Until my Last Breath

Bonus🎉

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
5 years later

The whistle shatters the night.
For a second, I don't believe it. My body freezes, my legs rooted in the grass as if the whole world has stopped. Then the sound hits me-the roar of the stadium, the chants, the explosion of red and yellow in the stands.

Spain are world champions.

My chest heaves, lungs begging for air, sweat clinging to my skin like armor. The ball is gone, France are done, and still I can't move. All I can hear is the echo of the whistle, the referee's arm pointing to the center circle, the confirmation that it's real. We've done it. We've done the impossible.

"Pablo!"
Arms slam into me from behind. I'm lifted, carried, shoved, drowned in the tidal wave of my teammates. Pedri's laugh rings in my ear, Rodri's arms crush my shoulders, Lamine nearly tackles me to the ground in tears. We are screaming, all of us, a mixture of joy and madness, our voices cracking with disbelief.

The sky above Riyadh splits open with fireworks. Reds, golds, whites-the colors bleed into one another as if the heavens themselves are celebrating. I tilt my head back, gasping, blinking against the lights. The smell of pyrotechnics mixes with sweat and grass. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, each beat screaming you're a world champion.

I fall to my knees, hands on my face. My vision blurs. All the miles run, all the bruises, all the sleepless nights replay in flashes-the grueling camp, the strict rules, the silence of hotel rooms where I lay staring at the ceiling wishing I could hear her voice. Rita. My family. Everyone I love, watching from somewhere I couldn't reach.

But right now-it's this. This storm. This brotherhood.

"¡Vamos, joder!" Ferran bellows, dragging me back to my feet. He's crying too, his jersey sticking to his skin. We crash into each other, forehead to forehead, the weight of everything unspoken burning in our eyes.

The field becomes chaos. Flags waving, staff running, players collapsing in prayer. Cameras circle, flashes blinding, microphones shoved into faces. But none of it feels real. It's a blur, a dream painted in noise and light.

We line up, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the ceremony. My legs feel like lead, but my chest is light, floating. I glance at the trophy, gleaming on its pedestal, almost untouchable. It doesn't belong to just us-it belongs to every Spaniard screaming in the stands, to every child kicking a ball on a cracked street, to every sacrifice that led us here.

As the anthem thunders and medals are draped over our necks, I close my eyes. The weight of gold rests against my chest, heavy and holy. I clench my fists, fighting back the tears that threaten to fall.

Not yet. Not until I see them.

For now, I celebrate with my brothers. For now, I let the world hear us roar. For now, I stand under the fireworks, under the Saudi sky, and whisper to myself through trembling lips:

Somos campeones.

-
The medals are still heavy around my neck when we walk back onto the pitch. The noise hasn't died for a second-the fireworks keep slashing the sky open, the drums from the Spanish fans echo like thunder, and the chants of campeones, campeones roll over us like endless waves.

But then I see the gates opening. The lines of security pulling aside. Families.

My heart lurches.

All around me, the lads are pointing, shouting, running to their loved ones. I scan the crowd, eyes burning, searching for the only faces I need. My chest tightens with impatience, my pulse hammering in my throat. A month. More than a month without them. A month of silence except for stolen video calls, whispered words when I could. A month of empty space where their laughter should've been.