From Reject to Legend

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***

Two days after dismantling Stoke City with a 4–0 win, the Manchester City squad gathered quietly at a private terminal in Manchester Airport. The evening sky was pale and grey, the kind of subdued backdrop that made the fluorescent airport lights seem harsher.

The players, dressed in matching navy tracksuits, moved in small groups—some chatting, others lost in thought—as they passed through security and boarded the chartered flight to Turin.

Inside the cabin, the mood was tense, but not solemn. It wasn't fear. It was focus.

Eden Hazard had taken a window seat halfway down the plane, legs stretched out, head tilted back against the headrest. He shifted slightly, nudging Kevin De Bruyne's arm.

"Kev," he said, keeping his voice low. "You remember that pizza place from last year? Near the hotel."

Kevin looked up from his tablet. "The one where you said you spoke Italian and ordered anchovies on everything?"

Hazard grinned. "It was close enough. I said 'acciughe.' Sounded legit."

"You said it five times. The waiter thought we wanted a full plate of them."

"That's called improvising under pressure."

De Bruyne closed the tablet and gave him a sideways look. "Just don't improvise like that tomorrow, alright?"

They both laughed, but not too loudly. It wasn't full-hearted—more the kind of laughter used to smooth over nerves. Hazard leaned back again, glancing out at the wing as it glinted under the airport lights.

In the front section of the cabin, Adriano sat by himself by the window. His black hoodie was pulled halfway over his head, and large noise-cancelling headphones covered his ears. Even with the music turned low, the faint guitar and drums of "Spirit Never Die" by Masterplan bled out, rhythmic and defiant. His right foot tapped in time against the carpeted floor.

His eyes weren't focused on anything outside. The cabin window showed little more than light reflecting off the tarmac, but his gaze stayed fixed, unmoving. There wasn't anger in his expression—just a cold, quiet purpose. He hadn't played the first leg in Manchester. This time, he would.

In a parallel jet on a separate runway, Kate was on her way to Turin as well. She'd boarded with Raul and Chairman Khaldoon Al Mubarak. The club's top executive had made it clear: he would be there in person. Not for ceremony, but because matches like this demanded accountability—from the players, from the manager, from the institution.

Toward the middle of the plane, Hummels had already reclined his seat back and pulled a scarf over his eyes. His arms were folded across his chest, and his breathing was slow and even. Whether he was actually asleep or just resting, it was hard to tell—he had the same calm expression either way. Next to him, Harry Kane couldn't sit still.

His right leg bounced up and down under the seat, foot tapping constantly. His arms were crossed tightly, and his eyes stared straight ahead at the seat-back. He wasn't looking at anything in particular.

From across the aisle, David Silva leaned forward slightly. "You alright?" he asked, voice low.

Kane blinked, then nodded. "Yeah. Just… Buffon."

Silva smiled faintly. "Still thinking about him?"

"Yeah. He's always there. Doesn't matter how old he gets, he still reads everything. You think you've got him beat, and then—"

"—he reminds you he's a legend," Silva finished.

Kane didn't reply. He exhaled slowly and looked down at his hands.

Mohamed Salah, sitting next to Silva with a soft neck pillow around his shoulders, added, "We'll just make him wish he stayed retired."

That earned a quiet laugh from Silva, but Kane only gave a small smile. His mind was elsewhere.

Up front, in a smaller section separated by a curtain, Pellegrini sat at a folding table with his assistant manager. A stack of printouts was spread across the tabletop—match reports, Juventus heat maps, press clippings from the Italian media. The table was cluttered with notes and diagrams, but the centerpiece was a small tactical board covered in white and blue magnets.

"Start fast," Pellegrini murmured, half to himself. "Force the tempo early. High defensive line, quick second balls. Adriano drops into the half-space. Hazard stays wide."

He reached out and moved two magnets slightly.

"No sitting back," he said. "Make them react. Make them uncomfortable."

His assistant nodded and scribbled something on a notepad.

Pellegrini sat back and rubbed his jaw, eyes drifting toward the front row where Adriano still sat with his headphones on. His gaze lingered for a second before turning back to the magnets.

He didn't look nervous. Not exactly. It was something closer to burdened responsibility. He had trusted these players all season. Now it came down to execution.

In the back of the plane, a few of the younger players played cards over a fold-out tray, though the usual laughter and trash talk was missing. Fernandinho and Milner were deep in quiet conversation near the galley. The flight attendants moved silently through the aisles, offering bottled water and light snacks, but most of it went untouched.

