Chapter 335: The Fairy-Tale Summer of the Old Boys!
"I knew you'd score that one! I just knew it!"
"That was f***ing brilliant, Little Lion! Let's finish this! Let's take this title home!"
The voices of his two veteran brothers exploded in Li Ang's ears. He could feel their raw emotion as he turned and pulled both Ibrahimović and Thiago Silva into a tight embrace.
"We're winning this Champions League. There's no doubt about it. We're not giving Atlético any chance!"
Li Ang's unwavering confidence calmed the fiery emotions of Ibra and Silva.
The rest of the Chelsea squad quickly arrived and mobbed the trio in celebration.
The goal had come as a complete surprise—a glorious bonus!
None of the players had expected to break the deadlock this smoothly from a counterattack.
While Li Ang was being gleefully patted and squeezed by his teammates, Kevin De Bruyne, who had provided the assist, didn't escape the celebration either.
On the pitch, Chelsea erupted in joy. On the bench, it was pandemonium.
Drogba and Lampard—Chelsea's legendary old boys—rushed to the sidelines like they'd forgotten their age, jumping and shouting alongside the younger players.
Even Mourinho's Armani suit couldn't contain his excitement—the collar had been yanked open in the heat of the moment.
But this wasn't a time to care about appearances.
Mourinho undid his blazer buttons completely, letting his dress shirt fly open at the chest.
Still, the outward celebration didn't stop the gears in his head from turning.
While assistant coach Holland was still celebrating with the players on the bench, Mourinho had already walked to the sideline, calling for his players to stay focused.
Li Ang spotted him immediately.
He gestured back with a confident signal, then turned to his teammates, tapping a finger to his temple.
Everyone understood what that meant.
They were still under the 60-minute mark. Far too early to think the game was over.
In fact, scoring only made them more vulnerable.
With their backs against the wall, Atlético would undoubtedly go all in to level the score.
From now on, they couldn't afford even a second of carelessness.
The match resumed quickly. And as the camera panned across the pitch, fans caught sight of Simeone hurriedly conferring with his assistant on the sideline.
Atlético's bench didn't have many attacking cards left to play.
Mourinho thought to himself—if it were him, he'd ditch substitutions for now and try a formation shift.
Raúl García was incredibly versatile. He could play center forward, drift wide, or even drop into defensive midfield.
Simeone could push Turan up top and shift García wide to create a new look.
It wouldn't guarantee results, but at least it would introduce a fresh dynamic.
Mourinho wasn't sure if Simeone would think the same way.
But just in case, he walked to the touchline and shouted at Li Ang to keep an eye on the flanks.
Two minutes later, Atlético's assistant coach pulled Filipe Luís aside and gave rapid instructions.
Sure enough, Atlético made their move.
Just as Mourinho predicted, Turan moved into the front line.
But instead of switching to a 4-3-3, they went even bolder—a 3-4-3.
Filipe Luís and Koke became the wingbacks. Simeone had gone all-in on attack.
Li Ang didn't dare take it lightly. This shift meant danger both down the flanks and through the middle.
He immediately ordered Hazard and De Bruyne to fall back and help cover defensively.
Kroos and Matić locked into a double pivot. Li Ang went into full beast mode, sweeping tirelessly across the defensive third.
This was Chelsea's most formidable defensive structure under a back four.
Even Ibrahimović started tracking back hard to help defend.
At the club level, the only thing missing from Ibra's career was the Champions League.
He had won league titles in four of Europe's five major leagues. He'd lifted domestic cups across multiple countries.
But he had always just missed out on the Champions League.
Youth, wrong choices, clashing styles—it had always slipped through his fingers.
Now, here it was. Right in front of him.
Just as Li Ang had told him during their quiet pre-match chat—this might be the last real chance.
Time only moves forward. He couldn't go back to being the omnipotent Zlatan of old.
But fate had given him one more chance—with this team, with these young players who gave him strength and hope.
So...
"Give it everything! In attack or in defense—everything!"
Ibrahimović pressed forward with firm steps, chasing hard, doing his best to disrupt Atlético's build-up.
Even viewers at home could see it—defending was not his thing.
But his hustle, his sacrifice, his effort... it earned him every bit of the crowd's respect.
Zlatan had always been proud. He still was.
But in the face of dreams and brotherhood, the 33-year-old Zlatan gave everything tactically he never had before.
To Chelsea's younger players, it was a powerful, emotional moment.
This Champions League title would mean everything—not just to the club, but to its veterans.
Many of them had grown up hearing stories of Chelsea's tragic yet glorious 2012 Champions League triumph.
They all knew the truth—teams like this, so big yet so united, don't last long.
Most of them had made quiet sacrifices to keep the machine running.
Someone gets a start, someone else hits the bench. And many who sat the bench for Chelsea could've been stars at smaller clubs.
They didn't like to talk about it.
But they all understood.
This group wouldn't last forever.
When this summer ended, many of them would move on.
Football had too many unfinished stories. Too many tales that never found closure.
Regret was the default ending for most seasons.
But maybe...
