The roar of the Juventus Stadium rose again, a wall of sound echoing from the steep stands as the players emerged from the tunnel for the second half. Juventus held a 3–1 aggregate lead after Morata's penalty rebound just before the break, a gut-punch that had dulled the shine of Salah's earlier opener. City's task was clear now: two goals without reply. But there was no panic in their eyes—only resolve.
As the referee lifted the whistle to his lips, Kane stepped forward, nodded at Adriano beside him, and tapped the ball sideways. The second half was underway.
From the opening seconds, it was obvious Pellegrini's halftime instructions had landed. "Forget the score. Win each moment," he had said—and City took that to heart. Their tempo was sharper, their movements crisper. Silva, De Bruyne, and Adriano began circulating the ball in tight triangles through the center, drawing Vidal and Pogba into uncomfortable spaces. Kane operated as a pivot, occupying Bonucci and Cáceres with subtle checks and decoy runs, while Salah and Hazard hugged the touchlines to stretch Juventus' compact defensive block.
In the 47th minute, City nearly carved out an opening. A sharp one-two between Silva and Adriano split Juventus just inside their half. Adriano turned, drove forward, and slipped in Kane on the edge of the box. Kane opened his body and curled for the far post—but Bonucci recovered with a last-second deflection that sent the ball skimming just wide.
Martin Tyler:"Close! That's encouraging for City—intelligent movement from Kane, and Adriano continues to dictate the tempo."
Alan Smith:"They've come out with real intent. But as we saw in the first half, Juventus will punish any lapse if City overcommit."
The ensuing corner, taken short by De Bruyne, led to a Hazard cross that found Hummels rising highest—but his header flew over the bar. Hazard slapped the ground in frustration. "Next one," Adriano called, jogging past. "We're getting there."
Juventus, meanwhile, had begun to show nerves. Their backline retreated a few yards deeper, allowing Pirlo less space to orchestrate. By the 50th minute, City had seized full control of possession. Pirlo now operated just ahead of Bonucci, often turning with two sky-blue shirts converging. Vidal and Pogba were forced into more reactive roles, chasing shadows as City zipped the ball across the pitch.
In the 53rd minute, City constructed another dangerous move. Hazard cut in from the left and laid the ball off to Robertson on the overlap. The Scottish full-back didn't hesitate, whipping a low ball toward the near post where Kane darted in front of Cáceres. Buffon, reading the play brilliantly, flung himself low and caught the ball on the slide.
Alan Smith:"That's brilliant goalkeeping. He doesn't just stop the cross—he kills the move entirely."
Martin Tyler:"Gianluigi Buffon—ever the calm presence. He's the anchor that steadies this Juventus ship, even when the waves are crashing."
City didn't relent. Adriano could be heard constantly directing traffic—"Kevin, drop in! David, wait a second longer before you spin it!" He checked into midfield to receive a pass from De Bruyne in the 55th minute, let it roll across his body, then threaded a no-look through-ball into the right channel for Salah.
Salah surged forward, beating Chiellini for pace and cutting inside. But his shot, hit with his weaker right foot, flew well over the bar. He put his hands on his knees, exhaling sharply.
"Left foot next time, Mo," Adriano said, patting him on the back as they jogged back.
At the other end, Juventus reminded City that danger still lingered. In the 56th minute, Pogba intercepted a pass and drove forward on the break. He released Rômulo down the right flank. The Brazilian swung in a dangerous cross, and Morata again rose high over Mangala—this time nodding the ball just wide of the far post.
Martin Tyler:"He's been a handful all night, Morata. You can't give him space like that—even half a yard and he makes you pay."
Alan Smith:"City living dangerously there. Mangala's got to do better—he's been second best aerially."
The scare shook City momentarily. Pellegrini stepped forward on the touchline, motioning his players back into shape. "Calm! Calm down!" he shouted.
Moments later, a loose challenge from Vidal brought down Silva just outside the box on the left. City's bench jumped, calling for a booking, but the referee merely issued a warning.
Adriano and De Bruyne stood over the ball. Buffon was adjusting the wall, barking instructions.
"Wait for my signal," Adriano told De Bruyne quietly.
The whistle blew. Adriano faked the run-up. De Bruyne curled it toward the far post—just over Hummels' head—but Chiellini met it first with a solid clearance.
The pressure was growing. So were the gaps.
In the 58th minute, a quick switch from Silva found Hazard isolated against Cáceres. The Belgian pushed the ball past him and drew a foul near the edge of the box. Cáceres protested, arms wide. The referee gave a stern finger wag and pointed again to the free kick spot.
Martin Tyler:"You feel the tension. Juventus are dropping deeper, fouling more—they're hanging on."
Alan Smith:"Yes, and City sense it. If they score soon, this tie flips on its head."
De Bruyne picked up the ball this time, looked to Adriano.
"Let me take it," Kevin said.
Adriano gave a brief nod and stepped back.
De Bruyne whipped it with pace over the wall toward the near top corner—but Buffon flew to his left and tipped it away with one hand, drawing gasps from the crowd.
