"Pheww—"
Mateo dragged a deep breath into his lungs and then let it spill slowly into the crook of his arms, forearms pressed together as he rolled his shoulders once, twice. The air in the tunnel felt thick, heavier than usual, as if it had weight, as if it pressed back against his chest when he inhaled. He stood still in line, boots planted on the rubber flooring, eyes fixed forward, trying to let his breathing settle into something steady, something controlled.
Ahead of them, the matchday coordinator moved like a conductor in front of an orchestra on the brink of chaos—hands waving, voice sharp, practiced, cutting cleanly through the noise. "Okay, okay—listen up!" He paced once, checked his watch, then raised two fingers high. "Two minutes, please. Two!"
The words rippled down the line like a signal flare.
Assistant coaches immediately stepped closer to the Barcelona players, voices lowered but urgent, hands gesturing as if shaping invisible diagrams in the air. "Stay compact. "First five minutes matter—set the tone. "Win your duels. "Simple passes, don't force it."
Mateo barely moved as the instructions washed around him. He nodded once, subtly, absorbing it all without turning his head. He stayed where he was, shoulders squared, hands hanging loose at his sides, jaw tight. This wasn't the moment for nerves to show.
His eyes drifted to the side.
Just across the narrow divide of the tunnel stood Manchester City.
Black on black—shirts, shorts, socks—sleek, sharp, almost severe. The 20/21 away kit clung to them like armor, dark lines broken only by faint detailing and the glint of boots shifting against the floor. Mateo's gaze lingered as he took them in one by one: Kevin De Bruyne, face calm, eyes forward; Bernardo Silva, still as stone; Mahrez, expression unreadable; Rodri—his national teammate—standing tall, hands clasped behind his back.
None of them spoke.None of them joked.They stood straight, focused, eyes locked ahead, already inside the match.
These were players Mateo had grown up watching on television, names spoken with awe, faces he'd studied in highlight reels. Yet the shock was gone now. After PSG. After Bayern. Standing side by side with giants no longer made his chest tighten the same way. The novelty had faded. What remained was something colder. Sharper.
He turned his gaze forward again.
Right in front of him stood Sergio Busquets—still, composed, the quiet spine of the team. Jordi Alba shifted slightly, bouncing once on his toes, energy humming beneath the surface. Antoine Griezmann rolled his neck, exhaled, adjusted his sleeves.
And further ahead—right at the front—Lionel Messi held the pennant, listening to the referee, nodding with that familiar calm that felt almost unreal given the magnitude of the night.
This was the line.This was the company.
These were the men he was walking out with. To shrink here, to falter now, would be a disgrace—not just to himself, but to everyone standing with him.
Then—he felt it.
A slight squeeze on his arm.
Mateo looked down.
The small hand beside his hung stiffly at the girl's side, fingers curled tight like she was holding onto something invisible. She couldn't have been more than eight or nine. Her hair was tied into two neat pigtails that rested on her shoulders, the strands barely moving even as the tunnel breathed and shifted around them. She wore the Barcelona kit a size too big, sleeves brushing past her wrists, and she stared straight ahead with wide, unblinking eyes, jaw set far too seriously for someone her age.
She looked terrified.
Mateo's expression softened without him meaning it to. Just a small change—barely there—but enough. The corner of his mouth lifted as he tilted his head slightly, looking down at her.
"Nervous?" he asked quietly.
The girl flinched at the sound of his voice. Her eyes flicked sideways toward him, then up, catching the faint smile on his face. For a split second, confusion crossed her expression. Maybe she thought he was laughing at her. Maybe she thought she was doing something wrong.
Her shoulders pulled back sharply as she straightened, chin lifting as if she'd been caught off guard but refused to show it. She shook her arms once, a quick, awkward movement, trying to look brave, trying to look unfazed.
"No," she said. The word came out a little too fast.
Mateo nodded slowly, pretending to consider it."Hm. Okay."
That did it.
Her eyes widened. She turned her head more fully toward him now, brows knitting together like she hadn't expected that response at all. Her lips parted, then closed again."W-what—" she started, then stopped, swallowed. "What about you?"
Mateo blinked.
He turned his head back toward her, genuinely surprised."Me?"
She nodded quickly, pigtails bouncing."Yes," she said, voice softer now, still catching slightly on the words. "Are… are you nervous?"
For a moment, he didn't answer.
His gaze drifted away, past her, toward the opposite line. Toward the Manchester City players standing motionless in black, faces set, bodies rigid—almost mechanical. The same cold stillness. The same presence he'd felt against Bayern. That feeling of facing something precise, ruthless, unblinking.
Then his eyes shifted forward.
The roar seeped in through the tunnel walls—distant but growing, layered with chants, whistles, screams folding into one massive sound. He felt it in his chest more than his ears now. The weight of the night. The scale of it. The semifinal. The line. The flag at the front. Everything aligning into place.