Not this one.
Superstars like Li Ang, who achieve so much at such a young age, have always been rare exceptions in the world of football.
For the majority of Chelsea's squad, this may be the only time in their careers they come this close to a Champions League final.
So they had no reason not to give everything for this trophy.
For themselves.
For Ibrahimović, who was sprinting back to defend with all he had.
For the other Chelsea veterans—for all the old boys.
Atlético's players, who were anxiously pressing forward, soon felt the storm erupting from Chelsea's side.
Chelsea didn't counterattack recklessly, but even while defending in their own half, the Blues showed an astonishing amount of intensity and fight.
The passion was visible.
So much so that even neutral fans watching the game felt their hearts swell.
Chelsea's defense contested every inch of turf.
Li Ang, on his own, was covering the area of two defensive midfielders!
Ibrahimović had already burned himself out. But so had Li Ang.
He was running on fumes, squeezing every last drop of energy to block and deflect Atlético's waves of attacks before they could reach the backline.
The Sky Sports commentators were in awe, crying out repeatedly that Li Ang had completely lost himself in the fight—like a madman in midfield.
On the touchline, Simeone could no longer stay seated.
He stood frozen, anxious and pale, hands trembling in his pockets.
He had already made tactical changes.
But facing a Chelsea team, and a Li Ang, this determined… he had no idea how to break through.
Back in the day, when he faced Mourinho's Real Madrid, Simeone had tasted despair in the face of their overpowering midfield.
Back then, Atlético's midfield had been in the process of rebuilding—not yet this fierce.
But now, even after reaching another Champions League final and leading a far stronger side, Simeone found himself facing that same feeling again.
This Chelsea—more resilient than even Mourinho's Real Madrid—was what he envied.
And what left him helpless.
"Don't panic. There's still time. There must be another way..."
Simeone tried to calm himself, but the ticking clock made it hard to breathe.
"Damn it!"
As the match crossed the 70-minute mark, his mental composure began to unravel.
He turned sharply toward the bench, eyes bloodshot, barking at Raúl Jiménez and Saúl to start warming up.
At Wembley, tens of thousands of Atlético supporters clenched their fists and prayed silently.
Some had even begun fantasizing that Chelsea might slip up, give them one chance.
But reality was merciless.
Chelsea held their defensive line with unshakable discipline.
Again and again, they repelled every wave of Atlético's assault.
Li Ang, panting heavily, slowed his pace briefly to catch his breath.
But his teammates immediately ramped up their pressure and running to give him cover.
It brought tears to the eyes of many Chelsea fans.
In this grand final, this new generation of Blues had shown every bit the grit of their predecessors.
This was the inheritance of spirit.
Mourinho was pacing the sidelines, just as he had in his early Chelsea days.
He called out to his players, praising every interception, every clearance.
His body language was fiery, inspiring.
He wasn't just managing.
He was fighting—side by side with his men.
Wembley trembled under the roar of the Chelsea faithful.
Their chants, desperate and relentless, became the players' fuel.
Li Ang finally caught his breath, but he could feel the heaviness in his legs.
Still, that didn't shake his resolve.
He had already won enough titles to be envied by most players.
But his hunger remained.
He still wanted more.
More glory. More triumphs.
He trained hard every day. Honed every aspect of his game.
He wanted to win every big match.
He lived for victory.
He lived to climb back up after defeat and taste the sweetness of redemption.
So once more, he ran.
No fear. No regrets.
"Li Ang's still going! He's still covering ground for his teammates!
Arda Turan fails to get past him—forced to pass back. Tiago..."
He Wei's voice cracked with emotion.
He was worried—worried that Li Ang might collapse from exhaustion.
But when he saw Li Ang's face—calm, focused, unshaken—he felt an overwhelming pride swell in his chest.
On the field, Tiago received Turan's back pass.
He looked to play a short pass to Koke nearby.
But the moment he saw Li Ang press forward, he hesitated and switched sides—sending the ball to Filipe Luís.
But just as the ball left his foot, Azpilicueta sprang forward.
He had been holding deep all game. But this time—his moment had come.
His anticipation was perfect. He intercepted the pass with flawless timing.
Filipe Luís had no chance to react.
Azpilicueta's shining moment had arrived.
He'd spent the whole match playing conservatively.
Now, in a flash, he struck hard.
Atlético's aggressive 3-4-3 formation had left their midfield exposed.
Azpilicueta broke through their line in an instant.
Li Ang and the wingers reacted just as fast.
Compared to Hazard and De Bruyne, Li Ang—running from the center—had a clearer view.
His stamina was mostly gone.
His run wasn't as explosive as before.
But his reading of the game? Still razor-sharp.
He didn't call for the ball.
He didn't race into the first wave of Atlético's defense.
Instead, he slowed just enough to not be tracked.
So when Azpilicueta pulled the ball back with a sharp cutback pass—Li Ang was wide open.
No one was on him.
He had already scanned the field.
Without a touch, Li Ang met the ball and slipped it through to the left channel—a perfectly timed through ball into the gut of Atlético's defense!