Martin Tyler:"Buffon again! That is world-class. Vintage!"
Alan Smith:"He's keeping Juventus alive on his own here."
The corner came to nothing, but the wave was building. City were getting closer. They could feel it. Every misplaced pass from Juventus drew jeers from their fans and hopeful shouts from the away section. Pellegrini clapped slowly on the sideline, nodding. The tide was turning.
And as the clock ticked toward the hour mark, there was a feeling in the air—a storm was coming.
City kept turning the screw, their rhythm now relentless as the Allianz Stadium grew anxious. Juventus had dropped into a deeper and deeper shape, retreating further toward Buffon's box with every City pass. De Bruyne, Silva, and Adriano were orchestrating every move now, stringing short passes together in tight spaces and forcing Pogba and Vidal into late, desperate challenges. It was no longer a contest of control—it was a siege.
In the 59th minute, De Bruyne took a clever touch past Pirlo and surged down the right. His low cross evaded both Kane and Chiellini in the six-yard box, trickling just behind Salah, who threw his arms up in frustration. "It was right there!" he barked, glancing back at Kane. "Call it earlier!"
Kane held up a hand apologetically. "Didn't see you behind me."
Meanwhile, Pellegrini on the touchline was yelling for Robertson to push higher up the left. "Go! Go on now!"
A minute later, Salah got flagged for a marginal offside after darting in behind Bonucci from another Adriano through-ball. He turned to the linesman in disbelief, arms spread wide.
Martin Tyler:"He timed that run so well—or so we thought. That's tight."
Alan Smith:"It's coming though, Martin. You can feel the tension. Juventus are wobbling."
Then came the breakthrough.
Just before the 61st minute, Hazard dropped deep to collect a simple pass from Robertson. He turned and saw Lichtsteiner backing off—too cautious, too slow. With one explosive touch, Hazard was off, ghosting past the right-back with a blur of acceleration. He cut inside onto his right foot, attracting Pogba and Cáceres like moths to a flame.
"Back post, back post!" Kane shouted from the penalty spot.
But Hazard didn't float it. He slipped a sharp square pass along the top of the box to Adriano, just as he found a pocket of space between Bonucci and Pirlo.
Adriano didn't hesitate.
"Leave it!" he called out to De Bruyne, who'd hovered nearby.
He shifted his weight, angled his body, and struck the ball first time with his right foot. The contact was perfect—clean, thunderous. The ball screamed through the air, swerving wickedly as Bonucci tried to lunge across its path. Buffon saw it late, rooted for a heartbeat as it flew past his outstretched hand and buried itself into the top left corner.
Martin Tyler:"Oh, my word! ADRIANO! That is devastating! A hammer-blow from the 19 year old Superstar!"
Alan Smith:"You don't save those. You just hope they hit someone on the way through."
The net bulged violently. The away section behind the goal exploded into celebration. Fans roared, scarves twirling, limbs everywhere.
Adriano didn't celebrate—he sprinted straight into the net, scooped up the ball, and turned back toward the center circle, shouting over the chaos:"Two more! Let's go!"His voice cut through the noise like a command.
Silva caught up and clapped him on the back, breathless. "That's it, brother! Right back at them."
Kane pumped a fist toward the traveling fans and turned to Hazard. "Perfect ball, mate."
Hazard gave a tired smile. "They gave me space. I took it."
Pellegrini allowed himself a single clap on the touchline before motioning his players to stay calm, palms down. "Stay switched on! Focus!"
Martin Tyler:"The body language from Manchester City is striking. They're not celebrating—they're believing."
Alan Smith:"And that changes everything. It's 3–2 on aggregate now. One more goal and they knock Juventus out in their own backyard."
Juventus looked rattled. Bonucci turned to Cáceres and gestured in frustration. Pirlo, sweat dripping from his beard, walked slowly back to the center circle, glancing at Allegri on the touchline. The Juventus manager was already barking new instructions and signaling for substitutes to start warming up.
The pressure wasn't just physical anymore—it was mental.
City weren't finished. Not yet.
***
Juventus, once famed for their composure under pressure, were now visibly sinking deeper into survival mode. Pirlo no longer ventured forward. The bearded maestro was pinned just ahead of Bonucci and Cáceres, guarding the spaces with Vidal as both acted as a human shield in front of the back line. Pogba, usually a dynamic force in transition, looked shackled—glancing over his shoulder more often than daring to look ahead.
City smelled blood.
Kimmich and Robertson surged higher, no longer just fullbacks but overlapping threats pinning the Juventus wingbacks. The back four held firm, with Hummels gesturing constantly, barking instructions in short bursts—"Step up!"—"Left shoulder!"—"No gaps!"—marshalling a high line even as the clock ticked with the weight of knockout football.
Pellegrini saw the shape of the game shifting and made his move.
Casemiro peeled off his training bib and trotted over to the fourth official, nodding firmly. De Bruyne, who had run himself into the turf, jogged off to applause from the away end. He gave a thumbs-up to Pellegrini and clapped back at the fans before sitting with an ice pack on his hamstring.