And somewhere in that noise, something settled.
He looked back down at her.
She was staring up at him now, wide brown eyes fixed on his face, waiting. No masks. No bravado. Just honest curiosity wrapped in nerves too big for a small body.
Mateo exhaled once.
"No," he said.
He paused, then repeated it, quieter, firmer, more certain."No, I'm not."
And as the words left him, he realized it was true. He really wasn't nervous
"How?"
The word came out small but earnest.
The little girl tilted her head up toward him, brows drawn together, genuinely confused. Mateo didn't answer right away. He just looked at her, really looked at her, and that only seemed to make the questions spill out faster.
"How aren't you nervous?" she continued, voice stumbling over itself. "How can you go out there—there's s-so many people—"
She swallowed, fingers twisting the front of her jersey, bunching the fabric up and smoothing it out again, then doing it all over. Her shoulders rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths as she talked, the words tumbling out less like questions now and more like a confession.
"I mean, everyone's watching and it's really loud and—and—" she shook her head slightly, pigtails swaying. "I don't know how you can just—just go."
Mateo smiled again.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't performative. Just easy.
"Because," he said.
He bent down slowly, lowering himself until they were closer to eye level, one knee bending slightly as the tunnel noise swelled around them. His voice dropped too, softer now, like the rest of the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
"Because I think about how much fun I'm going to have out there."
He paused, watching her eyes as she processed that. They were still wide, still nervous—but curious now too.
"And when I think about all the fun things I'm going to do," he continued, gentle, honest, "I don't really get nervous anymore."
Her grip on her jersey loosened just a little. Her shoulders dropped a fraction. Not calm—but calmer.
Mateo straightened slightly and asked, "What's your name?"
"Alexia," she said.
Before he could respond, a sharp voice cut through the tunnel.
"Alright, let's go! Walkout time! Everyone ready—line up, line up!"
The match coordinator was already moving, clapping his hands, ushering the front players forward. The energy shifted instantly. The tunnel tightened. The moment was slipping.
Mateo turned back to Alexia.
He ruffled her hair gently, careful not to mess up the pigtails too much, and smiled down at her.
"Well then," he said, squeezing her hand, "let's go have some fun together, Alexia."
Her face lit up.
She squeezed his hand tighter, nodded once, and said, "Yes. Let's go."
Mateo stood up and stepped forward.
The tunnel walls vibrated with anticipation, the muffled roar from Camp Nou slowly swelling into a living, breathing beast. Mateo took a deep breath, squeezing Alexia's small hand as they stepped forward together.
The first sounds hit them like a wave. Screams, chants, drums, and the unmistakable clatter of thousands of voices—mostly Barcelona fans, shouting, singing, celebrating. "Visca Barça! Visca Barça!" rose in unison, reverberating off the concrete walls and the curved ceilings of the tunnel.
Alexia's grip on Mateo's hand tightened instinctively, her tiny body stiffening. She peered over the edge of her shoulder, eyes wide, trying to take it all in. Mateo noticed immediately. Without a word, he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, just a gentle pressure that said, I've got you.
She looked up at him, unsure at first, but when Mateo's lips curled into a slow, comforting smile, she felt herself relax a fraction. And then it happened—a nervous laugh, the kind that bubbled out despite everything, breaking the tension.
Mateo, sensing her giggle, made a ridiculous little face—scrunching one eye, puffing his cheeks, and tilting his head to the side. Alexia squealed, clutching his hand and giggling harder. That simple, playful exchange—so small, so human—was enough to ground her in the middle of all the chaos.
Step by step, they moved forward, their small procession growing, the other players lining up behind them. Flags waved, scarves flapped, the noise surged and ebbed like a tide. Mateo leaned down occasionally, poking Alexia lightly in the ribs, tugging her pigtail gently. She turned her head toward him each time, eyes sparkling, laughter spilling out in between sharp intakes of air. The anthem played, but they were already caught in their own rhythm, a tiny world between them amid the roaring stadium.
When the anthems ended, the mascots began peeling off to the side. Alexia shifted nervously, then turned to Mateo, her small face suddenly serious for a heartbeat.
"Go have fun," she said, almost like she was giving him permission.
Mateo laughed, the sound echoing softly against the tunnel walls. "Always," he said, giving her a quick wink.
She let go and scampered off toward the sidelines, her small feet pattering, leaving Mateo with a grin still plastered across his face.
The line moved, the players taking their places. Messi and Kevin De Bruyne stepped forward for the coin toss. Messi's calm eyes scanned the pitch; Kevin's hands tightened briefly on the coin. Heads it landed on, Messi called for the home side—Barcelona would take the left side of the pitch, the side nearest the stands.
