The entire stadium watched.
Ninety thousand people.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Praying.
Rio remained seated on the grass while the medical staff continued their examination.
The first half was nearly finished.
The score was still 0-0.
Yet nobody seemed concerned about the result anymore.
Not the supporters.
Not the players.
Not even the coaches.
Only one question mattered.
Could he continue?
The doctors exchanged a look.
A look Rio immediately recognized.
He didn't like it.
Not one bit.
"Try standing."
Rio nodded.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself upward.
The crowd held its breath.
He got to his feet.
Applause immediately spread around Camp Nou.
Relief.
Hope.
Maybe it wasn't serious.
Maybe he could continue.
Rio took a step.
Then another.
And immediately knew.
No.
The pain shot through his leg.
Not unbearable.
But enough.
Enough to tell him exactly what he didn't want to hear.
One of the doctors noticed his expression.
That alone was enough.
The answer became obvious.
Not today.
The referee blew for halftime moments later.
The players slowly headed toward the tunnel.
Rio wasn't among them.
Instead, he walked beside the medical staff.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Every supporter watched.
The applause followed him all the way off the pitch.
Inside the tunnel, the reality became harder to ignore.
Messi walked beside him.
For once, the Argentine had nothing sarcastic to say.
No jokes.
No teasing.
Just concern.
"You okay?"
Rio nodded.
"I think so."
The answer wasn't particularly convincing.
But it was honest.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere felt strange.
Barcelona had just played an intense half of football.
Yet nobody discussed tactics immediately.
Nobody discussed Madrid.
Everyone looked toward Rio.
Waiting.
The medical team continued their assessment.
Rijkaard stood nearby.
Silent.
The players remained seated.
Finally, one of the doctors straightened up.
The room became completely quiet.
"Nothing appears broken."
The entire room exhaled.
Immediately.
The tension dropped.
Not completely.
But enough.
Then came the second sentence.
"The problem is the impact."
The doctor looked directly at Rio.
"You cannot continue."
Silence.
Rio already knew.
The moment he tried walking, he had known.
Still, hearing it out loud felt different.
More final.
The doctor continued.
"You need rest."
A pause.
"We're not risking it."
Rio looked away.
Frustrated.
Not angry at anyone.
Just frustrated.
Because this was a Clásico.
Because he wanted to be on the pitch.
Because competitors never liked being told they couldn't play.
Rijkaard stepped forward.
The coach placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You've already done your job."
Rio looked up.
The coach smiled slightly.
"Now let the others finish it."
The words helped.
A little.
Not much.
But enough.
The tactical discussion finally began.
Substitutions were arranged.
Adjustments were made.
Instructions were delivered.
Yet Rio barely heard most of it.
Not because he wasn't paying attention.
Because his thoughts kept returning to the pitch.
The match.
The rivalry.
The chance to help.
And the fact that he couldn't.
A few minutes later, the second half approached.
The players rose.
Boots tightened.
Shirts adjusted.
Final words exchanged.
Messi stopped before leaving.
The Argentine looked at him.
"We'll win."
Simple.
Confident.
Exactly what Rio expected.
He nodded.
"You better."
Messi grinned.
Then headed for the tunnel.
The rest of the team followed.
Soon the dressing room became quiet.
Much quieter than before.
Rio remained seated.
Listening as the distant roar of Camp Nou returned.
The second half had started.
Without him.
Meanwhile, in the stands, Bella finally received confirmation.
One of the club staff members informed the family.
No broken bones.
No major damage.
Just rest.
A lot of rest.
Bella nearly cried from relief.
His mother looked equally relieved.
Sofia closed her eyes briefly.
For the first time since the tackle, she felt like she could breathe normally again.
The match itself still mattered.
But not as much as that news.
Not even close.
Back in the dressing room, Rio watched the game on a monitor.
Unable to help.
Unable to play.
Forced into the role every footballer hated most.
Spectator.
And as the second half unfolded in front of him, he discovered something important.
Watching a Clásico from the sidelines was far worse than playing in one.
Watching was torture.
Rio had always known he preferred being on the pitch.
Now he understood just how much.
Every misplaced pass frustrated him.
Every missed opportunity bothered him.