Alan Smith (commentary):"That's a smart change from Pellegrini. Casemiro gives you control, that midfield shield. It allows Silva to get more advanced, and Adriano to work closer to Kane. It's more vertical now, more threatening."
Casemiro didn't waste time making an impact.
Just three minutes after coming on, he snapped into a challenge on Pogba just inside the centre circle. Clean tackle. All ball. The Brazilian rose before Pogba could protest, calmly laying it off sideways to Silva. Silva took one glance and slipped a short pass out left toward Hazard.
Hazard was already in motion. He took off like a greyhound, his first touch spinning past Lichtsteiner, who lunged desperately and clipped Hazard's boot—but not enough to stop him.
Martin Tyler:"That's electric from Hazard! Lichtsteiner had to take the foul there, but Hazard just kept flying."
Alan Smith:"You can't stop that once he's at full tilt. Impossible to defend."
Hazard angled in toward the top of the box at full pace. Cáceres was caught between stepping out and tracking Adriano. That hesitation cost him. Hazard, head up, saw the run. With a deft chip off the outside of his right boot, he lifted the ball just over Cáceres' shoulder and into the corridor between defenders.
Adriano was already in the air.
He timed his leap perfectly—muscling in between Bonucci and Cáceres, rising like gravity had forgotten it exists, twisting in mid-air. Buffon came charging out, arm extended—but Adriano got there first. His forehead crashed into the ball with full force, directing it toward the far top corner.
Buffon reacted—he got fingertips to it.
But the strike was too fierce, too precise. The ball bulged the netting with a satisfying thump.
Goal Announcer: Goooaalllll ! Adriano put's City ahead once more with a thumping Header! 3-1 for for Manchester City!
Martin Tyler:"ADRIANO AGAIN! It's THREE for Manchester City! They've turned this tie on its head!"
Alan Smith:"What a header! That's sheer willpower. Adriano is a monster in moments like these."
Adriano didn't even wait to see it go in. He was already wheeling away toward the touchline, the moment too big to contain. He sprinted toward the away end, spinning mid-run, and pointed both thumbs at the golden crown printed above his name.
The City fans erupted.
Away end chant, thunderous and united:"THE KING IS HERE! THE KING IS HERE!"
Hazard caught up first and hugged him from behind. "Bro! Bro! That cross was madness!"
Adriano laughed, breathless, patting Hazard's head. "All you, man. I just had to finish it."
Silva joined them, clapping them both on the back. "We're ahead now. Let's kill it off."
Kane jogged up, arms raised. "This ain't over. Focus. Next one's the dagger."
Pellegrini, on the sideline, broke his usual composure. He turned to his assistants and embraced them with a wide grin, then looked up at the scoreboard.
Martin Tyler:"3–3 on aggregate—but with three away goals, Manchester City are suddenly in control of this tie."
In the VIP box, Kate jumped to her feet, scarf in hand, clapping furiously. Her eyes lit up with pride as Adriano looked up toward the box and gave a subtle nod.
On the Juventus bench, Allegri exploded into motion, pointing and shouting in Italian, instructing his midfielders to push up. No more sitting deep. Now they needed to chase.
Back on the pitch, the intensity only rose.
In the very next sequence, Pogba tried to charge through midfield but was body-checked by Casemiro. The referee let it go. Pirlo and Vidal began pushing slightly higher, but City now smelled vulnerability. Hazard drew another foul on the left touchline after slicing inside once more—Lichtsteiner clattered into him late this time.
Alan Smith:"Hazard's got him on toast now. Lichtsteiner's in trouble if he keeps this up."
From the resulting free kick, Silva whipped in a teasing delivery. Hummels got above Chiellini but headed over by inches.
"Nearly!" Hummels shouted as he jogged back. "Keep putting it there!"
Juventus tried to respond, finally mustering a quick break in the 68th minute—Morata was played in down the left, looked just onside—but the flag went up.
Martin Tyler:"Close call, but the assistant got it right. Juventus still struggling to threaten."
City regrouped, and the message was clear: don't stop. The momentum was theirs. They'd clawed their way back from 3–1 down on aggregate, and now, with just under 30 minutes left, they had the lead and the belief.
The tide had finally turned.
In the 77th minute, Salah nearly replied. Robertson surged down the left and whipped a cross into the box. It took a slight deflection off Cáceres and landed at Salah's feet. The Egyptian took one touch inside and rifled a low shot toward the bottom corner. Buffon reacted like a man half his age—diving low, he extended his right hand and clawed it away with his fingertips.
Alan Smith gasped. "Brilliant save! That's a decade of experience in one movement."
City weren't finished. A minute later, Casemiro let fly from 25 yards, the ball skimming just wide of the right post. Buffon didn't move—he only watched it and exhaled.
Martin Tyler added, "You can sense the tension now. City aren't going quietly. And Juventus… they're clinging on."
In the 82nd, Silva threaded a brilliant ball through to Kane, who had just peeled off Bonucci's shoulder. Kane was through—one-on-one—but the flag went up. Offside. Replays showed it was the right call, but only by inches.