Mateo moved forward, exchanging handshakes with the City players. "Good luck," he said to each one. "Good luck to you too," they replied. The simple ritual of sportsmanship—handshakes, nods, small smiles—was grounding after the surge of adrenaline from the tunnel.
They jogged back to their positions. Barcelona had won the kickoff, but for the first time since he had started taking it, Mateo would not. He slid into his position on the left wing, watching as Griezmann stepped up to take the ball.
The referee came forward, whistle in hand, giving his standard pre-match instructions. Players nodded, positioned themselves carefully, eyes sharp.
And then the moment came.
The whistle blew.
...
"And we are underway here at Camp Nou!"
The whistle sounded, and immediately the ball after a series of back passes starting from Griezmann fell at Ter Stegen's feet. Camp Nou was alive, a living, roaring entity. From the commentary booth, the voices of Guy Mowbray and Clive Allen the commentators from World Feed (International) carried across the airwaves, blending into the stadium's din.
Guy said. "What a night this promises to be. Barcelona in a rare 3-4-1-2—one of the few times they've deployed this this season, and the first with Mateo King in this setup. City lining up in their familiar 4-3-3. Ter Stegen calmly in possession, pinging it across to Lenglet, easing the team into their rhythm."
Clive Allen laughed softly. "Already, you can see how different this feels. Griezmann dropping slightly, Pedri scanning for space, De Jong steady moving into the middle like he owns the tempo, Alba pushing forward, Lenglet offering outlets. City are pressing, of course—Gundogan, Rodri, Silva, Foden—not letting anything go without a fight."
Guy Mowbray's voice carried a mix of awe and tension. "The composure is impressive. Pedri orchestrating, Griezmann finding pockets of space. But City are lethal when they close the gaps—De Gundogan surveying every pass, Silva cutting off lanes, Rodri ready to pounce."
"And let's not forget the context here," Clive added, chuckling. "Pep Guardiola returning to Camp Nou, the memory of that 4-0 in 2016 still fresh. I doubt he wants a repeat tonight, and neither do his players. But Barcelona, with that thrilling quarter-final win against Bayern—Mateo King with that last-minute strike—you feel the energy, the confidence they have in themselves. Now he's up against another of Europe's most complete sides. Can he do it again?"
Guy nodded. "City, disciplined as ever, Ederson in goal, Cancelo, Dias, Stones, Walker in defense. Gundogan, Rodri, Silva controlling the midfield. Up front, De Bruyne central, Foden left, Mahrez right. They are organized, relentless."
"But for the first few minutes," Clive said, "This is all Barcelona, they are extremely patient with the ball at the back, feeling out City's press. Busquets, Pedri, De Jong, Alba—they need rhythm, they need composure. One slip, one interception, and City can strike in an instant."
Guy exhaled audibly, his voice tightening. "It's going to be a battle of skill, of nerves, of tactical intelligence. Every pass counts. Every touch could make the difference. The stage is set, Clive. This is what semi-finals are all about."
Clive smiled. "Exactly, Guy. Mateo King in this formation, for the first time at this level, against City's best—this is a moment. And the stadium can feel it, the players can feel it. Let's see how it unfolds."
...
Mateo drifted slightly to the left, just two minutes into the game, his boots brushing the lush Camp Nou grass. Despite not having touched the ball yet, he wasn't worried. His eyes scanned the pitch calmly, taking in the rhythm of Barcelona's build-up. Ter Stegen was in possession, pinging a measured pass to Lenglet, who laid it off to De Jong. The midfield—Pedri and Busquets—moved with precision, while Alba and Araujo shifted slightly ahead, forming a subtle wall of triangles against City's press.
City's players, clad in black-on-black away kits, surged into the midfield with kinetic energy. Gundogan and Rodri pressed high, Silva positioned to intercept, Foden on the left tracking every move, Mahrez creeping up the right, and De Bruyne surveying the field like a predator. Mateo knew instinctively that controlling the middle was the key, but as the ball circulated, he realized: he had to trust his teammates. He couldn't chase every pass; the coaches had a plan, and he had to believe in it.
Griezmann had dropped back, forming a temporary link between midfield and attack. Mateo noted the subtle movements—Alba on the flank, Pedri scanning for passing lanes, Busquets orchestrating, Lenglet and De Jong offering themselves as outlets. The ball already hummed forward, threading past City's pressing lines. He slid slightly wider, giving space, pulling the City players with him, shaping the next attack silently.
On the sideline, Pep Guardiola's eyes flickered like a hawk, analyzing every reckless move of his players. "Stay in your triangles! Stay in your lines!" he shouted, voice cracking over the stadium noise, each word full of fire and urgency. He gestured sharply, his body taut with expectation, already plotting the next adjustment.
