Chapter 888: A Series of Tricks
As long as Bruno was in form, Manchester United's results were never in danger. His consistency was extraordinary; he almost never had an off day. Thanks to that stability, United had reached heights in the last five years that even the legendary Ferguson era never touched.
Some called it "Bruno dependency," but Mourinho didn't care. If such dependence kept winning leagues and trophies, then what was wrong with it?
Besides, with several years left on Bruno's contract, Mourinho could safely rely on him for a long time.
Every great team in history had relied on its cornerstone—whether it was a playmaker, striker, or defender. Having a "dependency" on a world-class talent wasn't a flaw—it was a feature of greatness.
So the manager wasn't worried at all. Depending on Bruno was far safer than depending on almost anyone else.
During halftime, Mourinho's tactical instructions were simple: continue exactly as in the first half.
The plan worked; there was no reason to change it.
...
The second half began.
The break had felt long—the anticipation in the stadium was palpable. United versus Chelsea was always a spectacle, no matter how many times they met in a season.
"I expect Chelsea to fight back," one commentator said, a supporter of the Blues. "They're stubborn, resilient. Time and again this season, they've come from behind to win. If United think they've already won this final, Chelsea will remind them how wrong they are."
But he forgot one small fact: the real kings of comebacks this season were Manchester United. Across competitions, they had rallied to victory 17 times after conceding first. The phrase "no United game without a comeback" had become a global tagline.
You couldn't expect a team built on turnarounds to collapse from complacency.
Tuchel responded with tactical tweaks—tightening his midfield, focusing defensive attention on Bruno. But it didn't help much. For the first ten minutes after the restart, Chelsea threatened briefly; then the rhythm shifted back to United's control.
You could mark Bruno carefully, but never completely.
And if you gave him even an inch, he made it count.
When one player couldn't contain him, they sent two—Jorginho and Matic—but even then, Bruno found space to deliver deadly passes.
...
In the 59th minute, United won possession deep in their half and broke forward.
As soon as Bruno received the ball, two Chelsea players converged—Jorginho pressing close, Matic tugging his arm.
Even as balance failed him, Bruno fell delivering a perfect through ball. It sliced between Chelsea's lines and rolled out to Marcus Rashford on the flank.
Rashford's cross was superb, aiming for Kane in the box, but Dean Henderson was sharp enough to intercept, narrowly saving Chelsea from another heartbreak.
Realizing Jorginho and Matic couldn't keep up, Tuchel made a change in the 63rd minute, bringing on Croatian midfielder Mateo Kovačić for Mason Mount to strengthen the central defense.
Kovačić's first contribution? A brutal body check that sent Bruno crashing hard to the turf.
United's fans erupted in fury, their boos and curses nearly drowning out the referee's whistle.
"You Croatian bastard!"
"That's a straight red!"
The referee gave only a verbal warning. Kovačić nodded without remorse and stared coldly at Bruno, who was just getting to his feet—no handshake, no apology.
...
After successfully stopping Bruno once, Kovačić turned to Jorginho. "You handle the attack, Jorgi. Leave defense to me and Nemanja."
It was said with confidence.
Jorginho hesitated. "I think all three of us should stick together..."
"No," Kovačić cut him off. "If we keep sitting back like this, we'll never win. You need to push forward. Leave this guy to me."
The foul had emboldened him—proof, in his mind, that physical play worked. With Matic alongside, freeing Jorginho seemed safe.
Jorginho finally nodded. "All right—but be careful with him."
Kovačić grinned. "Don't worry. He's mine."
...
Bruno had long grown accustomed to fouls—they were part of life for any creative midfielder. If you couldn't handle it, you didn't belong at the top level.
He wasn't intimidated. He thrived under pressure.
Soon after, when United attacked again, the ball found Bruno's feet as usual.
Kovačić charged in, repeating his earlier trick. He collided hard with Bruno, who again fell—but even while going down, Bruno managed to slip a pass forward.
The ball rolled perfectly into the danger zone, reaching Harry Kane. Kane's shot skimmed just wide of the post.
Bruno got to his feet, gave Kovačić a knowing shrug—provocation, pure and simple.
If the Croatian wanted roughness, he could have it.
...
Moments later, both went up for an aerial duel.
Bruno jumped higher, dominating the header and nudging the ball deep into Chelsea's half. As he came down, his right knee tucked in—pressing softly into Kovačić's ribs as he fell beneath him.
Kovačić hit the ground clutching his waist, gasping.
The referee saw it all, whistled the foul on Bruno. The midfielder merely spread his arms and jogged away, showing no remorse.
From the ground, Kovačić grimaced.
Jorginho rushed over. "You okay?"
"Fine," Kovačić muttered through clenched teeth. "Fine…"
Jorginho sighed inwardly. I told you to watch out for him.
But scolding him now would only cause friction in a match they couldn't afford to split apart.
...
Kovačić soon learned the hard truth—fouls couldn't stop Bruno.
When the next ball came his way, Bruno stood with his back to goal, ready to turn.
Kovačić lunged in from behind, planning to trip him subtly—his little revenge for the earlier knee in the ribs.
But Bruno didn't trap the ball. He feinted, spread his stance, and let it slip cleanly through his legs.
It sailed right past Kovačić's thighs, cold as a blade of air.
Before he could react, Kovačić collided straight into Bruno's back, knocking him over.
The whistle blew again.
This time, the referee had had enough of "warnings." He marched over and flashed a yellow card for the Croatian's cynical foul.
Kovačić didn't learn. Yellow card or not, he kept shadowing Bruno physically—leaning, bumping, shoving, anything to throw him off balance.
But no matter how much he pressed, Bruno refused to fall.
...
He felt the heavy weight on his side, the force trying to unnerve him—but it barely registered.
This was routine now.
Planting his boots, Bruno absorbed Kovačić's push, scanning for the next gap. He could already see holes opening in Chelsea's defense—but his teammates hadn't yet noticed. He needed to wait. Wait for them to move.
Then, suddenly, he slammed to a stop and pivoted sharply, hooking the ball backward with the outside of his left foot.
Kovačić slid too far, trapped behind him.
Scrambling, the Croat kicked at Bruno's ankles, clipped his calves—but Bruno stayed upright, extending one arm to hold him off, maintaining balance, his foot shielding the ball like it was made of steel.
The crowd buzzed in admiration—Manchester United's captain looked unshakeable, untouchable.
Bruno Fernandes was no longer just fighting for the ball. He was showing Chelsea—and the world—that no amount of rough play could break him.
(END CHAPTER)
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