Kane grimaced. "Come on," he growled, frustrated, as he turned back toward midfield.
Bonucci offered him a nod. "Close," he said, out of respect more than gamesmanship.
Juventus had dropped everyone behind the ball now. Morata stood alone up front, pressing half-heartedly. Pirlo barely moved from his position just ahead of the centre-backs, dictating nothing now—just guarding space.
City pushed. The wave became relentless.
In the 84th minute, City lost the ball high up the pitch after a rare miscommunication between Casemiro and Silva. Adriano had drifted left, looking to receive, but Silva's pass went central, straight to Pogba, who immediately sensed an opening. With City's fullbacks pushed up and Juventus momentarily unshackled from their defensive shape, Pogba drove forward and laid it off to Pirlo.
Alan Smith noted the shift instantly. "This is the most forward I've seen Pirlo all night. You know something's brewing."
And it was. Pirlo carried it with surprising urgency into City's half. He checked his shoulder, spotted Pereyra peeling off Hummels wide left, and slipped the perfect pass into his stride. Pereyra let the ball run across his body, used a subtle body feint to freeze Hummels, then turned him inside out.
Martin Tyler's voice began to rise. "Pereyra's got space now—this could be dangerous!"
From near the byline, Pereyra whipped in a wicked, curling cross. Joe Hart made the decision to come, shouting "KEEPER!"—but he was a second late.
Romulo, crashing the near post, beat Kimmich to it and rose well, nodding the ball across the face of goal. The delivery hung in the air for a heartbeat.
And there, waiting, poised and unmarked at the edge of the six-yard box, was Morata.
He didn't hesitate.
A right-footed hammer, clean and brutal. Hart barely flinched. The net bulged before he could react.
GOAL ANNOUNCER: "MORATA AGAIN! JUVENTUS HAVE THE LEAD ON AGGREGATE! 4–3 NOW!"
The Juventus Stadium erupted into a thunderclap of noise and smoke. White and black flares lit up the south stand, and scarves twirled in celebration. Allegri punched the air, both fists clenched, his suit jacket flapping as he turned to embrace his assistant.
The away fans fell in stunned silence. Kate covered her mouth in shock, not expecting the victory turning into defeat so quickly. Al Mubarak was tense, watching the development with clenched jaw. He sighed, clearly disappointed, but he still held hope.
Morata ran straight to the corner flag, arms wide, sliding to his knees with a triumphant shout. Romulo caught him first, jumping onto his back, while Pogba and Pereyra piled on behind. Pirlo didn't join them—he stood near the halfway line, nodding once, arms crossed like a chess master pleased with a late-game gambit.
Martin Tyler let the moment breathe before cutting in with solemn drama. "Juventus have turned it again. It's 4–3 on aggregate. City's away goals advantage is gone, and they now need one more to even the tie."
But City didn't panic.
Adriano was already picking the ball out of the net, jogging back toward the center circle with purpose. "Still time," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Still time."
Silva jogged beside him, tapping his shoulder. "Let's go again. Don't look up—just go."
Kane retrieved the ball from the center spot, handed it off without a word, and cracked his neck. Pellegrini stood on the touchline with his arms crossed, no theatrics, only murmured instructions to his staff. Behind him, the bench rose again, yelling encouragement.
In the 89th minute, Hazard earned a free kick near the right touchline after being pulled down by Asamoah, who had just come on. Silva stood over it, took two steps, and curled it into the box.
Kane rose highest—his timing immaculate. The header beat Buffon but skimmed just over the bar. He held his head in his hands, then let out a roar of frustration.
Alan Smith: "He's done everything right there except the finish. Inches away. That's the margin now."
City had one last breath.
The fourth official raised the board.
+4
Four minutes of added time. Four minutes to find a goal that could define their season.
Martin Tyler's voice dropped into its iconic, measured tone: "They've come back once. They've come back twice. But do Manchester City have it in them to come back a third time?"
Adriano wiped sweat from his brow, exhaled deeply, and adjusted his armband again. He turned to Silva.
"Give me the first touch. I'll draw them in."
Silva nodded. "Then we finish it."
They jogged to position, the Allianz still trembling with noise. Every pass, every tackle, every breath mattered now.
And somewhere, in the still center of the storm, City readied themselves for one last strike.
***
The fourth official's board had just gone up—four minutes of added time—and the tension inside the Allianz Stadium was unbearable. Pellegrini, usually calm and composed, was now on the touchline screaming at his players, waving his arms like a conductor trying to summon a final crescendo from an exhausted orchestra.
"Push! Everyone forward!" he barked, his voice hoarse, sweat glistening on his brow.
The score stood at 2–3 on the night, 4–3 on aggregate. Juventus held the edge thanks to Morata's brace. Manchester City needed one more moment. One more flash of brilliance. They would go through in away goal advantage if only they could score once more.
Then, in the 93rd minute, the impossible began.