Busquets received the ball, scanning the field instinctively. City's press had shifted left, leaving slivers of space, but not enough. "It's still not clear," he thought, pulse quickening. Silva lunged at him, aggressive and insistent, but Busquets feinted a backward pass before spinning forward, just enough to bypass Silva. In a fraction of seconds, he carved out a corridor, moving quickly as the game accelerated around him.
The pitch reacted like a living organism; every Barcelona player shifted, filling gaps, creating passing lanes, anticipating Busquets' intent.
"Busquets beats Silva! He's pushing forward now—can this be Barca's first serious attack of the night?" Guy Mowbray's voice crackled through the commentary, Clive Allen adding, "Look at the composure, Guy—this is high-level football in its purest form!"
Busquets ran, carrying the ball upfield. City's defensive line responded—Rodri shifted to cover, Silva tracked diagonally, Walker moved up the right flank to apply pressure. Yet none of them committed fully; each defender measured, cautious, unwilling to overcommit against Barcelona's patient passing. Busquets' eyes lifted, searching for an outlet, and he released the ball toward Mateo.
Mateo felt the leather meet his foot. Let's go, he thought. He sensed the shift immediately—City defenders who had stayed deeper now started closing. Walker approached, but Mateo didn't panic. He had anticipated the challenge. With a subtle feint, he pulled Walker toward him, planting himself wide and drawing Dias slightly out of position. Busquets, feeding the illusion, faked a return pass, locking City into movement without overcommitting.
Instantly, Busquets saw Pedri open. He released a quick, precise pass that sailed past Rodri, threading neatly between the closing Gundogan and Silva. Pedri didn't hesitate—he scooped the ball forward, moving fast, evading Gundogan's shadow and the ever-looming Foden. Without breaking stride, Pedri slid the ball to Sergio Roberto, who accelerated along the right channel. Roberto carried the ball for a few meters, eyes flicking forward, and then released a perfectly weighted through ball toward Messi.
The Barcelona players were synchronized, their movements a fluid machine. Mateo, Messi, Griezmann, Pedri, Busquets—they all moved as one organism, reading each other, anticipating runs, creating space, pulling the City defense apart with timing, movement, and precision. City's men—De Bruyne, Silva, Rodri, Foden, Mahrez—responded, adjusting their shape, trying to contain, but the initial thread of the attack was already Barcelona's.
The instant Messi touched the ball, the pitch seemed to shrink around him. Two weeks of Pep Guardiola screaming through every training session, every tactical board, every pre-match video—it all came down to this. "Don't let Messi free! Track his runs! Close him down before he turns!" Cancelo, Dias, Stones, Foden, Mahrez, Gundogan—they all knew the warnings by heart. Messi wasn't just a player; he was a living, breathing threat. Pep had drilled into them every possible scenario: body feints, sudden acceleration, diagonal runs, left-footed curling shots, chip balls over the goalkeeper—everything.
Now, seeing the ball at Messi's feet, they reacted instantly, even though most of them were pushed left by Barcelona's shifting attack. Cancelo, closest to him, stiffened. He planted his feet, eyes narrowing, muscles coiling like a spring. Messi glanced up, scanning the field, gauging who was running forward, noting Mateo King drifting wide on the left.
Cancelo, one of the world's best left-backs, known for precision passes and tireless runs, now had to face Messi in a deadly 1v1. Pep, watching from the sidelines, placed a hand on his head, shaking it slowly, muttering, "No… no… no…" He knew Cancelo wasn't naturally a defensive stopper in these situations. He knew exactly what was coming.
And he wasn't disappointed.
Messi angled his body, a faint body feint to the left, Cancelo lunged ever so slightly. In less than a heartbeat, Messi spun past him, right foot glancing the ball just enough to glide it by. Cancelo's voice cut through the roar, "You aren't passing! You're insane!" but it was too late—Messi had already slipped past, leaving him flat-footed.
"Barcelona have space! Barcelona have space!" The commentator's voice boomed, slicing through the roar of Camp Nou. From the stands, fans leapt to their feet, "Messi! Messi! Messi!" The sea of blaugrana erupted with every step he took.
Messi was below the City goal now, gliding along the right-hand side. Cancelo had scrambled to his feet, sprinting alongside Gundogan, but Messi didn't even glance back. His acceleration—a haunting echo of his younger days—was still lethal, flawless, almost impossible to track. The Camp Nou turf seemed to bend beneath his feet as he reached the box, the 18-yard line approaching in a blink. Dias edged closer, trying to cut the angle, but Messi was already thinking two moves ahead.
From the left, Mateo King mirrored the play, charging into the box, Walker shadowing him like a predator. The situation shifted instantly into a chaotic 2v3—Mateo and Messi against Dias, Stones, and Walker. Dias thought he had read Messi's intention; for a split second, he expected the pass to Mateo. In that instant, Messi's center of gravity shifted, weight dropping, body angled perfectly to deceive, eyes darting for the gap.