As the engines roared to life and the plane began its taxi down the runway, Adriano shifted slightly in his seat. He reached up, adjusted the headphones, then stared forward, jaw set.

There were no more words left for the night.

Just the runway stretching ahead, and the match waiting at the other end.

***

The tension was unmistakable.

As Manchester City's chartered plane touched down on the tarmac at Turin Airport, the local time was just past 7:30 p.m. The air was sharp and clean, with a hint of mountain coldness settling over the runway. Beyond the perimeter fence, a small crowd of Juventus fans had gathered, waving flags and chanting under their breath, hoping to catch a glimpse of the visitors as the aircraft taxied to a halt.

Inside the cabin, no one spoke much. Players shifted in their seats, collecting personal items. A few glanced at their phones. Others stared ahead, headphones still on, immersed in whatever they needed to stay locked in.

The walk from the plane to the team bus was brisk and silent, each player pulling their coat tighter against the wind. Adriano was among the first to descend, his hood up, eyes down. Behind him, Kompany and Fernandinho exchanged a few quiet words in Portuguese.

Hazard yawned, pulling on a beanie as he followed the group toward the waiting coach.

The bus, wrapped in dark blue with subtle club insignia, pulled away from the airport under tight police escort. Two motorcycle officers led the convoy, lights flashing but sirens silent. The drive into central Turin was slow, deliberate—taking them through narrow roads bordered by historic stone buildings, the kind that gave the city its somber, timeless character.

At intersections, small clusters of Juventus supporters had gathered, clapping or jeering as the bus passed. Some waved scarves, others simply stared. One shouted, "Tevez! Pogba!" while pointing at the City crest.

Inside the bus, the mood was quiet, but not grim. The players were mentally preparing in their own ways. Silva was speaking softly with Zabaleta near the front. De Bruyne sat beside Hazard again, watching a video loop of Juventus defensive patterns. Adriano remained silent, his phone in hand, scrolling briefly through a stream of notifications before tucking it away.

Through the tinted windows, the signs of Turin became clearer: trattorias with handwritten chalk menus, old Fiat models parked crookedly along the curb, and ever more black-and-white flags strung from balconies and lamp posts. Juventus wasn't just a club here—it was the bloodline of the city.

The team pulled up outside their hotel, a modern glass-fronted building on the edge of the city centre. Security was already in place. Staff in City gear stood waiting at the doors. A small contingent of traveling supporters—maybe thirty at most—stood across the street behind a barrier, waving light blue scarves and singing a low rendition of "Blue Moon." Their voices carried up into the cold air, thin but heartfelt.

Adriano gave a nod toward them before entering the lobby. Kane and Hart followed him in, bags slung over shoulders, eyes forward. A television mounted on the far wall inside the lobby was muted, but the screen showed BT Sport's coverage live from the Juventus Stadium.

The caption along the bottom read:CITY NEED THREE | LIVE IN TURIN – UEFA CHAMPIONS LEAGUE

Back in England, speculation had reached fever pitch.

On BT Sport, pundits stood in front of the stadium, wrapped in thick jackets under the glare of floodlights.

Rio Ferdinand looked directly into camera."Listen, you've got to admire the mentality. They're talking like they believe they can do it, and that says a lot. But this place—it's no joke. Juventus don't let you breathe here. This isn't Stoke on a windy night. This is one of the great European houses of football. You go down early, you're done."

Owen Hargreaves, standing just beside him, countered calmly."But if there's one wildcard in the world right now, it's Adriano. He's not 100%, but he's fit enough, and you know he'll want to prove a point after missing the first leg. This kid—he's got that thing you can't coach. The kind of composure and arrogance you need to upset a team like Juve."

Online, debate raged.

On Twitter, fans split into camps. Some City supporters posted optimistic threads of famous Champions League comebacks, looping in videos of Barcelona vs PSG or Liverpool's miracle in Istanbul. Others weren't so sure.

@BlueSteveMCFC: "Gotta be realistic. Juve away is a nightmare. I'd take a 1-1 and walk away with dignity."

@CityTillIDie78: "No. We've got Adriano. KDB. Hazard. This is why we signed them. If we're gonna crash out, we crash out swinging."

@Juventino83: "Paul Pogba will run this midfield again. Mark my words. City can't touch us here."

@MCFCHope: "Adriano is back. All I need is one early goal. Just give me that and I'll start to believe."