The defense split open.
The timing. The weight. Perfect.
Hazard, cutting in from the flank, now had a half-breakaway!
He surged into the left side of Atlético's box.
Courtois didn't rush out; Godín was already closing in on Hazard, who had no space left to cut inside and aim for the far post.
But in the very next moment, Hazard drew a deep breath, swung his left leg with force, and drilled the ball straight through Courtois's legs!
It was a shot full of boldness and confidence.
He knew his national team keeper well—and over the past six days, he and Li Ang had practiced this exact scenario countless times: slipping the ball low through the legs in tight angles.
There's no such thing as magic. Most "brilliant moments" are simply the result of hard, targeted repetition.
Courtois dropped low again in a desperate effort to block—but he was simply too tall.
In this case, his long legs, usually a strength, became his fatal weakness.
The ball zipped between his legs and rolled into the back of the net again.
Wembley erupted.
Chelsea's thunderous cheers once again swallowed the stadium in sound.
Atlético fans clutched their heads in despair, disbelief painted across their faces.
Hazard took a moment to confirm that the ball had indeed crossed the line and hit the net before turning, face flushed with emotion, and sprinting back toward Li Ang.
"I DID IT! I DID IT!!"
Fueled by adrenaline, he leapt into Li Ang's arms, shaking his shoulders and shouting wildly.
Li Ang couldn't hear a word. When Hazard finally slid off him, he wrapped his arms around the Belgian and squeezed him tight.
Then came the flood—Kroos, Ibrahimović, De Bruyne, Bertrand, Matić…
In a blur, Li Ang swore he saw the red-rimmed eyes of old captain Terry—was that a tear?
But a moment later, all he saw was the wide, beaming smile of Chelsea's spiritual anchor.
Surrounded by celebrating teammates, Li Ang couldn't see what was happening on the sidelines, but he didn't need to.
He knew—Lampard and Drogba were just as ecstatic.
And indeed, Chelsea's bench had completely exploded.
Every substitute charged toward the corner flag, joining the mob of players.
Behind them, Mourinho had fallen to his knees, hands over his face, head buried in the grass.
Assistant coach Holland did the same—but his emotion hit harder, more openly.
The proud Chelsea assistant sat weeping on the bench like a child.
But no one laughed.
Everyone watching could only be moved by Holland's sincerity, his deep love for this team, and everything he had poured into it.
Across the pitch, Atlético's players were cracking.
Simeone stood on the touchline, one hand on his forehead, eyes filled with bitterness.
The clock ticked past the 77th minute.
Saúl and Raúl Jiménez had already warmed up, standing on the touchline.
But there was no look of fierce determination in their eyes—only anxiety, weight, and a bit of confusion.
As the fourth official called time, Chelsea's substitutes slowly returned to the bench, still laughing and cheering.
The players on the pitch waved to the stands, rallying the fans to raise their voices again before jogging back to position.
Atlético made the first move. Jiménez and Saúl came on, replacing Tiago and Koke.
Seeing the desperation in Atlético's shift, Mourinho immediately sent in his response—Lampard and Drogba prepared to enter.
Less than two minutes later, after winning possession, Li Ang booted the ball straight out of bounds to trigger the substitution window.
Lampard and Drogba came on; Ibrahimović and goal scorer Hazard exited.
The entire stadium thundered with applause for both players.
Watching at home, loyal Chelsea fans around the world felt tears sting their eyes.
Čech, Terry, Lampard, Drogba.
That spine didn't just represent Chelsea's iron-blooded peak—it represented their youth, their memories.
The pain of that summer night in 2012 still felt fresh in their minds.
But now, watching these old warriors step onto the pitch together again, fans suddenly realized:
It's been three years.
Three years since that heartbreak.
And now, that pain would be replaced with a fairy-tale ending.
It all felt like a dream.
Surreal.
But every Chelsea player defending that two-goal lead was reminding them:
This is real.
The butterfly had crossed the ocean.
The old boys of Chelsea had finally reached their perfect ending.
In the 87th minute, Mourinho used his final substitution.
He brought on Fernando Torres in place of De Bruyne—giving the Spanish striker a final moment of glory in the Champions League Final.
No one booed.
Even Atlético's fans, whose dreams were slipping away, couldn't bring themselves to jeer.
Because while they might lose the final, the man they loved—El Niño—would finally receive the one trophy that had eluded him.
Their emotions were tangled.
Heartbroken. But proud.
And thankfully, the referee didn't make them suffer too long.
When the three minutes of stoppage time ran out, he raised his whistle to his lips—and blew.
It was over.
Several Atlético players collapsed to the ground in tears.
Two consecutive Champions League final appearances—two heartbreaks.
It was too much.
On the other side of the pitch, many Chelsea players were crying too.
But their tears held no sadness.
Only joy. Fulfillment. Closure.
Li Ang sprawled on the grass, arms wide, eyes to the sky.
"Summer's here…" he murmured, grinning at the London stars above.
And with that smile, one thing became clear—
Chelsea's fairy-tale summer had arrived.
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