Every dangerous Madrid attack made him lean forward in his seat.
And there was nothing he could do about any of it.
Nothing.
The monitor showed Barcelona controlling possession.
Exactly as expected.
Real Madrid were down to ten men after the first-half red card.
Most people expected Barcelona to eventually break through.
The supporters certainly did.
Camp Nou pushed the team forward with every attack.
Messi became the center of everything.
The Argentine demanded the ball constantly.
One defender couldn't stop him.
Two struggled.
Yet Madrid adapted.
Whenever Messi drove forward, another white shirt appeared.
Then another.
The spaces became smaller.
The match became increasingly tense.
Minute sixty.
Still 0-0.
Minute sixty-five.
Still 0-0.
The pressure continued building.
In the stands, Bella could barely sit still.
Every Barcelona attack made her jump up.
Every Madrid counterattack made her nervous.
Sofia wasn't much calmer.
Neither was Rio's mother.
The entire stadium felt restless.
Because everyone knew football could be cruel.
Especially when one team failed to take advantage of its chances.
Then, in the seventy-second minute, Madrid struck.
One mistake.
One moment.
That was all it took.
Barcelona lost possession near midfield.
Madrid immediately attacked.
Fast.
Direct.
Merciless.
The counterattack developed in seconds.
A pass down the wing.
Another toward the center.
Barcelona's defense scrambled.
The Madrid striker reached the ball first.
Shot.
Goal.
Silence.
The away supporters erupted.
The rest of Camp Nou froze.
1-0.
Real Madrid.
In the dressing room, Rio stared at the screen.
The goal felt like a punch.
Because Barcelona had controlled so much of the match.
Because football didn't care.
The scoreboard rarely rewarded who deserved it.
Only who finished.
The camera showed Messi standing near midfield.
Hands on his hips.
Thinking.
Calculating.
The Argentine wasn't giving up.
Neither was anyone else.
Barcelona attacked relentlessly after the goal.
Wave after wave.
Crosses.
Shots.
Corners.
Camp Nou came alive again.
Belief returned.
The equalizer felt close.
Very close.
In the eighty-first minute, Messi danced through two defenders and fired toward the top corner.
The goalkeeper produced an incredible save.
The stadium couldn't believe it.
Neither could Messi.
Five minutes later, Ronaldinho struck the crossbar.
The sound echoed through the arena.
Groans followed immediately.
It simply wasn't Barcelona's night.
The clock continued moving.
Eighty-eight minutes.
Eighty-nine.
Ninety.
The fourth official raised the board.
Four minutes added.
One final chance.
One final push.
Barcelona threw everyone forward.
Even defenders joined the attack.
The ball entered Madrid's penalty area again.
And again.
And again.
But the breakthrough never arrived.
The referee checked his watch.
Then blew the whistle.
Full time.
Barcelona 0.
Real Madrid 1.
The away players celebrated wildly.
Their supporters sang.
Their bench emptied onto the pitch.
For them, it was revenge.
For Barcelona, it was disappointment.
In the dressing room, Rio sat silently.
The defeat hurt.
Not because Madrid had won.
Because he hadn't been able to help.
That feeling lingered more than the result itself.
One by one, his teammates returned.
Exhausted.
Frustrated.
Quiet.
Messi entered last.
The Argentine looked furious.
Not at anyone.
At the match.
At football itself.
The kind of anger competitors carried after a defeat.
For several minutes nobody spoke.
Then Puyol finally broke the silence.
"We play them again."
Heads lifted.
The captain looked around the room.
"This isn't the end of anything."
A pause.
"It's one match."
The words settled over the group.
Because he was right.
The rivalry wasn't over.
The season wasn't over.
The cup wasn't over.
Nothing had ended tonight.
Barcelona had lost a battle.
Not the war.
As the players slowly prepared to leave, Rio looked around the dressing room.
The disappointment was real.
But so was the determination.
And as painful as the defeat felt, he knew one thing with certainty.
The next time Barcelona faced Real Madrid, he intended to be on the pitch.
Not watching from the sidelines.
The morning after the defeat felt worse.
Not because Barcelona had lost.
That still hurt.
But defeats eventually faded.
Injuries were different.
Injuries came with uncertainty.
