Chapter 862: The Save
The ball rocketed upward, carving a beautiful arc as it screamed toward Manchester United's goal, and João Cancelo hadn't even reacted yet.
David de Gea launched himself, fingertips grazing the ball, but it wasn't enough to halt its flight.
In that instant, De Gea teetered on the brink of despair.
If this went in, Paris Saint-Germain would have an away goal, and United would need two more to level the tie—almost impossible.
Then came a sharp crack.
To desperate United ears, it was heavenly music.
Neymar and the PSG players had already begun to celebrate when that sound slammed into their chests like a hammer.
The smile that had just flickered across Neymar's face froze as he watched the ball cannon off the crossbar, pop into the air, and get hoofed clear by Harry Maguire; he shook his head with a wry grin.
Mauricio Pochettino had risen to celebrate—only to be dropped back into his seat by that cruel echo.
The deflated PSG manager glanced at his assistant, who could only give a helpless, bitter smile. Another one off the woodwork. What a cursed night.
...
Mourinho pressed a hand to his chest—his heart had leapt; for a moment he thought it was over.
"Seems luck truly favors us tonight," he said with a rattled smile.
He'd been frightened senseless.
He also had to admit Neymar's individual technique was phenomenal—arguably even beyond Bruno and Cristiano Ronaldo.
To Mourinho, Bruno and Ronaldo, for all their top-tier talent, were less the effortless genius type and more the relentless, self-forging elite.
Not that their gifts were lacking—far from it. Their most exceptional endowments were physical: near-immunity to injury and seemingly boundless stamina, letting them play incessantly and remain sharp.
Their mental steel was equally imposing—unyielding in any circumstance, driving the team forward even on the brink.
The counterexample was Martial, just subbed off.
Mourinho had always admired Martial's raw talent, but what made him sanction the 2016 summer transfer to PSG was Martial's shaky temperament.
Martial, to Mourinho's mind, was acutely emotional: on a good day, he played like a god; in a foul mood, he became unreliable.
Professional football is ruthless and uncontrollable; it demands a giant heart. Martial struggled there.
...
"The fourth!" Andy Gray exclaimed. "With Martial off, Neymar hits the frame too—United's posts and bar are their twelfth man tonight! Four PSG efforts denied by woodwork across the halves—unbelievable!"
Gray shook his head, unsure whether to call PSG cursed or United blessed.
"Neymar showed us his impish brilliance—only for the frame to deny him as well."
...
With Neymar on, PSG's attack found its rhythm again.
In the 81st minute, he step-overed past Cancelo, slipped a pass into the box, and Mauro Icardi's header skimmed just over.
United survived again.
They hadn't conceded, but PSG's string of dangerous chances buoyed their spirits, and the waves began to pound United's goal.
Pochettino paced, agitated.
Mourinho stood stern, hands buried in his pockets.
Cancelo hounded Neymar tight; the Brazilian teased the ball from left to back with his left foot, just casually slipping past the dangling leg.
Still, he couldn't break free—Cancelo clung to him, left hand gripping the shirt; Neymar swatted it away, Cancelo's right came up, and together they tumbled.
Felix Brych whistled, warning Cancelo verbally—PSG were incensed; they wanted a booking.
Pochettino raged; the fourth official had to calm him with a warning of his own.
"Please, keep your composure, Mr. Pochettino. Trust the decision."
...
PSG free kick.
Neymar curled it into the area; Icardi tried to muscle past Virgil van Dijk, but the savvy Dutchman set early position and braced—one nudge, and Icardi's balance failed. No leap.
De Gea punched, but not clear of danger.
Idrissa Gueye nodded it down to Neymar, who shaped to take and shoot—only for a red shirt to crash through him: Bruno. The captain's body check staggered Neymar.
Kylian Mbappé stabbed the loose ball away to spring the break—Brych's whistle cut it off. Foul on Bruno; PSG to get another free kick.
Mourinho erupted in protest; the fourth official left Pochettino to restrain United's manager this time.
"Foul by Bruno! PSG have a direct free kick about… twenty-six meters—this could be the moment!"
Neymar's strike dipped over the wall and shaved the outside of the post, drawing another collective gasp from United.
The board went up: two minutes added.
Mourinho fumed—too little.
"Right, like in Fergie time—just keep adding until you lot score," Pochettino needled, long past patience.
...
Still 2–0 on the night, 3–4 on aggregate. United needed just one to go through.
They stopped caring about defense—everyone forward.
For United, 2–0 and 2–1 meant the same: elimination. There was nothing to do but gamble.
What if the goal came?
In the first minute of stoppage time, United's all-in finally bared their back line.
They won a free kick high. Even Van Dijk and Maguire joined—eight United shirts flooding PSG's box.
"This could be United's last chance."
Too far to shoot, Bruno lofted in; Kane's header fell tamely to Navas, who clutched—and PSG sprang.
"PSG counter! Four on two! It's on!" Andy Gray cried.
Only Bruno—fresh from the kick—and N'Golo Kanté were back.
Draxler tore forward; Kanté met him.
Before the engage, Draxler slid it; Icardi held off Bruno and nudged on to Neymar.
"Through on goal!"
Neymar raced in, straight at the box.
Mourinho blanched, a rush of emptiness roaring in—had he done everything only to fall short?
...
De Gea charged out.
Neymar shaped square to Marco Verratti, baiting De Gea to ground—then pulled it back, and with the goal gaping, rolled it home.
"An open net—Neymar! He's scored!"
"It's over! All over!" the PSG commentator exhaled in relief.
Neymar wheeled away, arms wide—ready to celebrate.
Teammates sprinted to join him.
This goal would end it.
Then the PSG commentator's eyes bulged—because a red blur was hurtling back; as Neymar stroked the ball, the blur launched, scything across the line.
"My word—Bruno!" Martin Tyler shouted.
United's captain, No. 8, slid full-length and hooked the ball off the line with his toe—millimeters before it crossed.
It skittered along the six-yard line, bouncing twice, then settled dead on the chalk.
(END CHAPTER)
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