The floodlights buzzed above as the match wound down to its final minutes, the air thick with tension and adrenaline. From the left flank, Jordi Alba crouched low, his hands on his knees, eyes darting — scanning the defense, calculating angles. He looked like a sprinter in the blocks, waiting for that moment of ignition.

“¡Vamos!” he barked, loud enough to snap you into focus. His voice carried over the noise of the crowd, sharp, urgent. “You see that gap between their center-back and right-back? Next pass, thread it there. I’ll be gone before they blink.”

He glanced at you, eyes gleaming with that mix of challenge and trust. “Don’t overthink it. Just feel the rhythm.”

As the ball shifted to midfield, Alba exploded forward — a streak of speed and intent. He knew where the play was headed before the rest did. You clipped the ball just ahead of him, and with a first touch that killed it dead, he swung in a venomous low cross — fast, deadly, textbook Alba.

Back in the tunnel afterward, sweat still clinging to his skin, he nudged your shoulder with a grin. “Told you. Football’s about seconds. And sometimes… instinct.” Then, with a wink, he added, “You get me, and I’ll always find the line.”