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"Bloody hell, nephew—are you trying to get me killed?"
Cristiano and André exchanged glances. Cristiano quickly withdrew the arm he'd draped around André's shoulder and pointed accusingly at Santos Junior in the stands.
The Atlético supporters in that section erupted in laughter.
"You'd better go," André said, smirking. "Your teammates are over there. Stay any longer and people might think you're throwing the match."
"Just wait, you little bastard. And Santos too—I'll deal with you both after the final whistle."
André waved dismissively at the threat. Nice try. With Dolores in attendance, it wasn't certain who'd be dealing with whom.
The match restarted under the referee's supervision.
Simeone didn't sit back to protect the lead. Instead, he stood on the touchline making constant forward gestures, urging his players to press higher.
After the restart, Atlético intensified their press in the final third. The tempo transformed completely from the cagey opening exchanges—exactly what Simeone wanted.
André, having tasted blood with his goal, began roaming across the front line, switching positions constantly. For a spell, the trailing Juventus were actually pinned back into a defensive posture.
But Juventus weren't without chances.
Thirty-second minute. Dybala collected the ball centrally and attempted to turn past his marker with a quick flick. Saúl brought him down immediately—a tactical foul, no complaints.
Free kick to Juventus. The angle and distance weren't ideal for a direct attempt, so Dybala floated the delivery toward the back post instead.
Cristiano rose highest, outmuscling Saúl in the aerial duel. His header was firm, well-directed—
It crashed against the crossbar.
Cristiano landed grimacing, frustration etched across his face.
Atlético had escaped.
Having conceded that chance, Juventus tightened their defensive organisation. The marking on André and Griezmann became suffocating—at least two players swarming them whenever either received the ball.
Atlético's attacking momentum stalled. Neither side created much of note for the remainder of the half.
The match grew scrappy. Tempers frayed. The referee became the busiest man on the pitch, brandishing three yellow cards in the space of ten minutes before things finally settled.
His whistle signalled halftime.
Atlético Madrid 1-0 Juventus.
"Excellent work," Simeone told the squad in the dressing room. "That's exactly the kind of pressure we need to maintain. Keep this up in the second half, and the victory is ours."
He moved to the tactics board, highlighting areas for improvement—small adjustments, nothing drastic.
The fifteen-minute break flew past.
Both teams returned unchanged. But from the moment the second half kicked off, it became clear that Atlético's approach had transformed completely.
The formation shifted to a compact 4-5-1. Griezmann dropped from his striker's role into an attacking midfield position. Koke, Saúl, and the other central players sat deeper, forming a defensive block. The shape was closer to a 4-2-3-1—and it was designed to frustrate.
More significantly, Atlético abandoned the aggressive pressing that had dominated the latter stages of the first half. Their lines compressed. Even Griezmann was tracking back into his own half, leaving only André up front to occupy Juventus' defenders.
Allegri was caught completely off-guard.
During the interval, he'd instructed his team to play on the counter. This was only the first leg—no need to overcommit. Atlético's attacking intent late in the first half had convinced him they would continue the same way.
Simeone had other ideas.
On the touchline, Allegri's expression soured. He whistled sharply and gestured to his players. Push up. Spread out. Force the issue.
If Atlético wouldn't engage, Juventus would make them.
Gradually, Juventus' formation stretched forward. The match became more open, more entertaining—but also more dangerous for the away side.
The increased attacking commitment put genuine pressure on Atlético's defence. As Juventus' waves of attack intensified, Atlético's back line began to creak.
Fifty-eighth minute.
Cristiano collected the ball on the left wing. A blur of step-overs wrong-footed Filipe Luís, and he lofted a cross toward the back post. The delivery had vicious dip—the kind defenders hate most.
Mandžukić arrived at the far post, rising to meet it. But Godín was alert, applying just enough pressure to send the header harmlessly over for a goal kick.
Close. Too close.
Three minutes later, Juventus carved out another clear opening.
Dybala appeared on the right flank this time. A quick one-two with the overlapping De Sciglio, then he drove into the half-space and floated a cross toward the edge of the six-yard box.
Thomas, responsible for marking Cristiano, misjudged the flight. Cristiano peeled away, controlled the ball on his chest, spun, and unleashed a venomous volley.
The ball screamed toward goal like a thunderbolt. Oblak stretched desperately—his fingertips brushed air.
But Lady Luck was wearing red and white tonight.
The shot cannoned off the inside of the post and bounced away to safety.
Cristiano clutched his head, muttering curses. The contact had felt perfect. The technique was flawless. And still the woodwork had denied him.
On the touchline, Allegri turned away in disgust, venting to his assistant.
In the stands, two sounds erupted simultaneously: groans of despair from the Juventus supporters, and gasps of relief from Atlético fans who'd just watched their lives flash before their eyes.
The siege continued.
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