Chapter 115: Semifinal fever
Copa del Rey... La Liga... then Copa del Rey again...
The cycle was finally complete. Having waited long since the quarterfinals, the semifinal draw of the Copa del Rey was finally here.
The Copa del Rey semifinals weren’t just fixtures, they were wars waiting to ignite as the best Spanish sides lock heads for the right of lifting the cup.
After what felt like forever of waiting, the draw finally revealed its verdict, and Spain shuddered at the pairings.
[Copa del Rey Semifinal:]
(FC Barcelona vs Atletico Madrid)
(Real Madrid vs Sevilla)
The footballing community in Spain buzzed with excitement.
Having just faced Real Madrid in the semifinal of the Supercopa de Espana last month, and eliminating them! Atletico Madrid were about to face the second giant of Spanish football in another semifinal!
If that was not hype, then nothing else was.
The question was... could Atleti do it again?
Yes, they lost to Barcelona in the final, but maybe their powers shone brightest in the semifinal. What if they actually did it?
The Spotify Camp Nou braced for a trench war, Flick’s pressing machine colliding with Diego Simeone’s wall of iron.
On the other side of Spain, it was the Santiago Bernabéu versus the Sánchez Pizjuán’s fury, Sevilla’s Andalusian fire promising no easy passage.
But there was more to it than names on a card. There was history, wounds still fresh from blows of the past and the Spanish media reopened them.
The shadow of the Supercopa loomed.
The country hadn’t forgotten; the media made sure of it. Only weeks earlier, Atlético Madrid had stunned Real in the Supercopa semifinal, an extra-time dagger that knocked Los Blancos out before they could even dream of a final.
Now, Atlético stood across Barcelona instead, while Madrid were forced to claw through Sevilla just to reach another shot at glory.
The press couldn’t resist.
"The ghost of Riyadh still haunts Madrid — Can they exorcise it in the Copa?"
"Barcelona face the team that humbled Real — Can they prove they are Spain’s true giant?"
"This semifinal isn’t just about silverware. It’s about revenge, survival, and supremacy."
The air crackled with tension.
...
In Barcelona’s camp at the Ciutat Esportiva, Hansi Flick’s voice cracked like thunder across the training ground.
"Hope you’re ready boys, because they will not give you space".
"They will not give you time. They will foul you, hack you, and suffocate you. Atlético will try to drag you into the mud".
"But we’ve faced them before. We won, and we can do it again".
Sam listened, calm but burning.
His ankle still bore the faint bruise of Villarreal’s tackle. He knew what Simeone’s men would do; they would turn him into a target, a magnet for pain.
"When they try to hack and suffocate you, use it!" Flick barked, pacing around the training ground. "They want chaos? You give them precision, you suffocate them in return".
"You show them you’re the best team in the world!"
Gavi slammed his chest, shouting. "Vamos!"
Yamal grinned, balancing the ball on his neck, fearless even at 19.
Raphinha muttered. "They can hack me all they want, I’ll still score."
Sam finally spoke, his voice low but sharp. "They stopped Madrid, but those guys are weaklings," he chuckled. "They won’t stop us."
The dressing room roared back.
...
In Madrid’s Camp at Valdebebas, Xabi Alonso’s tone was different. Unlike Hansi Flick, his approach was cool and surgical.
"Sevilla are wounded animals," he said, pointing at the tactical board. "That makes them dangerous".
"They’ll play with rage and with pride".
"If you treat them lightly, they’ll bury you."
Vinícius leaned back in his chair, smirking. "So we bury them first."
Mbappé nodded, his eyes sharp. "No repeats of the Supercopa".
Xabi Alonso turned to his captain for the night. Bellingham’s eyes were steady, the same eyes that had carried Madrid through storm after storm.
"This is our house," Bellingham said. "And no one walks out alive."
The room buzzed with electricity. Madrid weren’t talking about winning, they were talking about making a statement.
...
While the clubs prepared, the media fanned the flames.
It was a media firestorm in the buildup as Spanish talk shows became arenas of their own. Atleti legends smirked on camera, warning Barcelona that Simeone’s men thrived on occasions like this.
"Ask Madrid," one said. "They’ll tell you."
Madrid icons snapped back, reminding the world that no one, not even Sevilla, could withstand the Bernabéu in full voice.
Barcelona, meanwhile, were painted as heirs to immortality. The question was if they could exorcise Atlético’s ghost before it became theirs too.
Social media burned...
#CopaDeLosTitanes.
#BarçaAtleti.
#MadridSevilla.
#TheCupDemandsBlood.
Barcelona’s fans plastered murals across the city, murals of Sam in blaugrana, arms raised, painted like a prophet. Beneath him, they wrote.
["El Dios del Fútbol!"]
In Madrid, white scarves draped balconies, and chants echoed down the Gran Vía. "Hala Madrid!" They chanted.
In Seville, red flares turned streets into rivers of fire, ultras screaming promises of blood for Madrid.
And in Atlético’s stronghold, Diego Simeone’s face appeared on banners, beneath it with the words.
["Creemos" — We Believe.]
The whole nation braced for war.
...
That night, Sam sat quietly in his apartment. Kayla curled against him on the couch, her hand resting on her small bump.
"You look like a man about to fight a war," she teased softly.
Sam chuckled, brushing a lock of her hair away. "That’s exactly what it feels like. Atlético will come for my legs before they come for the ball."
"Then outrun them." Her smile was mischievous.
’As if it’s that easy,’ was what he wanted to say but Sam smiled and kissed her forehead. "Always," he said.
...
It didn’t take long.
In a flash, D-day was here.
Far away in Madrid, Bellingham tied the black band on his wrist even as Vinícius scrolled through insults from Valencia fans, using them as fuel.
Mbappé jogged laps under the night sky, headphones drowning the noise of the world as he prepared to lit up the stage.
Every titan had his ritual, every gladiator sharpened his blade.
A day ago, on the eve of the game, the Spanish press splashed bold headlines.
"The King’s Cup Demands Blood".
"Barcelona’s Brilliance vs Simeone’s Iron."
"Sevilla’s Rage vs Madrid’s Empire."
The tension was unbearable.
At the Spotify Camp Nou, the pitch glistened under floodlights, empty but humming with ghosts of battles past. At the Bernabéu, the stadium lights blazed against the night, awaiting its gladiators.
The cameras captured both squads arriving in silence, headphones in, eyes forward. There were no jokes, no distractions too. Just the weight of the semifinal pressing on their shoulders.
Sam laced his boots in the quiet of the Camp Nou dressing room, his fingers steady despite the storm in his chest. Across the country, Bellingham did the same.
It was a familiar spectacle for Spanish footballing fans
Once again, two giants were about to go at it in two separate battles against two separate opponents.
But the end result remained one truth... the final of the Copa del Rey.
The King’s Cup didn’t care for narratives, neither did it care for history. All it cared for was blood.
And Spain’s titans were ready to bleed.
...
[I am very very sick guys. For the past 4 to 5 days, I’ve been battling it, and I can’t write due to the severe headache accompanying it. I just finished my stockpile, and I don’t know about tomorrow. I’m just hoping it’ll relieve me so I can write.]