Chapter 38: The Miracle at Istanbul

**** Join my Patreon for 30 or so Advance Chapters and my other stories . Link is Below. Remove space after http https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true *** After what felt like an eternity of pre-match nonsense—camera shots of nervous players, crowd close-ups, anthem montages, and one fan holding up a sign that said "Kaka, adopt me!"—it was finally go time. At exactly 9:45 p.m., the referee blew his whistle, and the Champions League final between AC Milan and Liverpoolkicked off. In the VIP box, Arthur adjusted his seat and took a sip of red wine, trying to act like this was just another night. But inside, he was buzzing like a kid on Christmas Eve who knew something wild was about to happen. Down in the stands, fans from both teams were going absolutely bonkers—chanting, waving flags, and clinging to hope. None of them, not even the ones who claimed to be football prophets on Twitter, had any idea just how nuts the next two hours would be. Nobody did. Not the fans. Not the pundits. Not even the dogs watching from home. Because what happened next would go down as the weirdest, wildest, and most chaotic Champions League final in history. Before the game, and even during the warmups, the consensus from every corner of European football was the same: AC Milan were going to win. Period. They weren't just better on paper. They were better on wood, glass, cement—every material known to man. Let's take a look at that lineup: Up front, they had Shevchenko and Crespo—both of whom were still legally allowed to cause defenders nightmares. Behind them? Kaka, Pirlo, Seedorf, and Gattuso. That's like building a midfield out of cheat codes. Their defense featured Cafu, Maldini, Stam, and Nesta. It was basically a wall with legs. And in goal? Dida, a goalkeeper with reflexes faster than your friend who calls shotgun before anyone even sees the car. Even the bench was stacked. They had Rui Costa and Tomasson sitting there like backup bosses in a video game. Meanwhile, Liverpool... Well, let's just say they were "gritty." Apart from Gerrard and Xabi Alonso, nobody on the pitch screamed "world-class." They had passion, they had heart, and they definitely had commitment—but in terms of reputation, AC Milan were operating in a different solar system. Even Florentino Pérez—who had no horse in this race and was sipping wine like a retired Bond villain—assumed Milan would walk away with the trophy. And for the first half, it looked like exactly that. Bang. Just 50 seconds in, AC Milan were already celebrating. Liverpool barely had time to organize their socks when Kaka danced down the right side, got fouled, and won a free-kick in a dangerous spot. Pirlo stepped up, floated it in like a laser-guided balloon, and Maldini—yes, the defender—volleyed it into the net like he'd been doing it his whole life. Boom: 1–0 to Milan. 58 seconds. Fastest goal ever in a Champions League final. Arthur, trying to stay neutral, casually nodded and said, "Nice technique." Inside, he was thinking, Uh-oh. This could get ugly. And it did. AC Milan weren't content with just one goal. They kept pressing like a hyperactive child in a video game tournament. Meanwhile, Liverpool looked like they were trying to play underwater. Their midfield was confused, their backline was sweating, and things got worse—fast. In the 23rd minute, Harry Kewell—who was apparently held together by chewing gum and prayer—went down injured and had to be subbed off. Smicer came in, looking like someone who'd just been told he had to fight a bear. Then, Liverpool thought they had a chance. Luis Garcia broke into the box. Nesta fell during the scramble and the ball hit his hand. Liverpool screamed for a penalty. The ref, however, looked at them the way a teacher looks at a student asking for extra marks after failing the test. "Play on!" While Liverpool were still arguing, Milan were already sprinting the other way. Pirlo to Kaka. Kaka ran like he had an Amazon delivery to make in under five minutes. Liverpool's defenders were now outnumbered and outpaced. Kaka slipped the ball to Shevchenko, who calmly entered the box, looked up, and squared it across for Crespo, who tapped it in like he was scoring at a training session. 2–0. Arthur sighed. Florentino grinned. And Liverpool fans started preparing their therapy budgets. But Milan weren't done. Nope. In the 44th minute, right before halftime, Kaka decided he was tired of assisting and wanted to do something a bit spicier. He collected the ball from Pirlo, spun around Gerrard like he was a revolving door, and split Liverpool's entire defense with a single through ball that had no business being legal. Crespo got on the end of it, faced off against Dudek, and once again made it look disgustingly easy. 3–0. In just one half, AC Milan turned Liverpool into a sad pub team. It wasn't just a loss—it was a full-on football dissection. Arthur looked down into his wine glass like it might have the answers. Florentino, sipping contentedly, said, "Well, this is going smoothly." Arthur gave a dry chuckle and muttered, "Smooth for Milan. Like a slip-n-slide." As the halftime whistle blew, Liverpool's players trudged toward the tunnel like people who had just been told their vacations were cancelled. The Milan players, by contrast, walked off casually—as if they'd just wrapped up a training match and were thinking about dinner plans. Even the camera crew didn't know what to do. They kept cutting to shocked Liverpool fans and Milan fans doing the wave like they were on a cruise. Arthur leaned back in his chair and shook his head. The first half was done. Liverpool were down 0–3. No one in their right