Questions.
Waiting.
And Rio hated waiting.
The medical examinations were scheduled early.
Barcelona's doctors wanted a complete evaluation before making any decisions.
So Rio arrived at the training facility while most of the city was still waking up.
The halls were quieter than usual.
The atmosphere felt strange.
Normally he would be preparing for training.
Instead he was preparing for scans.
A much less enjoyable experience.
Several hours later, the results arrived.
Rio sat with the doctors, Rijkaard, and a member of the medical staff.
The expressions on their faces looked encouraging.
Which was a good sign.
Very good.
The lead doctor reviewed the results.
"No fracture."
Rio nodded.
He already knew that part.
"No ligament damage."
Another good sign.
A very good sign.
The doctor continued.
"Heavy bruising and soft tissue damage."
A pause.
"The tackle caused significant impact."
Rio waited.
Everyone waited.
Then came the answer.
"Approximately two weeks."
The room became quiet.
Two weeks.
Not months.
Not an entire season.
Two weeks.
Under normal circumstances, that would have been excellent news.
For a footballer?
It still felt awful.
Because two weeks meant matches.
Important matches.
Training sessions.
Opportunities.
All missed.
The doctor seemed to recognize the expression on Rio's face.
"You were fortunate."
A pause.
"That tackle could have caused much worse."
Rio knew he was right.
Several teammates visited him later that day.
Messi arrived first.
Naturally.
"Two weeks."
Rio nodded.
Messi thought about it.
"Could be worse."
"That's what everyone keeps saying."
"Because it's true."
Unfortunately, it was.
The Argentine sat down nearby.
"We'll manage."
The confidence sounded genuine.
Rio appreciated that.
Even if he didn't particularly enjoy hearing it.
Later that evening, the headlines arrived.
And none of them improved his mood.
Madrid's victory dominated the newspapers.
"REAL MADRID STRIKE BACK."
"BARCELONA FALL IN THE CUP."
"REVENGE IN CAMP NOU."
The articles discussed tactics.
The result.
The rivalry.
And almost every article included discussion of Rio's injury.
Some focused on the tackle.
Others focused on Barcelona's struggles after his departure.
One columnist even argued that the match changed entirely once he left the pitch.
Rio ignored that article.
Football never depended on one player.
Not at Barcelona.
Not with teammates like Ronaldinho, Xavi, Eto'o, and Messi.
Still, he couldn't deny something.
Watching football was frustrating.
The next week proved it.
Every morning he arrived for treatment.
Every morning he watched teammates train.
And every morning he wished he was joining them.
Recovery exercises replaced football drills.
Medical sessions replaced tactical sessions.
Ice packs replaced matches.
The routine became repetitive quickly.
Very quickly.
Bella found it amusing.
Which was deeply unfair.
One afternoon she found him watching training footage.
Again.
"You know you're injured, right?"
Rio looked at her.
"Yes."
"You've watched the same match three times."
"It wasn't the same match."
Bella sighed dramatically.
"Football has destroyed your brain."
A ridiculous accusation.
Possibly accurate.
Meanwhile, Sofia visited frequently.
Not to discuss football.
Which Rio appreciated.
Everyone else seemed obsessed with his recovery.
Sofia talked about everything else.
School.
Friends.
Random stories.
Things happening around the city.
Normal things.
Things that had nothing to do with injuries.
Those conversations helped more than he expected.
Although he would never admit that to Messi.
Or Bella.
Especially Bella.
As the first week passed, progress became visible.
The pain decreased.
Movement improved.
The medical staff looked pleased.
Which was encouraging.
For the first time since the tackle, Rio began thinking about returning.
Not immediately.
But soon.
Very soon.
And as he watched another Barcelona match from the stands rather than the pitch, one thought remained constant.
Two weeks felt like forever.
But eventually, forever ends.
The first few days were the hardest.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Because Rio wasn't used to being inactive.
His entire life revolved around football.
Training.
Matches.
Improvement.
Now he woke up every morning knowing he couldn't train with the team.
That reality frustrated him more than he liked to admit.
The Barcelona medical staff noticed immediately.
Especially Jordi, one of the senior physiotherapists who had worked with countless players over the years.