A blur of feints, a sudden drag-back, Messi released the shot—a precise strike aimed at the lower-left corner, reminiscent of his athletic Bilbao goal, body coiled, planted perfectly. Ederson reacted, stretching his leg, fingertips grazing the ball, deflecting it enough to keep it alive but not clear.
Mateo saw it immediately, instinctively sprinting towards the rebound. Walker followed, lungs burning, legs pumping furiously. But before either could reach it, Ederson was already on it, recovering with lightning-fast reflexes, scooping the ball cleanly and resetting the defense.
Commentary crackled through the feed:
"Messi's dribble there… the space opened by Barcelona's patient buildup… and what a shot! But Ederson, just recovering in time to snuff out the danger… Mateo was on it instantly, the follow-up was imminent, but City's keeper was just too fast!"
The stadium buzzed, tension coiling through every Barca fan, every City player feeling the shadow of Messi's brilliance. The seconds felt like hours, the pace relentless, the pitch alive with energy, murmurs, and strategy—all converging in that single, fleeting, breathtaking sequence.
The rebound barely had time to breathe before the pitch snapped back into motion. Bernardo Silva was already barking, waving his arms, "Step up! Step up!" while Busquets gestured calmly, palms down, slowing Barcelona's reset. Messi stood still for a second, hands on his hips, shaking his head in frustration at the missed chance. Mateo jogged over to him, grinning, pointing back toward the box.
"Again," Mateo said, giving him a thumbs-up.
Messi let out a short laugh through his nose, shook his head once more, and waved him away as if to say next time. Mateo laughed openly now, the kind that comes when you're fully in the game, when fear disappears and instinct takes over. He turned and started walking back toward his position on the left, still smiling.
Walker stayed glued to him, shoulder to shoulder.
Mateo slowed, turned slightly, eyebrows raised.
"Dude. Really?" he said in English.
Walker smirked, breathing heavy, sweat already beading on his forehead.
"Just doing my job."
Mateo shook his head, amused, and jogged off again, Walker following a step behind, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to touch. The Camp Nou buzzed, louder now, alive—Barça! Barça! Barça! rolling down from the stands like waves.
Messi's chance in the third minute felt like a signal flare. The match had woken up.
By the seventh minute, Barcelona were flowing again. Griezmann dropped deep, took a sharp pass from Pedri, turned on the half-spin, and immediately looked left. Mateo burst forward, timing his run perfectly, cutting between Walker and Stones. The ball was slipped into his path, and he took it in stride, pushing it past Walker with a quick touch.
Walker clipped him from behind.
Mateo went up just enough—arms flailing slightly, legs tucking—landing hard and sliding across the grass. The whistle shrieked. Camp Nou roared its approval. Mateo popped up instantly, arms wide.
"Ref! Come on!" he shouted, pointing at his shin.
Walker stepped toward him, palms open.
"Come on, man, I barely touched you."
He offered a hand. Mateo stared at it for half a second, then grabbed it, letting Walker pull him up. He brushed grass off his shorts, still breathing fast, adrenaline buzzing.
Griezmann jogged over, already placing the ball, glancing up at the wall. "You good?" he asked.
Mateo nodded. "I'm good."
He jogged forward into the box, Walker shadowing him again, tugging subtly at his shirt. Griezmann backed up for the free kick, knowing it wasn't Messi territory, eyes scanning for movement.
Four minutes later—eleventh minute—Barcelona struck again.
Alba surged down the left and fizzed a pass into Mateo's feet. Mateo killed it instantly, back to goal, feeling Walker press into him. Pedri darted inside, calling for it. One touch—back to Pedri. Pedri returned it first time. A clean one-two.
Mateo spun central, shrugging Walker off with a sharp shoulder drop. Walker cursed under his breath as Mateo accelerated, boots biting into the turf. Dias stepped out to confront him, body low, arms spread.
Mateo danced—two quick touches, a hesitation, a feint to the outside—Dias bit for half a second. That was enough. Mateo burst past him, acceleration explosive, the crowd rising with every stride.
Stones read it.
He slid in from the side, perfectly timed, boot hooking the ball clean before Mateo could take his next touch. The ball skidded away, Stones already scrambling back to his feet, heart pounding. One touch, then a short, sharp pass out wide.
Walker took it in stride and accelerated hard, driving back toward the Barcelona half.
...
Walker was already flying.
The moment Stones' clearance reached him, the tempo flipped. One second Camp Nou was rising for Barcelona, the next it inhaled sharply. Walker drove forward like a released spring, long strides eating up grass, boots thudding, breath loud in his chest. He didn't slow—didn't even look back—just shoved the ball ahead and trusted his pace.
"Oooh—" the crowd groaned, sensing danger.
Busquets spun and shouted, arm slicing through the air. "Back! Back!"
