Two minutes.
Just two minutes.
The weight of nations, the prayers of millions, the agony of uncertainty—all squeezed into the final moments of normal time.
Spain had equalized.
Spain had refused to die.
But England?
England had their own history to make.
Fweeeeeee'
"And we're off again. It's still tense here at the Olympiastadion in Berlin. The crowd here is exceptional, both nations fighting for European glory."
The ball zipped through the English midfield. Jude Bellingham drove forward, his lungs burning, his mind raging.
Harry Kane, stood in-between the Spanish lines, the Wembley-born king, chasing a movement of Glory.
"He's carried England before. Can he do it one last time?" Alan Smith's voice came through the speakers.
Bellingham, still with the ball, feinted—past Rodri.
Then a drop of the shoulder to send him away from the outstretched leg of Fabián Ruiz who had just replaced Pedri and he was off.
He lifted his head and saw Kane peeling wide.