The European press had plenty to say as well.

La Gazzetta dello Sport, printed that morning in bold pink ink, led with:

"L'attacco inglese contro il muro italiano"("English attack meets the Italian wall")"Adriano returns, but can he crack the defence that held him out in Manchester?"

Marca in Spain ran a short editorial piece under the headline:

"It's not just a game. It's a trial.""City built this team for nights like this. If Adriano fails here, what does that say about their project?"

The Guardian framed it with quiet skepticism:

"It's a mountain, no doubt. But stranger things have happened in Europe. With Adriano, you can't rule out a moment of magic. But City need more than magic. They need control."

By the time night fell fully over Turin, the City squad had already moved into their evening routine. Team dinner, followed by tactical briefings. Pellegrini's message was clear: stay compact, move the ball fast, and strike early.

Back in his hotel room, Adriano sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on a long-sleeve compression top. He checked his phone one last time before plugging it into the wall. No more notifications. No more messages. Just the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the slight creak of the bed as he stood up.

In twelve hours, he'd walk into Juventus Stadium needing three goals and a perfect performance.

The pressure was no longer coming. It had already arrived.

***

As the players stretched in the hotel gym that evening, the atmosphere was quiet. Focused. No one needed a speech.

Silva and Salah went over positioning again, this time quietly pointing to each other's imagined movements.

"Start high, but drift inside once they collapse," Silva whispered. "Chiellini follows too tightly. We can exploit that."

Salah nodded. "If I get one-on-one… I won't miss."

Adriano finally removed his headphones and walked over to Kane, who had just finished foam rolling.

"You've scored in every big game this season," Adriano said.

Kane smirked. "So have you."

"We both score tomorrow," Adriano said simply. "Or we go home."

****

UEFA Champions League – 2nd Round, Second Leg

Venue : Juventus Stadium, Turin,

(Aggregate): Juventus (2) vs Manchester City (0)

The air in Turin crackled with anticipation. As the floodlights bathed the black-and-white mosaic of the Juventus Stadium, a thunderous chorus of "Juve! Juve!" rang from the Curva Sud, echoing like an ancient Roman battle cry. Every seat was taken, every scarf held high. Flags waved furiously, and the Champions League anthem carried extra weight tonight—it felt like a verdict being read aloud.

Martin Tyler (Sky Sports, live from Turin):"There's no dressing this one up, folks. Manchester City are walking into a lion's den tonight. Juventus haven't conceded three goals at home in Europe for over a decade. But that's the task. That's what Pellegrini's men must do."

Alan Smith:"And they have the players to do it, Martin. Adriano, De Bruyne, Hazard, Silva—they've got goals in them. But it's about breaking down this Juventus side, who defend like a single unit. Bonucci, Chiellini, Buffon… this is as tough as it gets. These defenders have seen it all."

Martin Tyler (voiceover over dramatic Sky montage):"In Manchester, they were quieted. In Turin, they must roar. Manchester City come to Italy not with a hope—but with a mission. Three goals. No room for error. One night to save a season… and perhaps, redefine a legacy."

The visitors' locker room was quiet, save for the shuffle of boots on tile and the occasional zip of tape being tightened around ankles. A laminated sheet with Juventus's shape was pinned to the wall. Pellegrini stood before it, arms folded, voice low but firm.

"Pirlo is the heartbeat. You press him, you cut the rhythm," he said, tapping the veteran's name with the back of a pen. "Don't give him space to think."

He turned to Adriano, already dressed, AR10 boots tied and gleaming. "You drop deep. Pull Bonucci out. Kevin will run behind him."

De Bruyne nodded from the bench, stretching. "I'll find the gap. Just move him."

Pellegrini's voice grew more intense. "Hazard, Salah—use your speed. Beat them wide. One-on-ones."

Salah laced his boots tighter. "I want to take Lichtsteiner. From the first whistle."

"Good," Pellegrini nodded. "This is not about surviving. We're here to win. From the first minute."

Across the room, Kane rolled his shoulders and whispered to Hummels. "You smell that?"

"What?"

"Fear. Not ours. Theirs."

Hummels smirked, unbothered. "Then let's give them something real to fear."

Silva walked past Adriano and gave him a light tap on the back of the head. "They haven't seen you in this tie yet. Time to change that."

Adriano didn't respond. He simply stood, looked around at the team, then down at his boots as he tied the final knot.