Pedri turned and sprinted, head snapping left and right, counting shirts. Alba was already retreating at full tilt, while Araujo tucked in fast, glancing over his shoulder. Lenglet shuffled across, pointing, trying to hold the line.
Walker slipped the ball inside to Gundogan, who took one touch and laid it off to Bernardo Silva. Silva's first instinct was forward—always forward—hips opening as he threaded a sharp pass into De Bruyne, who had drifted centrally, false nine space, ghosting between Busquets and De Jong.
The referee nearly got caught in it, hopping sideways at the last second as the ball zipped past his boots, arms flailing briefly before he recovered and spun to follow play.
De Bruyne took it on the half-turn. One glance. That was all. He dragged Lenglet with him, drawing the center of gravity inward, then clipped a clever pass out wide to Mahrez, who had stayed high on the right, chalk on his boots.
Mahrez cushioned it, rolled his foot over the ball, teasing Alba, then cut inside just enough to force Pedri to hesitate. That pause mattered. Gundogan surged through the channel. De Bruyne kept moving, never stopping, pulling markers, creating confusion.
"Hold him!" De Jong shouted as he slid across, legs pumping, almost losing his footing as the angle shifted again.
Mahrez slipped the ball back inside. Bernardo Silva darted past Busquets, exchanging a quick one-two with De Bruyne that split the midfield heartbeat-wide. The pace was ruthless now—City moving like they'd rehearsed this a thousand times.
And then—Foden.
On the far side, he was screaming for it. Arms out, voice cutting through the noise. "Phil! Phil! Phil!"
The pass came late—but it came.
Foden took it near the edge of the box, Sergio Roberto charging toward him, leg already extending. Foden didn't hesitate. Didn't look for support. Didn't care.
He hit it.
The ball whipped off his boot with vicious curl, bending away from everyone. Roberto's leg came out too late. De Jong, still scrambling back, nearly slipped as the shot screamed past him. For a split second, the stadium froze.
Ter Stegen reacted—full stretch, fingers reaching—but even he knew. The ball kept bending… bending…
Just wide.
It brushed past the post, slicing the air, thudding into the boards behind the goal. Goal kick.
A collective OOOHHHH rolled through Camp Nou, half relief, half shock.
Foden stood still for a beat, watching it go out. His eyes glimmered—frustration mixed with something sharper. He turned his head slowly, gaze drifting across the pitch, landing on Mateo on the opposite side.
I'll show everyone who the wonderkid really is.
He jogged back into position, jaw set.
Rodri came up beside him, breathing hard, patting his back.
"So close."
Foden jogged back toward his own half, jaw tight, shoulders squared. As he passed the center circle, he muttered under his breath, just loud enough to hear,
"Next time I won't miss."
Then he turned, eyes forward again, slipping back into position.
By the 17th minute, the balance had tilted.
City had begun to own the middle.
Rodri dropped deep to receive, chest open, spraying the ball wide with one-touch confidence. Gundogan kept drifting into pockets, dragging Pedri and Busquets with him. De Bruyne floated between lines like a shadow—never quite marked, never quite free, but always dangerous. Bernardo Silva buzzed constantly, short steps, sharp turns, murmuring to teammates as he played quick triangles that forced Barcelona to chase.
Foden was everywhere now. A sharp dribble inside Alba, a feint, then a slip pass into De Bruyne's feet. Roberto shouted, Lenglet stepped, De Jong pointed—everyone reacting half a second late. Rodri arrived at the edge of the box and unleashed an outside-foot strike that swerved viciously. Ter Stegen tracked it, fingertips brushing air as the ball dipped just over the bar.
Applause from the City bench. Pep clapped once, sharply.
"Good! Again! Faster!"
By the 19th minute, City were back at it.
Mahrez pinned Alba, rolling the ball under his studs, teasing. Bernardo overlapped, De Bruyne dropped short, then spun away instantly. The pass came fast, too fast. Busquets lunged, missing by inches. Gundogan surged through the channel and fired low—blocked by Araujo, who grunted as the ball slammed into his shin.
"Stay compact!" Busquets barked, waving his arms.
Then came the 21st minute—and Barcelona finally breathed fire.
Messi drifted left, naturally, like gravity pulling him there. Mateo was already close, sensing it. The ball came from Pedri—clean, sharp, perfectly weighted. Messi took one touch, drew Cancelo, then slipped it inside to Mateo.
Instantly, Mateo moved.
Walker was on him again—always Walker—shoulder tight, boots snapping at heels. Mateo skipped past him once, twice, but Walker clung on, refusing to be shaken. Mateo groaned under his breath, spun back toward his own half, dragged Walker with him… then flicked the ball through Walker's legs.
Messi was already running.