Andy Robertson, whose performances since arriving in January had been steady but unspectacular, suddenly burst to life. He intercepted a half-hearted clearance by Cáceres near the halfway line and surged forward, brushing past Pereyra with surprising ease. The Juventus midfield scrambled to recover, but Robertson showed none of the hesitation that had plagued him earlier in the season.
Martin Tyler's voice rose with anticipation:"Robertson… he's galloping forward like a man possessed! Can he pick someone out?"
He had no clear options—Salah was double-marked, Kane was tangled with Bonucci, and Hazard had drifted too wide. So Robertson lofted a hopeful but beautifully weighted lob toward the middle third.
And there stood Adriano.
The ball dropped out of the night sky, and Adriano met it with a silken first touch, cushioning it on his right thigh as Pogba rushed in. With a half-step, Adriano ghosted past him. The Juventus crowd groaned, sensing danger.
Vidal came storming in like a hammer. Adriano veered toward the right touchline, trying to outrun him, but Vidal shouldered him hard—too hard. The young striker stumbled, his boots skimming the chalk. Gasps echoed through the stadium.
Alan Smith muttered, "That looked like the end of it."
But Adriano didn't go down. Not fully. Not yet.
Using one arm to brace himself from falling out of bounds, he somehow kept the ball at his feet, then exploded forward like a sprinter off the blocks. Vidal spun around, bewildered.
"Still Adriano!" Tyler exclaimed, half in disbelief. "He's kept it alive!"
Chiellini was next. The veteran defender lunged in, but Adriano nutmegged him with casual arrogance, pushing the ball between his legs and slipping around. Bonucci stepped in front to block, steady and poised.
Adriano grinned.
"Try me," he muttered under his breath.
With a flick of his left boot, he lobbed the ball over Bonucci's head. A samba-style flick. Bonucci panicked, reaching back, grabbing Adriano's shirt—dragging him.
The referee's whistle flew to his lips, hand raised.
But Adriano didn't wait.
He powered through, pulled free from the Italian's grip, and lunged after the dropping ball. Falling, tumbling forward, he pressed one arm against the grass to stabilize himself—and then, in a moment that felt touched by the divine, swung his left leg upward in a blistering capoeira-style volley.
The ball rocketed forward with a deafening thud. Buffon saw it. But he didn't move. No one could.
The net rippled, violently.
Martin Tyler's voice cracked:
"ADRIANO… OH, MY WORD!!! THAT'S… THAT'S A GOAL FOR THE AGES!!!"
Alan Smith was laughing in disbelief:"That's not even football anymore, Martin—that's poetry in motion!"
The Allianz fell into stunned silence. Then chaos.
The announcer shouted, voice cracking with emotion:"GOOOOAAAAALLLLLLL!!! ADRIANO RIVEIRO! IT'S HIS HAT TRICK! MANCHESTER CITY LEAD 4-2! 4-4 ON AGGREGATE! BUT CITY WILL GO THROUGH ON AWAY GOAL ADVANTAGE IF THIS STAYS!"
Adriano lay on the ground for a beat, chest heaving. Then he sprang up, sprinted to the corner flag, spun, and launched a wild kick at it. The flag snapped sideways as he threw both arms out and screamed to the heavens.
"LET'S GO!"
Kate was in tears in the VIP box, her scarf held tight in her fists as she shouted:"That's my man! THAT'S MY MAN! ADRIANO!"
On the touchline, the City bench emptied. Subs, coaches, physios—everyone charged the sideline. Kompany, wearing a coat, hugged Pellegrini so hard the manager staggered. Al Mubarak, stoic in a tailored suit, leapt to his feet in the directors' box, pumping his fist and shouting:"That's how you do it! Go on, City!"
Even the Juventus faithful began to applaud—slow, respectful claps turning into a standing ovation for the 19-year-old who had just turned the impossible into reality.
On the pitch, Silva caught up to Adriano and wrapped an arm around him. "Mate… I don't know what that was… but do it again next week."
Adriano, chest still heaving, just nodded. "We're not done yet."
The away end roared in song, voice after voice rising into the night air:
🎶 "He dances through the field,Painting our dreams,Adriano Riveiro,He's our king!" 🎶
Hummels hugged Kimmich. "We just witnessed a miracle."
City were ahead now. 4–2 on the night. 4–4 on aggregate. One minute remained. But something in that moment felt final. As if the football itself had taken a bow.
The whistle hadn't even reached the referee's lips when the tension finally snapped.
Juventus, desperate and out of time, had thrown everyone forward after the restart. Pirlo clipped a hopeful ball toward Morata, but Kompany rose like a monument and thundered it away with his head. The clearance sailed past midfield—and at that precise moment, the referee raised his arm and blew.
Full-time.
The sound pierced the cool Turin night like a gunshot. The scoreboard blazed:Juventus 2 – 4 Manchester City(Aggregate 4–4, City advance on away goals)
And then, it happened.
A wall of noise erupted from the away end. Light blue shirts bounced up and down in unison, a sea of flailing limbs, scarves, and raw euphoria. Flares ignited behind the net, lighting up the section like a volcano of joy. Fans screamed, cried, hugged strangers—some collapsed to their knees, overwhelmed by the sheer emotion.