"Let's remind them who we are."

***

Lineups and Tactical Setup

Juventus (4-3-3-1):

GK: Buffon

DEF: Lichtsteiner (RB), Bonucci (CB), Cáceres (CB), Chiellini (LB)

MID: Vidal (CDM), Pirlo (CM), Pogba (CM)

ATT: Rômulo (RW), Pereyra (LW)

ST: Morata

Manchester City (4-3-3):

GK: Joe Hart

DEF: Kimmich (RB), Hummels (CB), Mangala (CB), Robertson (LB)

MID: Silva (CM), De Bruyne (CM)

ATT: Salah (RW), Adriano (CAM), Hazard (LW)

ST: Kane

Sky Sports Pre-Match Analysis (Live at Pitchside)

Martin Tyler:"Well, there's the team sheet. Adriano is back, and that could be decisive. He was missing in the first leg—City lacked that cutting edge centrally. Tonight, he could be the difference."

Alan Smith:"And it's a bold setup, Martin. No holding midfielder. Casemiro's on the bench. Pellegrini is going all in. Silva and De Bruyne will need to work double-time without the ball. But if they keep possession, they could pin Juve back."

Martin Tyler:"The question is—can they do it early? An early goal, and suddenly it's a different tie."

Alan Smith:"Exactly. But they've got to manage their emotions. This place… it's intimidating. One mistake, and it could be fatal."

The two sides lined up. Buffon stood tall, stoic. Bonucci bounced slightly on his toes, focused, nodding to Pogba who adjusted his gloves. Across from them, City's front line stared straight ahead. Adriano closed his eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, then opened them.

Salah leaned into him. "Let's get that early goal."

"You get the pen area," Adriano replied. "I'll draw them in."

Behind them, Kane turned to De Bruyne. "Just hit me if I drop. No hesitation."

De Bruyne nodded. "You'll have it."

The anthem boomed through the stadium. Flags waved wildly across the stands. Cameras zoomed in on faces lined with tension. Adriano didn't blink. His gaze was locked ahead. Buffon stared straight back.

Martin Tyler (above the roar):"This is it. One of the biggest European nights in Manchester City's history. They're not just facing Juventus… they're facing history itself."

Alan Smith:"It's either glory or goodbye."

Kick-off was seconds away. The whistle loomed.

Adriano took one last breath, then whispered under his breath in Portuguese:

"A guerra começou."(The war has begun.)

The roar of the Juventus Stadium in Turin grew louder as the players emerged from the tunnel. The Champions League Round of 16 second leg was moments away. The scoreboard showed the uphill battle Manchester City faced: Juventus 2 – 0 Man City (aggregate).

Adriano walked out last, adjusting the captain's armband on his sleeve. His eyes were focused, calm, but alert. He looked across the pitch and met the gaze of Gianluigi Buffon, standing near the center circle for the pre-match coin toss. They shook hands respectfully before moving to their positions.

Martin Tyler, calling the match alongside Alan Smith, opened the broadcast:

"It's all or nothing tonight for Manchester City. They've come to Turin trailing by two, but with Adriano back in the starting XI, anything feels possible."

****

The referee's whistle sliced through the night air in Turin, and the ball rolled under Juventus' command. Straight away, Allegri's intentions were clear: control, discipline, and preservation. Pirlo began orchestrating with familiar grace, keeping it tight in midfield, while Pogba floated to support Morata without venturing too high. They weren't chasing the third goal—they were protecting the two they already had.

City, on the other hand, kept their structure deliberately loose early on. Pellegrini had instructed his men to resist the urge to press too soon. Let Juventus have the ball in harmless zones, wait for patterns to form, then pounce. It wasn't a passive strategy—it was bait.

"Smart from Pellegrini," said Alan Smith from the Sky gantry. "City aren't lunging forward—they're calculating. They know one goal changes everything."

By the sixth minute, Silva had already tested the water, poking a clever ball through the lines to Adriano, only for Cáceres to step in sharply.

"Cáceres is reading him well early," observed Martin Tyler, "but you get the feeling if City keep doing this, something will give."

Adriano, silent and coiled like a spring, kept drifting between Bonucci and Cáceres, never truly showing his hand. He wasn't forcing the issue—he was waiting for his moment.

In the 10th minute, Lichtsteiner clattered into Hazard trying to block a cutback. The referee gave a sharp warning but kept his cards pocketed.

