Rise of a Football God-Chapter 457: UEFA Champions League Final; PSG vs Barcelona [1]
2 days later…
27th May, 2026.
At Robert Lewandowski's sprawling Catalan villa nestled in the hills overlooking Barcelona, the air buzzed with anticipation; not just for the looming Champions League final, but for the gathering that promised to bind the squad tighter than ever before.
The sun dipped lazily over the Mediterranean, casting a golden hue on the tiled rooftops and whitewashed walls as Lewandowski, ever the consummate professional and team leader opened his home for a classic reunion espanola; a traditional Spanish style get together meant to strip away the weight of competition and let friendship breathe.
The UEFA Champions League final was to commence in 4 days.
The atmosphere in Barcelona these days was electric, preparing for the club's final game and most important game of the season.
The pressure was much on the players, and was exactly why Robert Lewandowski organized this get together in his Catalan villa.
He was still recovering from his injury, he could not take part in the final game but it didn't matter. To Robert Lewandowski, what mattered was that he could still contribute to the team in this manner.
The heart of the evening was set outdoors on a spacious stone terrace shaded by olive trees and trailing grapevines.
Long wooden tables were arrange under string lights that twinkled like stars. The scent of grilled meats and spices filled the air; carne a la brasa, sizzling chorizo, and smoky morcilla charred over an open flame.
Nearby, a massive paella pan sat bubbling with golden saffron rice, seafood, and rabbit, lovingly stirred by a local chef Lewandowski had hired from Valencia.
Laughter echoed through the garden as players trickled in, dressed casually; linen shirts, shorts, and sandals.
Gavi and Pedri took turns teasing each other at the ping pong table set up in one corner, even as Lamine Yamal hung out with Sam and Alejandro Balde.
At another side, Jules Kounde, always the smooth one played DJ with a playlist of flamenco-infused pop, reggaeton, and old Spanish rock.
Ter Stegen nursed a glass of tinto de verano and played chess with Hansi Flick. Yes, the coach was also invited for the occasion. After some dilemma he decided to drop by to lend his blessing to the night.
Tapas were passed around; plates of jamon iberico, patatas bravas, boquerones en vinagre, and spicy pimintos de padron, each dish sparking conversation, debate, and jokes.
Even the foreign players, unfamiliar with Spanish customs, quickly fell into the rhythm of relaxed eating and constant chatter.
The beer flowed, but not too freely. After all, to others, the season may have finished already. But to FC Barcelona? Not yet, one game remained. The most important game of their season, the UEFA champions league final.
Lewandowski enforced the beer restrictions, making sure everyone knew this wasn't about partying, but it was more about presence, connection, and unity.
As night deepened, Lewandowski stood, raised his glass of cava, and addressed his teammates; not with a fiery speech, but with quiet conviction.
At first, he joked.
Chuckling, he started. "I know most of you are angry with me". He smirked. "After all, I just went and got injured in a season and crazy as this one".
"Well, I don't blame you". He laughed. "I'm angry at myself too".
"Anyways, you guys, I believe you all know why I invited you all here tonight… the UEFA Champions League final".
"We're not just playing for a title. We're playing for each other".
"For this city. For the crest".
"This feeling… is what we fight to protect".
The table erupted in applause and cheers. Arms linked, players sag along to a spontaneous chorus of "Volveremos a ser campeones" led by Ferran Torres, Sam, and Kounde.
As an FC Barcelona fan for a long time, all the way since he was 6 years old, Sam knew all the Barcelona chants, slangs, and songs.
Tonight, there were no speeches, no rehearsed bravado, just the raw, electric heartbeat of a team ready to go to war together.
That night, under the Catalan stars, Barcelona wasn't just a club.
It was a family. freёwebnoѵel.com
After that experience in Lewandowski's villa, the players who were fit returned to their normal schedule of train, train, and train again under their coach.
Hansi Flick drilled his team physically and tactically to the optimum level.
While they trained, time moved fast.
And then…
…D-day was here.
…
31st May, 2026…
Germany, Munich.
The night Munich held its breath.
The Allianz Arena, normally cloaked in red blazed a split hue of electric blue and deep garnet, the colossal stadium pulsing with energy like the heart of Europe itself. Not just Europe, but European football.
It was the UEFA Champions League Final.
(UEFA Champions League:)
(Final:)
(PSG – Barcelona)
Two giants. One crown.
And the atmosphere? Electric. Feverish. Sacred.
The streets outside were a sea of flags, chants, and face paint. Barcelona fans, draped in blaugrana, sang.
"El Cant del Barca!"
They roared with tearful pride, their voices echoing against the walls of the stadium. PSG ultras, slick in navy and red bellowed on their side.
"Ici c'est Paris!"
They roared, waving flares and marching in unison with relentless fervor.
It was 2 football countries, 2 different footballing cultures.
The languages were different, but the passion was identical; tonight was war in cleats.
Then came the first seismic moment; the arrival of the team buses.
The Barcelona bus rolled in first, escorted by flashing police motorcycles, cutting through the din like warship through stormy seas.
Cameras flashed, fans screamed, and the team inside remained still; focused.
Inigo Martinez, eyes locked ahead. Pedri, headphones on, bobbing slightly to the beat. The young blood and old guard, unified. Hansi Flick stood at the steps of the bus as they disembarked, clasping shoulders and whispering final words of steel into his players' ears.
Moments later, PSG's bus swept in. Sleek. Shadowed.
Behind blacked-out windows sat Marquinhos, impassive and calm, like a storm waiting to break. Alongside him, Ousmane Dembele, a man with divided loyalties stepped off to the mixed sound of whistles and cheers.
Luis Enrique, ever cool, lithe as a predator followed his squad with a gaze sharp enough to cut glass.
The Allianz Arena itself seemed to vibrate with the moment. The pitch was pristine, glowing under the floodlights like emerald glass.
The Champions League anthem began to play, and the roar was deafening; thunderous, reverent, mythical.
Fireworks cracked in the air. Drone cameras soared. It felt less like a game and more like the entrance to Valhalla.
This wasn't just football. This was ritual.
