Madrid in the rainy season is moody, old-world gorgeous.
Ancient Arab walls crumbling into Gothic chapels and Renaissance palaces; every corner of the city drips history and drama.
Joey walks the wet streets without an umbrella, letting the drizzle soak her hair and hoodie. She wants to feel this place in her bones.
Because if she's going to direct the official UEFA Euro promo film, she needs to drown in football passion first. Otherwise, how's she supposed to make the whole world feel it?
Madrid is the perfect place to marinate. This is the capital of football royalty: home of Real Madrid, the most decorated club on earth. Everywhere you look (scarves, murals, kids kicking balls in alleys); the city bleeds white.
She already knows exactly what the film has to be.
Back in her old life, sometime around 2014, a director named Alejandro González Iñárritu made a Nike spot that rewrote the rules. Instead of the usual slow-motion montages and inspirational voice-overs, he went brutal and simple: nothing but pure, unfiltered victory moments. The second the ball hits the net (cut to the player losing his mind, cut to the crowd exploding, cut to tears, screams, grown men hugging strangers). Over and over and over, faster, louder, until your heart feels like it's going to punch through your chest.
It was so stupidly effective that every sports brand on the planet copied it for the next decade.
Joey's plan? Take that formula, crank it to eleven, and make the entire Euro promo one relentless, three-minute adrenaline orgasm of nothing but game-winning, crowd-losing-their-shit, life-changing moments of glory.
The world isn't ready for it yet.
Perfect.
She brought the whole crew and a fat budget to Spain. Madrid is base camp, but they'll chase locations all over Europe. First, though, she needs the team to breathe the same football air she's breathing.
She ends up at the Santiago Bernabéu for the final Clásico of the season: Real Madrid vs. Barcelona.
She's late, slips into her seat just after kickoff, and the place is already a volcano. Ninety thousand people roaring, waving flags, singing like it's church and war at the same time.
Ten minutes in, someone spots her.
"Hey! That's Joey Grant!"
Within seconds half the section is chanting her name. Phones come out. She signs T-shirts, arms, someone's forehead. Spanish fans are a different species (zero chill, maximum love).
The stadium camera catches her on the jumbotron for a solid five-second close-up. The TV broadcast at home does the same. Commentators are laughing: "Looks like Real Madrid invited a Hollywood superstar tonight… and she's stealing the show."
She finally gets them to settle down ("Guys, there's a match on!") and sinks into the second half.
The energy is insane. Torres, Robben, Van Nistelrooy, Raúl, that kid Messi who's already terrifying… and Saint Iker Casillas pulling off saves that shouldn't be humanly possible.
When the final whistle blows (Madrid wins the league), the stadium detonates.
Joey slips out quietly while everyone else is still screaming.
She's barely into the concourse when a club staffer in a sharp suit catches up.
"Miss Grant? The president heard you're directing the Euros promo film. He'd love for you to join the team at the victory party tonight. The players would be thrilled to talk football with you."
She thinks about it for half a second. Free inspiration from the best in the world? Hell yes.
An hour later she walks into a private ballroom in one of Madrid's swankiest hotels. The entire Real Madrid squad has taken over the place (suits, champagne, pure post-championship chaos).
Her first thought: Sweet baby Jesus, it's a walking thirst trap convention.
Raúl González (team captain, literal Greek statue with better hair) spots her immediately, sets down his glass, and crosses the room with that million-watt smile.
"Joey," he says in perfect, slightly accented English, "you caused almost as big a scene in the stands as we did on the pitch."
He offers his hand, eyes twinkling.
"Welcome to the winning side."