Hazard winced, then stood quickly and jogged back into position. "Keep it coming, Kev," he said as he passed De Bruyne. "He's twitchy."

And Kevin obliged.

Four minutes later, De Bruyne spun beautifully away from Pogba, shifted the ball with one touch, and threaded a pass down the channel. Hazard met it in stride, cutting back inside on his right. Chiellini was a fraction late. Hazard curled it low and fast, bouncing just in front of Buffon.

"Dipping ball, dangerous—Buffon handles it well!" called Tyler. "That's more like it from Manchester City."

City were coming alive. The away fans, tucked into the highest tier, found their voices—"Blue Moon" rising in volume and tempo.

Two minutes later, Kane backed into Bonucci and drew a foul just outside the D. Adriano and De Bruyne stood over the ball. Buffon crouched, gesturing at his wall. The angle was perfect for a curler.

"Looks like a set-piece rehearsal here," murmured Alan Smith, watching closely.

Adriano stepped up but didn't shoot—he nudged it gently to De Bruyne. One touch, then a curling effort toward the far post. Buffon dived and palmed it wide.

"Ohh, what a save! Gigi Buffon rolling back the years with that one," exclaimed Tyler. "That's two big moments he's had to intervene already."

As Juventus reset, Bonucci barked at Cáceres. "Too easy! Push higher!" Cáceres nodded, breathing heavily. Even at 0–0 on the night, there was tension.

The 20th minute saw another half-chance—Salah latched onto a diagonal from Silva, darting inside Chiellini, but his touch was just too heavy. Buffon was out quickly to smother.

And then—came the shift.

De Bruyne clipped a pass into Adriano, who controlled with a graceful touch and pivoted. Cáceres lunged in late, catching him on the ankle. Adriano fell hard. Foul. Thirty-five yards out, central.

As Buffon bellowed instructions, Juve's line shuffled awkwardly. Chiellini gestured toward Salah, but the movement was slow. City noticed.

Adriano stood, brushing dirt off his sleeve. "Now," he whispered to Silva. "No delay."

Instead of a shot, Adriano tapped the ball sideways. Silva took one touch and whipped a pass into the box—a sudden, flat, disguised delivery. Salah had already started his run between Bonucci and Chiellini.

One stride, two, leap—and thump.

A driving header bounced low and fast. Buffon stretched, fingertips grazing it—but the ball spun past him, kissed the inside of the post, and settled in the back of the net.

GOAL ANNOUNCER:"GOOOOOAAAAL! MOHAMED SALAH! MANCHESTER CITY LEAD 1–0 IN TURIN! THE TIE IS BACK ON!"

Pandemonium in the away end. Scarves twirled, flags waved, and fans leapt into the arms of strangers. A flare went off. City were on the board.

On the pitch, Salah didn't sprint to the corner. He jogged back with purpose. Adriano was already there, tapping his shoulder. "That's one. Stay sharp."

Silva caught up and wrapped an arm around the Egyptian. "Just like training. Perfect line."

Hazard jogged by, grinning. "Buffon didn't even see you, Mo."

From the technical area, Pellegrini shouted calmly, "Focus! Reset! It's just the start!"

Alan Smith (Sky commentary):"This wasn't just good play—it was crafted. That's a routine you know they've worked on at Carrington. The movement, the timing—it's all deliberate."

Martin Tyler:"Silva's pass was surgical. Salah's run—well, it split the defense like a scalpel. And suddenly, Juventus don't look so comfortable anymore."

As play resumed, Juventus looked rattled. Pirlo dropped deeper. Pogba started barking orders. Vidal flew into a tackle on De Bruyne near the touchline—clean, but full-blooded.

Kane came over, nudged De Bruyne. "They're angry now. Let's press them."

City began to hunt higher. A risky header from Bonucci gave Hazard a sniff, but Buffon was alert again. At the other end, Morata tried to break past Hummels with a clever flick, but the German body-checked him without giving ground.

"Morata's isolated," said Smith. "City are winning every second ball now."

In the 34th minute, Salah nearly had a second. Silva released him with a blind backheel. Salah pushed past Chiellini, but the angle narrowed too much. His shot slammed into the side netting.

"Almost a brace!" called Tyler. "Chiellini didn't know where he was for a second."

Back in midfield, Adriano was playing chess. He dropped deep to drag Cáceres forward, then peeled off to the right. Salah spotted him and played a flick-on. The ball rolled into space. Adriano chased it—until the linesman's flag went up.