On the third day of recovery, Rio arrived before sunrise.
Jordi looked at him.
"You're early."
"Couldn't sleep."
The medic nodded.
He had heard that answer many times before.
Injured footballers rarely slept well.
Their bodies rested.
Their minds didn't.
Recovery began with simple exercises.
Balance work.
Stretching.
Controlled movement.
Nothing exciting.
Nothing close to football.
Rio hated it.
Jordi noticed.
"You're making that face again."
"What face?"
"The face that says you'd rather be doing literally anything else."
Rio didn't answer.
Which was basically an answer.
The medic laughed.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Means you still care."
A pause.
"The day you're happy about being injured is the day I start worrying."
The words stayed with Rio.
Every day followed a similar pattern.
Morning treatment.
Recovery exercises.
Strength work.
Medical evaluations.
Then more treatment.
The process felt endless.
Yet slowly, almost invisibly, improvement appeared.
The swelling reduced.
The pain faded.
The movement returned.
Small victories.
The kind nobody noticed except the injured player.
And the medical staff.
Every evening, Sofia visited.
Every single evening.
At first Rio didn't think much about it.
Then he realized she hadn't missed a day.
Not one.
Sometimes she arrived after classes.
Sometimes after meeting friends.
Sometimes carrying food from somewhere in the city.
But she always appeared.
One afternoon she found him sitting on the balcony.
Watching football videos.
Again.
She sat beside him.
"Training footage?"
Rio nodded.
"Of course."
A pause.
"You know most injured people watch movies."
"I watch football."
"Yes."
Sofia smiled.
"I've noticed."
The conversation drifted naturally after that.
Like it always did.
Sometimes they talked for ten minutes.
Sometimes for two hours.
It never seemed forced.
One evening she brought homework.
Rio spent half an hour helping her with it.
Another evening she brought a board game Bella insisted everyone play.
That ended exactly how most games involving Bella ended.
With arguments.
Mostly from Bella.
The important thing wasn't what they did.
It was that she came.
Consistently.
Without being asked.
Without expecting anything.
Just because she wanted to.
One afternoon, about a week into recovery, Rio completed a particularly difficult exercise session.
The work focused on regaining full movement.
By the end, sweat covered his shirt.
His muscles burned.
But for the first time since the injury, something felt normal.
Progress.
Real progress.
Jordi noticed too.
The medic reviewed a few measurements.
Then smiled.
"Much better."
Rio immediately looked up.
"How much?"
The question arrived so quickly that Jordi laughed.
"You're impossible."
"How much?"
"Better."
Not the answer Rio wanted.
But still.
Better.
That evening, Sofia arrived carrying a small bag.
Rio looked at it suspiciously.
"What is that?"
"Food."
"A dangerous answer."
She rolled her eyes.
"It's normal food."
Bella appeared from nowhere.
An impressive skill.
"I'll be the judge of that."
Before anyone could stop her, she stole something from the bag.
A moment later she nodded.
"Acceptable."
The evaluation seemed unnecessary.
Yet somehow everyone accepted it.
As the evening continued, the conversation moved naturally from one topic to another.
Football.
School.
Friends.
Future plans.
At one point Sofia looked toward Rio.
"You're getting impatient."
Rio blinked.
"What?"
"With recovery."
A pause.
"You want to be back already."
The observation was annoyingly accurate.
Rio sighed.
"A little."
"A little?"
She laughed.
"A lot."
That was also accurate.
For a moment she studied him.
Then smiled.
"You'll get there."
Simple words.
Nothing dramatic.
Yet somehow they helped.
Because she said them like she genuinely believed it.
And over the following days, recovery continued.
Day after day.
Session after session.
Improvement after improvement.
The road back wasn't exciting.
It wasn't glamorous.
There were no headlines about recovery exercises.
No crowds watching physiotherapy.
No cheering supporters.
Just work.
Quiet, repetitive work.
The kind that happened long before players returned to stadium lights.
And every morning Rio worked with the medical staff.
Every evening Sofia showed up.
The routine became so normal that eventually he stopped noticing it.
Which was probably the clearest sign of all.
Because sometimes the people who mattered most weren't the ones who appeared during victories.
They were the ones who kept showing up during difficult weeks.