Fortified -Pau Cubarsí-

31 - El classico

Cesca's POV

The roar of the Santiago Bernabéu shakes through me, a wall of sound that seems almost alive. Every cheer, every chant from the Madrid fans feels like it's aimed directly at our boys in blaugrana. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck, the cool October air biting at my cheeks, and glance at the scoreboard.

Halftime. 0-0.

Despite the scoreline, the tension in the stadium is suffocating. The first half had been a war—a clash of egos, skill, and strategy. Madrid's defense had been ruthless, their attacks relentless. But Barca held firm, and I could see in every movement, every pass from Pau, that this was far from over.

I turn to Celeste, who's sitting beside me, her hands clenched into fists. "They'll come through," I say, more for myself than for her.

Celeste nods, her eyes fixed on the tunnel where the players have disappeared. "They'd better. I didn't drive six hours to watch Hector lose."

I laugh softly, but my heart isn't in it. My chest feels heavy, my pulse erratic. Pau hadn't looked at me as he left the pitch—he couldn't. His focus had been laser-sharp, his expression unreadable. But I'd seen the fire in his eyes, the determination that made him the player everyone in this stadium feared.

And I'd whispered a silent prayer that it would be enough.

Pau's POV

The locker room is quiet, but not in a defeated way. It's the kind of silence that crackles with unspoken resolve.

Coach's voice cuts through the stillness as he goes over adjustments, his hands slicing through the air for emphasis. I listen, absorbing every word, but my mind is elsewhere—on the pitch, on the second half, on the weight of this game.

I glance at Hector, who's sitting across from me, his head tilted back against the wall. He catches my eye and smirks. "Ready to shut them up out there?"

"Always." My voice is steady, but my hands flex into fists at my sides.

Because this isn't just a game. It's El Clásico. It's a battle for pride, for the country, for everything that Barcelona stands for. And it's for her.

The thought of Cesca sitting in the stands steadies me in a way nothing else can. I don't know if she realizes just how much she's been with me through all of this—how every tackle, every clearance, every moment I fight to stay on my feet is for her.

I tighten my boots, nodding as Coach calls for us to line up. The tunnel feels like a gauntlet as we walk out, the Madrid fans jeering, their voices a thunderstorm. But I don't hear them.

All I hear is the beating of my own heart.

Cesca's POV

When Barca steps back onto the pitch, something shifts. The energy is different—more electric, more dangerous. I can feel it in the way the players move, in the way Pau commands the backline, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

And then it happens.

The first goal is a blur of precision and power—a quick counterattack finished off by Lewandowski, who sends the ball sailing into the top corner. The away section of the stadium explodes, and I leap to my feet, screaming until my throat burns.

The second goal comes minutes later, this time from Lamine. He charges up the wing, weaving past defenders with a grace that leaves Madrid stunned, before drilling the ball into the net.