Martin Tyler's voice rang out over the scene, slightly hoarse from the madness of the last ten minutes:"Manchester City have pulled off a miracle in Turin! A comeback written into Champions League folklore—Adriano, the 19-year-old wonder, with a hat trick to break Italian hearts and lift the sky blues into the quarter-finals!"
Alan Smith added, "I've never seen a finish like that in my life, Martin. That boy… he's not just a footballer—he's a phenomenon."
On the pitch, Juventus players sank to the turf, stunned and motionless. Pirlo dropped to a crouch, head down. Bonucci sat on the grass with his legs stretched out, staring blankly into the floodlights. Buffon—his face a mask of disbelief—stood still, arms on his hips, watching the City players celebrate.
At the center circle, Adriano stood alone for a brief second, chest rising and falling like a storm had just passed through him. He tilted his head to the sky, eyes closed, and exhaled. Then he smiled—a soft, grateful smile—and slowly raised his right fist into the air.
The flood came.
City players charged him from all sides—Kane, Silva, Hummels, Casemiro, even Hart from his own box. Adriano was engulfed in a tidal wave of teammates, all shouting, laughing, clutching at his shoulders. Kimmich climbed onto his back. Hazard jumped and grabbed him in a bear hug.
"You're not human!" Kane shouted with a laugh. "What the hell was that goal?!"
Adriano, grinning, barely managed, "I dunno… just didn't want to fall."
Pellegrini, on the sideline, finally unclenched. He let out a long breath and smiled, applauding slowly. His shoulders slumped in relief as his assistants mobbed him, shaking his hands, slapping his back.
Kate, up in the VIP box, was screaming with delight. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she jumped up and down, hugging Raul, who was yelling in Spanish with both fists in the air.
"I told you! I told you he'd do it!" she shouted through tears. "He never gives up!"
Meanwhile, Khaldoon Al Mubarak stood motionless at first, taking in the scene with a broadening smile. His phone was already in hand. He tapped the screen and brought it to his ear.
The line rang once.
Then, from the other side of the world, came a voice filled with childlike wonder.
"Khaldoon! They did it! I was watching it, Adriano really didn't disappoint us! I'm still not sure if I'm dreaming!"
Al Mubarak chuckled, eyes on the jubilant players below. "Yes, Sheikh. It's real. Even I can't believe it. Our faith in Adriano… it's paid off. We're going to the quarter-finals of the Champions League."
A loud laugh answered him. "Go down and congratulate our players! Give them a bonus—1 million Euros. Personally. We must show them we believe in their dedication. And Khaldoon… tell Adriano I'll be there. If we make it to the final—I'll be there in the stands. To cheer. For him. For all of them."
Al Mubarak's smile deepened. "It will be done."
Back on the pitch, the players had now gathered in front of the away section. Arms interlocked, they swayed together as the fans serenaded them.
🎶 "He dances through the field,Painting our dreams,Adriano Riveiro,He's our king!" 🎶
Adriano raised his arms and bowed to the crowd, who responded with thunderous applause. Then he pointed toward the stands and made a heart gesture, his eyes locking with Kate's for a brief, electric moment.
Even some Juventus fans now stood clapping. Pirlo offered his shirt to Silva. Chiellini gave a nod of respect to Kompany. Buffon walked towards Adriano and exchanged a few words and shared a hug, then exchanged jerseys. There was pain in the home supporters' faces, but also admiration—for they knew they had witnessed something extraordinary.
As the players finally made their way toward the tunnel, Pellegrini patted Adriano's back and murmured in his ear, "You just saved our season."
Adriano smiled. "Not yet, boss. Quarter-finals is just the start."
And as the City players disappeared down the tunnel, the Allianz Stadium still buzzed—not just from the noise, but from the memory of a night that would live forever in Champions League history.
****
The post-match atmosphere in Turin simmered long after the final whistle had echoed through the Allianz Stadium.
Down in the bowels of the arena, the press room buzzed with restless energy. Cameras clicked, reporters murmured, and the scent of coffee and sweat filled the air as dozens of journalists prepared for a moment they knew would be replayed across highlight reels and sports pages for years.
Manuel Pellegrini entered first, flanked by a member of City's press staff. The room hushed as he approached the podium, still damp from the champagne dousing he'd received in the away dressing room.
His silver hair was slightly tousled, his suit rumpled, but his face bore the expression of a man who had just seen the footballing gods tilt fate in his favor.
"Good evening," he said calmly, then leaned into the mic. "That… was special."
Hands shot up instantly.
A reporter from Marca asked first:"Manuel, what were you thinking when you saw Adriano going through three defenders in the 93rd minute?"
Pellegrini smiled, almost sheepishly."I was thinking, 'Don't fall.' Then I was thinking, 'He fell.' Then… 'How did that go in?'"
Laughter rippled through the room.
"He's nineteen. And tonight, he played like he was born for these moments," Pellegrini continued. "I don't think I've ever seen a goal like that. Not in training. Not in a match. Maybe not in my life."