Mateo darted central as Messi burst left, Stones and Gundogan collapsing toward him. Messi didn't wait. One-touch pass—zip—into Pedri's stride. Pedri drove forward, head up, then slid it into Mateo, who received with his back to goal. Rodri was on him instantly.
Mateo didn't think.
He popped the ball up, juggled it once, twice—then, with a sudden snap of the ankle, looped an outrageous pass over Rodri's head.
The stadium exploded.
Griezmann ran onto it and hit it on the volley. Clean. Violent. Ederson reacted instinctively, palms stinging as he parried it away. The ball spun out for a corner.
Rodri shook his head, laughing as he jogged past Mateo.
"Hey, man—we're national teammates. Calm down."
Mateo grinned back. "No chance."
By the 23rd minute, City answered again.
De Bruyne dropped deep, pulling De Jong out, then released Mahrez down the right. Mahrez cut inside, outside, inside again—Lenglet backing up, backing up—until the angle opened. The shot flashed across goal, skimming just wide. The referee blew for a foul seconds later as Gundogan clipped Pedri in the buildup.
Groans. Whistles. Pep waving his arms. Koeman shouting from the other side.
And then the 25th minute—the closest yet.
Mahrez received wide again, isolated with Lenglet. One shimmy. Two. Lenglet bit. Mahrez exploded past him, cutting into the box, right foot cocked. Ter Stegen set himself.
At the last possible second, De Jong flew in—full stretch, sliding, timing perfect—hooking the ball away for a corner.
The Camp Nou roared.
Ter Stegen burst from his line, gloves still half-raised, and grabbed De Jong by the shoulders before he could even get up properly.
"YES!" he shouted straight into his face, eyes blazing. "That's it. That's it!"
De Jong nodded hard, jaw clenched, breathing heavy, slapping the turf once before pushing himself to his feet. Araujo was already there, thumping him between the shoulder blades.
"Monster," he muttered with a grin.
Busquets walked over more calmly, placing a firm hand on De Jong's chest, giving a slow, approving nod.
"Perfect timing," he said. "Perfect."
Hands slapped together—sharp, loud. Alba yelled something in Catalan. Lenglet raised an arm in apology and gratitude all at once. For a brief second, bodies collided in a tight huddle of relief, adrenaline buzzing through every touch, every breath.
Then it snapped back into focus.
They broke apart quickly, turning, pointing, shouting assignments.
The corner was coming.
An assistant hurried over from the bench, breath quick, tablet already lit up, and slid it into Ronald Koeman's hands.
"This is it, boss."
Koeman took it without a word. His eyes narrowed the instant the numbers came into focus.
Possession: Barcelona 44% – Manchester City 56%.
His jaw tightened. Then his thumb swiped.
Last 15 minutes:Barcelona 32% – Manchester City 68%.
His face gave it away immediately. The slight crease between his brows deepened, lips pressing thin. City had taken over. Not gradually—decisively. Four of the last five significant carries had been theirs. The early lag, the cautious probing, it was gone. They had found their rhythm.
Koeman brought his knuckles to his mouth and bit down lightly on a fingernail, eyes still locked on the screen.
If only we'd converted one of those chances…
He shook his head sharply, forcing the thought away. His mind raced.
Another midfielder?
No. Impossible. They were already stacked—four in there already. Any more and they'd lose the front completely. It would strangle what little threat they still had.
His gaze snapped back to the pitch just as the corner was swung in.
The ball whipped toward the near post. Stones rose highest, neck straining—
"No—" Koeman muttered.
Araujo met it first, muscling through, nodding it out toward the middle. Relief barely had time to breathe before chaos returned. Roberto moved to clear, but Rodri arrived first, setting himself and unleashing a vicious strike through traffic.
Koeman flinched.
The ball screamed wide, shaving past the post.
Goal kick.
Koeman exhaled hard, hands on his hips now, staring out as if answers might appear on the grass. His thoughts churned again.
What else can I do?
The defense—solid, for once. The midfield—outmatched, yes, but fighting. The attack—dangerous, alive. Mateo… Koeman's eyes followed the young forward instinctively. The kid was on fire. He didn't even know where it was coming from, but Mateo was playing free, fearless.
And still—it wasn't enough.
City were simply too strong.
The realization settled in slowly, uncomfortably, like cold water creeping up his spine.
Then he heard it.
Sharp. Relentless. Furious.
Koeman turned his head and saw Pep Guardiola on the touchline, veins standing out, suit jacket forgotten. Pep was shouting again, arms slicing the air, fists punching forward as if dragging his team with him.
"MOVE! MOVE! KEEP THE SHAPE!"
He clapped hard, once, twice, then pointed furiously toward the far side.
Koeman felt something snap.
Irritation flared into anger.
Dominating—and still not satisfied, he thought bitterly. Still screaming like they're losing.
His jaw clenched. Heat rushed up his neck.