Offside.

"Half a boot," groaned Alan Smith. "He had timed it beautifully—just too eager."

"Still," Tyler added, "the warning signs are there. Juventus are stretched."

And then, with the half ticking into its final moments in the 37th minute, City drew another free kick—this time 25 yards out, left of center. Bonucci had clipped Kane trying to recover a turnover. No complaints.

De Bruyne stood over it again, along with Hazard. The wall was thick. Buffon fixed his gloves. Pellegrini leaned forward on the touchline, frozen.

Hazard faked the run. De Bruyne took it—a vicious knuckling strike that dipped alarmingly. Buffon scrambled and punched. It spilled to Kane—but he swung and missed!

Gasps. Groans. He knew it.

Kane clutched his head. "Damn it. That was it."

To their credit, Juventus didn't buckle after conceding. Allegri was immediately on his feet, pacing the edge of his technical area with sharp, animated gestures. He barked instructions to Vidal and Pirlo, demanding compactness through the middle. Pirlo responded by dropping deeper, closer to the centre-backs, forming a triangle of calm around which Juventus could rebuild possession and slow the tempo.

City, sensing they had momentum, pressed higher. Silva urged the press—"Don't let Pirlo breathe!"—while Adriano pointed and shouted, "Stay tight, force the long ball!"

But Juventus showed their resilience. In the 39th minute, they carved out a warning.

Pogba, drifting wide on the left, received a switch from Vidal and took a silky touch past Navas. With minimal backlift, he whipped in a vicious, dipping cross toward the penalty spot.

Martin Tyler:"Pogba—oh, that's a devilish ball!"

Morata rose between Mangala and Hummels, gaining just enough elevation to flick the header toward goal. It beat Hart for height—but not for accuracy.

Alan Smith:"Big let-off for City! Morata did everything right, just didn't guide it low enough."

Hart exploded in frustration. "Eliaquim, stay on him! Don't ball-watch!" he bellowed, voice echoing above the din. Mangala raised his hand apologetically, eyes on the turf.

City tried to settle, but Juventus sensed vulnerability.

Then, in the 42nd minute, came the moment that shifted the entire tone of the half.

It began with Rômulo cutting inside from the right, linking with Vidal on the edge of the box. His shot ricocheted off Hummels and rolled wide. Corner.

Pirlo jogged across slowly to take it, scanning the box. Inside the area, jostling intensified. Morata wrestled for position. Mangala was glued to his back.

Martin Tyler:"Pirlo to deliver... look at the shoving inside the six-yard box... referee keeping a close eye."

Pirlo curled the ball in with trademark precision. Mangala, slightly off-balance, extended both arms and placed them squarely into Morata's back as they jumped. Morata fell theatrically—maybe too easily—but the whistle came instantly.

Penalty.

Gasps echoed through the stadium. The Etihad faithful groaned in disbelief. Mangala froze, arms still half-raised. His expression turned to dread as the referee pointed to the spot.

City players swarmed the official. Hummels raised both arms in disbelief. Silva, usually mild-mannered, shouted, "That's nothing! He jumped into him!"

Alan Smith:"That's a really harsh one, Martin. There's contact—but that happens in every corner. You've seen those waved away ten times in a match."

Martin Tyler:"But this referee didn't wave it away. And now Joe Hart stands alone on the line with City's night hanging in the balance."

Mangala dropped to a crouch. Adriano was the first to get to him. No fury, no finger-pointing—just purpose. He gripped the Frenchman's shirt and tugged him up to his feet.

"Forget it," Adriano said firmly. "We go again. You hear me? Focus."

Hart placed himself between the sticks, eyes locked on Morata. He pointed left, then right, trying to get in the striker's head. Morata placed the ball, took a deep breath, and stepped back.

Whistle.

He struck it low to Hart's right. Hart guessed right. He dived, parried it away—

—but no one reacted faster than Morata.

The Spaniard was already moving, already leaning forward before the ball was struck. He pounced on the rebound before a single City shirt could recover, tapping into the net with agonising ease.

GOAL ANNOUNCER:"MORATA ON THE REBOUND! JUVENTUS LEVEL ON THE NIGHT! 3–1 ON AGGREGATE!"

Martin Tyler:"It's cruel on Joe Hart—he guessed right, made the save... but the follow-up just wasn't covered. City caught ball-watching."

Alan Smith:"That's a gut-punch. The penalty may have been soft—but letting Morata have a free run at the rebound, that's the real sin."