Sky Italia's correspondent asked, "Did you believe you could still win after Morata's second?"
"I did," Pellegrini nodded. "Because our players believed. That's the only thing that mattered. We kept pushing. Andy [Robertson] stepped up, Silva kept creating, and then Adriano… well, the world saw what he did."
The final question came from The Guardian."Manuel, what did you say to your players after the final whistle?"
"I said," Pellegrini paused, smiling, "'Thank you for reminding me why I love football.'"
Moments later, a soft murmur swept the room as Adriano entered. He wore a simple City training jacket zipped halfway, damp curls hanging over his forehead. His face, still glowing with adrenaline, shifted between sheepish and serene. He had just met Kate before heading out for the press conference, as evident by the Lip prints on his face, whic drew some chuckles.
The cameras flashed like lightning. Every microphone tilted toward him.
A British journalist remarked, " Looks like our hero had a bit of private celebration to keep us waiting here," making the others chuckle.
Adriano laughed, " Yeah, you can guess why. It was a very exciting match, and the win was something that needed to be celebrated."
"Adriano, take us through that last goal," asked a BT Sport reporter.
Adriano exhaled, chuckling slightly."I was just trying not to fall out of bounds, honestly. Vidal shoved me hard, and I lost balance. But something in me said, 'Keep going.' So I did."
"And the finish?" someone asked.
"I don't even remember how my leg moved. It's just… instinct. I used to do capoeira back in Lisbon. Maybe that's where it came from."
Another journalist interjected: "You've scored a hat trick in the Champions League knockout round. Breaking all records of goals with 18 goals before even quarter finals! At nineteen! Do you realise what that means?"
Adriano's eyes flicked down briefly before looking up with a shy grin."It means my phone's going to explode again."
The room laughed again.
When asked what Pellegrini said to him after the match, Adriano smiled:"He said I saved the season. I think we all did, together."
And outside that press room, the football world had already exploded.
***
Within minutes of the final whistle, the football world was no longer talking about Juventus or Manchester City. It was talking about Adriano.
On Twitter, hashtags exploded in real time:
#AR10Magic
#CityMiracleInTurin
#BuffonStillSearchingForTheBall
#Turin93rdMinute
#AdrianoHatTrick
The goal—that last goal—was posted, reposted, slowed down, rewound, meme-ified, and immortalized before most of the City players had even returned to the dressing room.
@CityTillIDie91:
I've watched that goal 37 times and I still don't understand how it's real. Adriano is HIM. 💙👑
@BlueMoonBelle:
No Aguero… no Kompany… A weakened City came to Turin. Then ADRIANO. 93rd minute. Turin. Away. Hat trick. This is my footballing religion now.
@JuveFan_Leo:
I'm heartbroken but also speechless. That was genius. Hats off to the lad. What a way to go out.
@PeleOfficial (verified):
The beautiful game is in good hands. Parabéns, Adriano. That was legendary.
@GaryLineker (verified):
That goal by Adriano… outrageous. No other word for it. Poetry on grass.
@MCFC (official):
FULL TIME: Juventus 2-4 City (4-4 agg)THROUGH ON AWAY GOALS. ADRIANO. HERO.🫡🇵🇹 #UCL #ManCity #AdrianoMagic
@OptaJoe:
19 – At 19 years and 88 days, Adriano becomes the youngest player in history to score a hat trick in a UEFA Champions League knockout game. Phenomenal. 👑
Over on YouTube, fan accounts turned the goal into cinema.
One video had the final run overlaid with Hans Zimmer's "Time", captioned:"When the world stopped for a second."
Another slowed the sequence down to 0.25x speed, each touch frozen, the run past Vidal, the flick over Bonucci analyzed frame by frame.
A third video, posted by a Portuguese channel, had the caption:"From the beaches of Lisbon to the gods of Europe – Adriano's miracle in Turin."
Within 20 minutes, a clip titled "Adriano doesn't run—he glides" featuring the track "Blinding Lights" had crossed 1.2 million views on Youtube.
Instagram lit up with screenshots, replays, and live fan reactions.
A City fan sobbing into his beer in a packed Manchester pub.
A girl in a blue jersey jumping on her sofa, screaming as the ball hit the net.
Someone posted a reel from Turin's away section as Adriano struck the final blow: the footage shaking violently as limbs and voices rose in chaos.
Even club players missing due to injury joined in:
@VincentKompany (verified):
That was brave. That was beautiful. That was City. 💙
@aguerosergiokun (verified):
Adriano, hermano… magic. ⚽🔥
Meanwhile, in Manchester, the city was buzzing like it had won the Champions League already.
Pubs across Deansgate, Oxford Road, and Ancoats erupted as fans threw drinks into the air, screamed themselves hoarse, and flooded into the streets. Taxi drivers honked as fans banged on windows, waving scarves and singing City songs at the top of their lungs. The cathedral bells were drowned out by fireworks launched near the Etihad, lighting up the night sky in blue and white.
