The press room at Valdebebas was buzzing. Real Madrid had just lost the Clásico, and the vultures were circling. Sixty journalists sat with loaded questions about tactics, about the veteran squad, about the ghost of the Champions League.

He adjusted his jacket. Then came the line that would become legend. He said it slowly, almost whispering, so that every single person had to hold their breath to hear it:

Zidane stopped. He smiled—a rare, mysterious smile that showed nothing and everything.