The stadium was trembling.
White shirts. White flags. White noise.
The English fans were already singing. They had it all. It was done for them. There was no way Spain were scoring again.
Gareth Southgate had punched the air, then turned to the bench with a clenched jaw, eyes ablaze with the hunger of unfinished business. His staff leaped onto each other.
England's substitutes sprinted down the touchline, fists pumping, voices raw from screaming.
In the heart of it all, Kane stood with his arms wide, his name echoing across Berlin.
The king, once from north London had struck.
Spain?
Spain were staring into the abyss.
They had stopped moving.
Stopped breathing.
Rodri had his hands on his knees, head down. Pedri was frozen in place, blank eyes watching the English celebration.
Laporte stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in disbelief while Luis de la Fuente had gone completely still, his lips pressed tight.
It was over.