The Juventus Stadium erupted. Allegri raised both arms to the sky. Buffon pumped his fists and sprinted out of his box, roaring toward the supporters. Pirlo calmly walked back into position, adjusting his armband.

Hart sat on the grass for a moment, hands on his knees, head tilted back toward the heavens. "What more can I do?" he muttered.

Adriano turned to him as the ball was brought back to the centre. "Keep us in it," he said quietly. "We'll fix this."

City players regrouped, but the equaliser had clearly shaken them. Silva pulled Kane aside and spoke quickly: "Next time we get close—don't wait. One-touch it. Buffon's leaving gaps now."

Kane nodded, jaw clenched.

The final few minutes of the half were tight. Juventus, now full of energy, slowed the pace again. City backed off, wary of conceding another. A late offside flag against Salah—fractional but correct—killed one promising counterattack.

The referee blew for halftime.

Martin Tyler:"And that's the end of the first half—a half filled with drama. Salah gave Manchester City the hope they needed... but Morata's persistence has restored Juventus' grip."

Alan Smith:"It's a psychological blow, that one. But Pellegrini's men won't panic. They've shown they can open Juve up—they just need to believe."

The scoreboard flashed: Juventus 1 – 1 Manchester City (Aggregate: 3–1)

****

The players walked off slowly, the noise of the Juventus crowd echoing behind them like a closing door. A goal down and still two behind on aggregate, the mood among the Manchester City players was restrained.

No arguments, no visible panic—just that heavy, uncertain quiet that settles in when pressure tightens and confidence begins to flicker.

Adriano kept his head forward as he reached the tunnel, sweat lining his jaw. Buffon passed him with a short stride, clapping his gloves together as he shouted toward his teammates in Italian. "Troppo facile!"—Too easy!

The words weren't aimed directly at Adriano, but they lingered in the air all the same.

Pellegrini was already waiting by the tunnel entrance. His face, unreadable as ever, showed no frustration. Just the same calm authority that had anchored this squad all season.

As Adriano neared, the manager reached out and placed a hand firmly on his back—not pushing, just guiding.

"Good reaction after the goal," Pellegrini said, his voice quiet enough that only Adriano could hear. "Keep them focused. Make them believe."

Adriano nodded once, not breaking stride.

Inside the dressing room, the players spread out without a word. Boots were unlaced. Water bottles cracked open. Some sat, others stood, hands on hips or leaning against the walls.

The overhead lights hummed faintly above the low murmur of footsteps and shifting kit. There was no shouting, no angry outbursts. Just silence—the kind that fills the air when players are thinking too much and saying too little.

Silva sat beside Kimmich, wiping his face with a towel. De Bruyne leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor.

Kane stood near the tactics board, bouncing the ball softly between his feet but not looking up. Casemiro and Hummelsexchanged a few quiet words, their voices barely audible.

Pellegrini waited until everyone had settled, then stepped into the middle of the room. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't pace. He just stood still, meeting their eyes one by one as he spoke.

"We are still in this," he said plainly. "We don't talk about the score now. We don't chase it. We play the next forty-five minutes on our terms."

A few players shifted in their seats. The message wasn't new, but it carried more weight here—down in Turin, backs against the wall, season on the line.

"One moment at a time," Pellegrini continued. "We've been through worse. Stay organized. Press high when we can. Trust each other."

He paused, letting the silence settle again.

Then Adriano stood. He didn't raise his voice either, but everyone looked at him. His shirt still clung to his back from the first half. His eyes moved slowly around the room, taking them all in.

"We've come too far to stop now," he said.

Simple. Measured. But it landed.

Hazard gave a small nod. De Bruyne sat up straighter. Hart stretched out his gloves, flexing his fingers as if the speech had loosened something in him. Kane caught Adriano's eye and gave a brief, determined nod.

As the players began to rise, slipping back into jerseys and tightening their boots, Pellegrini turned back to his assistants. He didn't say anything more. The plan hadn't changed. The belief had to.

And now, in the final forty-five minutes, their response would decide everything.

***

Current Stats of Adriano:

Premier League

Matches: 18

Goals: 24

Assists: 16

Current top scorer of Premier League, and top on Assists list.

*

Champions League

Matches: 7

Goals: 15

Assists: 5

Current top scorer, 2nd in Assists

*

FA Cup

Matches: 1

Goals: 2

Assists: 2