mind thought a comeback was possible. But Arthur? He had a strange feeling. Because somewhere, deep in his memory, he remembered how this was supposed to go. He didn't know if history would repeat itself. But if it did... Well, they were in for one hell of a second half. **** Florentino Pérez was stunned. Not by the wine, or the VIP snacks (which were average at best), but by what Kaká had just done to Liverpool. The Brazilian midfielder had just carved through the Reds like a hot knife through warm cheese, and Florentino, not one to miss a potential shopping opportunity, immediately snapped into action. He leaned over and whispered something to his assistant, who nodded and scurried off like a man on a mission. Arthur glanced over and raised an eyebrow. "Scouting mission?" he asked with a smirk. Florentino smiled slyly. "Of course. You can't watch something like that and not start planning." Then he turned back to Arthur, took another sip of wine, and said jokingly, "Arthur, I think you backed the wrong horse today. Liverpool's getting steamrolled. I just hope they don't lose by five." Arthur didn't flinch. He slowly raised his wine glass, wore a suspicious little grin, took a sip, and replied calmly, "Mr. Pérez, I wouldn't be so sure. I know this Liverpool team. They don't break that easily." Then, without even a pause, he added, "In fact, I'll bet you 100 euros that Liverpool still wins tonight." Florentino almost dropped his wine glass. "Excuse me?" he said, laughing. "Have you seen the score?" Arthur nodded. "Yes. 3–0. Half-time. Textbook setup for a miracle." Florentino blinked. "You're not serious." Arthur leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and replied, "Dead serious." Now, Florentino had seen a lot of weird things in football—players faking injuries, agents lying through their teeth, and one time, a goalkeeper who forgot which side he was supposed to defend—but this young man calmly betting on a comeback from 3–0 down in a Champions League final might have topped them all. Still, Florentino wasn't one to back down from a bet. "Alright," he said with a smirk. "One hundred euros. But I warn you, I never lose." Arthur raised his glass in a toast. "Then consider this a charity donation." The second half began. For the first few minutes, everything was quiet. Milan were still passing the ball around like they were on a Sunday stroll, while Liverpool chased shadows. Then, 53rd minute. Out of nowhere, John Arne Riise decided to start launching missiles from the left wing. The first cross was cleared. The second? Bang! Right on target. Steven Gerrard, Liverpool's captain, soared into the air like a salmon on steroids. His header hit the net with a thud. 3–1. Florentino didn't even blink. "A consolation goal," he said flatly. "Milan just nodded off for a moment." Arthur didn't say anything. He just swirled his wine like he was mixing a potion. Then came the 56th minute. Smicer, the substitute nobody really remembered, suddenly turned into long-range sniper mode. He struck the ball from outside the box, and it zipped past Dida like a rocket. 3–2. Florentino was now sitting upright. Arthur casually looked over. "Still just a consolation?" Florentino muttered something in Spanish that didn't sound too complimentary. Three minutes later, Baroš danced into the box and pulled off a cheeky little backheel. Gerrard latched onto it like he was chasing treasure, and Gattuso—clearly panicking—clipped him. The referee didn't hesitate. Penalty. Florentino's jaw clenched. Up stepped Xabi Alonso. He fired the shot low, but Dida saved it! Only—uh oh—he didn't save the rebound. Alonso followed up like a man possessed and slotted the ball into the net. 3–3. Arthur didn't celebrate. He just slowly turned to face Florentino with the smuggest smile known to mankind. Florentino stared at the pitch, as if trying to mentally command Milan to reassemble. "This... this can't be real," he muttered. Arthur shrugged. "I told you. They don't break easily." From that point on, Milan tried to wake up. They made a few pushes. Kaka still looked lively. Shevchenko still moved like a predator. But Liverpool weren't the same team that started the match. They were possessed now. Driven by some weird footballing spirit that apparently only comes out when you're three goals down. The game dragged on into extra time, and neither side could find a winner. Which meant one thing: Penalty shootout. Arthur rubbed his hands together. "Now we're talking." Florentino was quiet. Very quiet. Milan missed. Liverpool scored. Milan scored. Liverpool scored. Then, the moment of truth: Shevchenko stepped up. He was the man. The ace. The finisher. He ran up, fired— —and Dudek, flailing like a man trying to swat a bee, saved it. Liverpool had won. From 0–3 down to Champions League champions. The stadium exploded. Liverpool fans lost their minds. Their players ran in circles. Gerrard looked like he was trying not to cry on live television. And in the VIP box, Arthur calmly placed his wine glass down, turned to Florentino, and said, "Thank you for the private box, Mr. Pérez." Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp €100 note, and gently placed it on the table. "That's for the rent." Florentino just sat there, blinking at him like he'd just seen a ghost predict the stock market. As Arthur stood to leave, he gave one final grin. "Good game, wasn't it?" Then he walked out of the box, leaving behind a stunned billionaire, a silent room, and the faint echo of one of the greatest football comebacks of all time. Florentino sat up straight and looked at the the back of Arthur who was leaving, and for a faint moment, there was a look of admiration in his eyes.