Outside the Etihad Stadium, fans spontaneously gathered, setting off flares and unfurling banners. A group of students used blue chalk to scrawl on the pavement:"ADRIANO 93' – BELIEVE."
By 2 a.m., someone had already tagged the famous Aguero mural in the Northern Quarter. Underneath the words "93:20", a fresh spray of white paint beside it now read:"93:13 – Adriano."
The City faithful, young and old, sang into the night:
🎵 He dances through the field,
painting our dreams…
Adriano Riveiro,
he's our king… 🎵
In Turin, it was the opposite.
Silence swept through the city like a fog. Fans left the Allianz in stunned, almost funereal silence. A few threw scarves to the ground. Others stood still, replaying what they'd just seen.
Even the most ardent Juventus ultras couldn't deny what they had witnessed.
At a small bar near Via Roma, a grizzled fan in a black-and-white striped jersey muttered over his grappa,"Se fosse contro chiunque altro… ma questo ragazzo… è stato arte."(If it had been against anyone else… but this boy… it was art.)
And in the shadow of defeat, the locals could only nod.
One video from a Juventus fan page went viral late that night. It showed Buffon standing by the goalpost, still shaking his head in disbelief, muttering something to Bonucci as they walked off.
The subtitles guessed at it:"What even was that?"
And far above all the screens and statistics, one pinned comment on Reddit's football subreddit read:
"Tonight we didn't watch a football match.
We watched a legend take his first step."
***
Back in the Manchester City dressing room deep within the bowels of the Allianz Stadium, the atmosphere was electric—chaotic, euphoric, and soaked in champagne.
Music boomed through the speakers—Freed From Desire thumping like a heartbeat—as the players hollered, jumped, and danced with the raw joy of men who had just pulled off something near impossible. Towels were soaked, boots were kicked aside, and bottles—water and otherwise—were flying.
"Adriano! Adriano!" the team chanted in waves, clapping in rhythm, the name echoing off the concrete walls like a war cry.
Harry Kane, barefoot and shirtless, had clambered onto a massage table like a king on a battlefield. He waved his kit above his head and shouted,"Bow to the King of Turin!"
The squad erupted again. Someone threw a boot at him—Kolarov, probably—but missed.
Joshua Kimmich, still panting from the final sprint back after the whistle, was spinning in circles with Joe Hart, both laughing hysterically, their arms over each other's shoulders. Hart had champagne in his hair. Kimmich had grass on his socks. Neither cared.
Andy Robertson had also become a hero as everyone hugged and patted the young Defender who grinned sheepishly, not used to the praise. He was happy that he was able to contribute to the victory.
David Silva stood near the lockers, sipping from a bottle of water as if it were wine. He turned to Eden Hazard, wide-eyed and grinning."I've played against Messi. I've seen Messi... but that?" He shook his head in disbelief.
Hazard let out a low whistle and offered a toast with his water bottle."That was pure street football, man. Wild."
Amidst the chaos, Adriano sat quietly on the bench, still catching his breath, his chest heaving beneath his drenched City jersey. His hair stuck to his forehead, boots untied, left sock torn slightly at the heel. He stared at the floor for a moment, eyes unfocused—like his brain was still catching up to what his body had just done.
The noise seemed to fade slightly as Manuel Pellegrini approached. He didn't yell. He didn't smile wide. He simply placed a firm, warm hand on Adriano's shoulder and leaned close enough to speak just to him.
"Rest well, garoto," Pellegrini said quietly, using the Portuguese word for kid."We're not done yet."
Adriano looked up. His lips curled into a slow, quiet smile. His eyes weren't tired anymore. They were gleaming.
"Let's go win it all." he said, with the calm certainty of someone who already saw it in his mind.
Fernandinho popped another bottle nearby, and the cork hit the ceiling with a bang. Casemiro whooped and tackled Fernandinho in a mock wrestling match, sending both into a pile of kit bags.
Hazard recorded everything on his phone, narrating in French as he laughed.
"Voilà! Les rois de Turin!"
In one corner, Hummels, still breathing heavily, pulled Adriano up from the bench and into a bear hug.
"You mad little genius," He said, laughing in disbelief."You just made us all immortal."
The music kept blaring. The room pulsed with unfiltered joy. And Adriano, the 19-year-old who had just carved his name into Champions League history with a hat trick in Turin, stood surrounded by teammates, chants, champagne, and destiny.
Somewhere in the back, a speaker crackled and switched tracks. The whole room joined in:
🎵 He dances through the field, painting our dreams… Adriano Riveiro, he's our king… 🎵
Adriano laughed , feeling a little shy , yet proud and satisfied.
The dream was still unfolding—but for now, City's dressing room was a slice of paradise.
****
Current Stats of Adriano:
Premier League
Matches: 18
Goals: 24
Assists: 16
Current top scorer of Premier League, and top on Assists list.
*
Champions League
Matches: 8
Goals: 18
Assists: 5
Current top scorer, 2nd in Assists
*
FA Cup
Matches: 1
Goals: 2
Assists: 2