004 | fire in the pitch

The Santiago Bernabéu Stadium was electric, its stands teeming with a sea of white and a smaller, determined pocket of blue and red. The energy of El Clásico never failed to set hearts racing, and tonight was no exception. Barcelona's women's team was locked in a fierce battle against Real Madrid, every touch of the ball igniting cheers or jeers from the crowd.

Gianna Guiu stood in midfield, her chest rising and falling as she took a moment to steady her breath. The match had been brutal so far, with both teams pushing their limits. Tensions were high, tackles were harder than usual, and the referees seemed content to let the game flow, even as tempers flared.

Cienna Bernal was on the ball now, sprinting down the right flank with her usual speed and precision. Gianna moved into position instinctively, reading the play like a book. But just as Cienna approached the edge of the box, a Real Madrid defender grabbed a handful of her jersey and yanked.

Cienna stumbled backward, losing her balance and falling hard onto the turf. The whistle didn't come.

Gianna's  temper snapped.

Before the Madrid player could even process what had happened, Gianna was there. She didn't think—she just reacted. With a shove that sent the Madrid player sprawling onto the ground, Gianna stood over her, her eyes blazing with fury.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Gianna snapped, her voice cutting through the noise of the stadium.

The Madrid player scrambled to her feet, her expression a mix of shock and indignation. "What's your problem?" she shot back.

"You don't touch her like that," Gianna hissed, her body tense, ready for a fight.

Players from both teams rushed over, trying to diffuse the situation before it escalated further. Cienna was back on her feet now, stepping between Gianna and the Madrid player.

"Gianna, leave it," Cienna said, grabbing her arm. "It's not worth it."

Gianna's jaw clenched, but she took a step back, her fiery glare still locked on the Madrid player. "She's lucky the ref didn't see that," she muttered under her breath.

The referee finally arrived, issuing warnings to both Gianna and the Madrid player before restarting the game. As the teams reset, Gianna glanced at Cienna.

"You okay?" she asked, her tone softer now.

Cienna nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I'm fine. Thanks for having my back."

"Always," Gianna said firmly, jogging back into position.

A few minutes later, Barcelona earned a corner kick. Cienna placed the ball carefully on the corner flag, her focus sharp despite the chaos of the game. Gianna moved into the box, positioning herself among the cluster of defenders.

It was then that she heard it.

A male voice from the crowd, loud and venomous, cut through the noise:

"¡A la mierda el Barça, somos tuyos!"

The words made Gianna's blood boil, but she didn't turn to look. Instead, she locked her eyes on the ball as Cienna raised her arm, signaling the play.

The ball soared into the box, a perfect arc heading straight for Gianna. She leapt into the air, her timing impeccable, and met the ball with a thunderous header. It rocketed past the goalkeeper and into the back of the net.

The Barcelona fans erupted, their cheers drowning out the Madrid faithful. Gianna didn't waste a second. She sprinted to the corner flag, her adrenaline pumping.

Standing at the corner, she pointed at her chest with both hands, then pointed at the group of Madrid fans who had shouted the insult. Her message was clear: This is Barcelona. Come and try us.

The crowd roared louder, and her teammates rushed to join her, their celebration a mix of pride and defiance.

Cienna reached her first, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You're insane, you know that?"

Gianna grinned, the fire in her eyes still burning. "They started it."

Marc Guiu, watching from the stands with Hector Fort and the rest of the Barcelona men's team, couldn't stop laughing. "That's my sister," he said proudly, shaking his head.

Hector leaned forward, his eyes glued to the pitch. "She's a menace," he said, though the admiration in his voice was unmistakable.

Back on the field, the game resumed, but Gianna's goal had shifted the momentum. Barcelona pressed harder, their passes crisper, their tackles more precise. The Madrid players were rattled, their earlier aggression tempered by the newfound intensity of their opponents.

When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 2-1 in favor of Barcelona. The team celebrated on the pitch, their hard-fought victory cementing their dominance in the rivalry.

As Gianna walked off the field, she glanced up at the stands where Hector, Marc, and the others were cheering wildly. She raised a fist in triumph, her heart swelling with pride.

Tonight, Barcelona had won more than a game. They'd proven that their spirit was unbreakable, and no amount of hostility—on or off the field—could ever shake them.