Without realizing it, Ronald Koeman stepped forward, voice bursting out of him.
"STEP UP!" he shouted at the pitch, arms flying. "FASTER! TALK TO EACH OTHER!"
Instructions poured out—some planned, some born purely from instinct and frustration. He didn't even know he had them in him seconds ago.
But now he was shouting too.
...
Maybe it was the screaming. Maybe it was the tension finally snapping. Maybe it was just football doing what it always does. But after the restart, Barcelona came alive—and in a match like this, that was all anyone ever needed. One spark.
It started simply.
Sergio Busquets received the ball near the center circle, body half-turned, head already moving before the pass even reached him. He felt the pressure coming—City always came in waves—but he didn't panic. One touch. Then he slid it forward, crisp and confident, straight into the feet of Mateo King, right in the middle of the pitch.
Mateo turned.
And something ignited.
He didn't know why he ran. He just did.
At first it was instinct—one long stride, then another—his boots chewing up grass as the noise around him blurred into a single roar. Kevin De Bruyne lunged early, trying to nick the ball from behind, but Mateo dropped his shoulder and powered through him, almost bodying him aside, hearing a surprised grunt as he broke free. Dead
Then came Rodri. Mateo slowed for half a heartbeat—just enough. A drag-back. A sudden burst the other way. Rodri twisted, reached, missed. The Camp Nou gasped. Dead
Rúben Dias stepped up next, solid, planted, ready to end it. Mateo danced. A shimmy. A faint drop of the shoulder. Dias bit—just for an instant. Dead
"Shit—" Dias muttered as Mateo slipped past him, and as he turned, still chasing, one thought flashed through his mind, uninvited and infuriating.
Was he smiling?
The run didn't stop.
İlkay Gündoğan tried to angle across. Gone. A toe-poke through the gap. Mateo surged on. John Stones was the last man now, backpedaling, desperate, with Ederson already sprinting off his line, arms wide, making himself huge.
Mateo dragged Stones with him, ball glued to his feet like it was obeying orders only he could hear. One more touch. One more move. He tried to lift it—cheeky, audacious—chipping motion already forming as Ederson lunged—
Stones tugged him.
Not enough for a clean foul. Just enough.
Mateo went down as the ball skipped loose, rolling, rolling—
And at the very last second, Kyle Walker flew in from nowhere, throwing his body across the goalmouth and hacking it clear.
The stadium exploded anyway.
The commentary lost all composure.
"Oh—OH—AH—WHAT WAS THAT?"
"That is outrageous—absolutely outrageous!"
"One, two, three, four, five—IT'S NOT ENOUGH, IT'S NOT ENOUGH, IT'S NOT ENOUGH!"
"If not for Walker—if not for Walker—he's gone alone! Is this really Mateo King? Is this another evolution? What did the barber do to him? What are we witnessing here?"
Then one voice cut through the chaos.
"Listen—listen to this."
Because the Camp Nou had risen as one.
"MA-TE-O! MA-TE-O! MA-TE-O!"
The chant rolled, heavy and rhythmic, shaking the air, shaking the seats, shaking the night itself.
MA-TE-O. MA-TE-O. MA-TE-O.
Mateo was still on the grass.
Flat on his back, boots dusty, legs stretched out, chest rising and falling fast. For a second he didn't move at all—just lay there, staring up, the floodlights burning white above him like a second sky.
Then it came out of him.
A short breath first.
Then a laugh.
"Ha—"
Another. Louder.
"Ha… ha."
He threw one arm out to the side, palm open against the turf, the other following, stretching wide like he was trying to hold the entire pitch. His shoulders shook as the laughter spilled out of him now, uncontrolled, breathless.
"Ha—ha—ha…"
It wasn't mocking. It wasn't cocky. It was raw. Pure. The kind of laugh that escaped when your body moved faster than your thoughts, when something inside you broke free before you could stop it.
Grass pressed into his back. Sweat cooled against his neck. His lungs burned, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs open from the inside. He turned his head slightly, still smiling, eyes half-closed, soaking it all in—the noise, the chaos, the disbelief.
He didn't know what had gotten into him tonight.
He didn't know where that run had come from.
He just lay there, laughing at the sky, hands still spread, chest heaving—
He only knew one thing.
He had never felt this
Alive.
A/N
i would post the new schedule update soon
If you want to read 20 chapters ahead with daily uploads and to support me subscribe to my Patreon below There is also a picture of how mateo looks like posted and later there would be votes and all on the site some you wont need to pay to vote but you can if you want to support me thanks
patreon.com/David_Adetola
Thank You your support is greatly appreciated thank you all
I've also created a Discord channel to make communication easier, where I'll post updates, cover/character pictures for all my books, and more. Here's the link:
https://discord.gg/J4p83eGG(New discord link )