with ease, and before Leverkusen could even organise another attack, the referee raised the whistle to his lips one final ti.
(FWEEEEEEET!) The sound echoed three tis around the Estádio José Alvalade, signalling.
[Full Ti: PSG 3-2 Bayer Leverkusen]
"There you have it folks,the clock has struck midnight and the Cinderella story ends here," Peter Drury said, his voice heavy with emotion. "Bayer Leverkusen have given everything, played with courage and quality, but tonight, Neymar and PSG have broken the Germans’ hearts. What a cruel, cruel way for this journey to end."
Jim Beglin added quietly, "They can hold their heads high, Peter. From the group stages to knocking out teams like Liverpool and Leipzig, to pushing PSG to the brink, this young team has been magnificent. But sotis in football, one mont of genius is all it takes."
Without wasting ti, the German side walked toward the side of the pitch, shaking hands with their opponents. They felt bitter, congratulating their opponents on the victory, but they still embraced their opponents, wishing them well. "Você jogou bem. Boa sorte na final. (You played well. Good luck in the finals." Rakim said, embracing Neymar at the sidelines.
"Saudações, vocês também tocaram bem (Cheers, you guys also played well)" The Brazilian responded with a light smile. "We said we’d exchange shirts when we play against each other on the big stage, right?"
"Yeah, but I really wanted to beat you when we did this," Rakim replied, taking his shirt off, revealing his black Under Armour. "Don’t worry, I’ll beat you next ti we et."
"Hahah, maybe next ti, kid, try playing a full ga then." He responded, flashing his perly whites as he handed over his own jersey. "I’ll be waiting for that day." Neymar’s grin lingered for a mont before he turned back toward his celebrating teammates, the caras following him like gravity itself demanded it. PSG had finally done it; they were going to the Champions League final.
In the mixed zone, the energy was vastly different, with reporters bustling to get the players’ attention. An ESPN Sports microphone hovered near him. "Rakim," the reporter said softly, "that was heartbreak at the end. How are you feeling right now?"
He drew in a slow breath, his voice low and steady despite the crack in it. "We left everything on that pitch. You dream of nights like this as a kid, the Champions League in general, fighting against the best in the world. But... football doesn’t always give you a happy ending."
Another reporter raised his mike. "You changed the ga when you ca on. That goal... it gave your side hope again. Can you take pride in that despite the loss?"
Rakim shook his head. "Doesn’t feel like pride right now. You don’t think about your goal when you lose; you think about what more you could have done."
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To Be Continued...
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