"GOAAAAAAL!"
A laugh broke out—sharp, full of joy, and almost disbelieving.
Mateo, breathless, laughed as he sprinted towards the corner flag, arms slightly outstretched, like wings catching wind. His boots skidded a little on the damp pitch, grass flying beneath him, as he headed for the camera. He'd seen it. Locked eyes with it. And as he approached, he smiled—not a cocky smile, not an arrogant one, but a heartfelt, emotional, boyish grin.
Because he remembered.
He remembered his promise.
As he reached the corner, Mateo slowed, raised his hands, and then, deliberately, shook one of them like it hurt—his face twisting into a mock-grimace, his features contorting in pain.
Then, slowly, gently… he turned that same hand into a sorry sign, holding it up to the lens.
The crowd may not have understood. But Mateo did.And so did the little girl watching from Somewhere in the stadium.
She would've been grinning now. The goal was hers. Just like he'd said.
His teammates were on him within seconds—arms draped around his neck, pushing, hugging, ruffling his hair, some even slapping his back so hard it knocked him forward. Still, Mateo smiled. A smile so bright it could rival the floodlights above.
"GOAAAAAAALLLLL!"
Unlike Mateo and the team's somewhat modest celebration—grounded, composed, purposeful—Ronald Koeman was on the complete opposite end of the spectrum.
The moment that ball hit the net, it was like someone had lit a fuse in him. After that little "tunnel incident" before kickoff, he'd been simmering. Waiting. Watching.
And now—he exploded.
Koeman stormed down the sideline, purposely drifting closer to the home team's bench, his voice already rising. He didn't even look directly at Julen Lopetegui, but the timing, the tone, the angle of his posture—it was all deliberate.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lopetegui quietly sit back down, reaching for a water bottle.
Koeman grinned.
He didn't whisper.
He roared.
"YESSSSS! NICE JOB, GUYS! KEEP GOING! DON'T LET UP! WE NEED A SECOND—PRESS THEM! PRESS! GOOD WORK, GOOD WORK!"
Did the players hear him?
Maybe.
Did it matter?
Not really. What mattered was that Lopetegui heard him. Loud and clear.
Back on the pitch, the team clustered around Mateo like bees to honey, still buzzing from the goal.
"Nice move, Mateo! Didn't know you could JUMP like that!"
"You didn't show that in training! Man, that skill after? UNREAL."
"If you keep that up, you'd make a hell of a target man. You're adding layers to your game, bro."
Mateo, face shining with sweat and joy, laughed as they swarmed him.
Clothes rumpled, hair flying in all directions, his jersey tugged from all sides—he stood in the middle of it all, eyes gleaming, and said loud and proud feeling the high:
"As long as the ball's in the air… I am GOD!"
The laughter was instant, uncontrollable. It spread like wildfire.
His teammates burst out laughing, slapping his head, pushing his shoulders, grabbing him like he'd just won the league.
And then came Busquets—captain for the night, ever the anchor.
"Alright, Mateo. Good job. Great job, actually. But now—" he said, turning to the rest of the squad, "—we've got to be serious. Sevilla won't just roll over. Defense, eyes open. Stay tight. Stay sharp."
He turned back to Mateo. "And you—"
"Ehn?" Mateo blinked, that same toothy grin still plastered on his face.
Busquets smirked.
"We need the second goal."
"YOU GOT IT!" Mateo yelled with a fresh burst of energy—right before the second round of team-hugs, taps, and noogies came crashing into him.
More laughter. More joy.
As the referee's whistle signaled the restart, Mateo began jogging back toward the halfway line.
His smile?
Still there—wider now, calmer, and yet burning just beneath the surface.
He squeezed his fists as he jogged, heart pounding not just from the run, but from something deeper.
He didn't want to admit it… but the pressure on him before this match?
Massive.
It was his first start. His first real chance. And he knew it.
And now—after scoring—it felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Like he could breathe again.
His grin grew.
'I already said I wanted to end this game early… so why am I this happy over one goal, ehn?''Why settle for one… when I can have more?'
He looked up at the stadium clock.
21st minute.
There was time.
So much time.
And though there was so much time left on the clock, for Mateo and Barcelona, that time became a double-edged sword. As much as it meant more chances for them to turn things around, it also meant more time for Sevilla to dig in, grow stronger, and strike back. And that's exactly what they did.
The next 20 minutes were nothing short of war.
From the moment they conceded, Sevilla played with a fury that made it seem as though something personal had just been taken from them. Like wolves who had smelled blood. Their passes grew sharper, their tackles fiercer. The stadium, which had momentarily been silenced, was now rocking—chants, drums, and pure Andalusian fire echoing from every stand.
Barcelona, for all their technical finesse, were now being pushed back, pressed like grapes underfoot. Each time they tried to settle into rhythm, Sevilla disrupted it with swarming intensity. They fought for every ball like it was the last of their lives.
And then came the moment.
Ocampos had the ball near the touchline, his eyes blazing as he darted past Dest with a burst of pace. "PASS! PASS!" Jordan screamed from the center. Ocampos cut inside. A defender rushed at him. He didn't panic. He released it quickly to Jordan who didn't waste time either, feeding it short to Rakitic with a flick so smooth it looked like poetry.
"WATCH HIM!" Piqué screamed, already backing toward En-Nesyri.
But it was too late.
Rakitic turned, spotted the smallest pocket of space just outside the penalty area—and slotted a pass so surgical it split the defense. En-Nesyri ran onto it like a man possessed, one touch to settle, and then—he unleashed it.
Boom.
The shot was vicious. A perfect curl. A bullet disguised as art.
"And he takes the shot from there!"
The commentators' voices rose in disbelief. Ter Stegen leapt into the air with all the grace and desperation of a man trying to hold back destiny, but the ball flew past him like a whisper in the wind.
"Ter Stegen jumps—but he looks frozen! Completely out of it!"
The net rippled. The stadium exploded.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!"
Fans screamed like thunder. Red flares burned in the stands. The Sevilla bench erupted. The scorers' booth struggled to keep up.
"What a goal! The Sevilla faithful have just lost their minds! Barcelona may have drawn first blood, but Los Nervionenses never gave up! What a comeback! En-Nesyri, the hat-trick hunter, the faithful striker—has just scored his second of the night! This is his turf, this is Sevilla's home—and they are making a massive, massive statement!"
Piqué stood rooted to the ground, hands on hips, watching the ball settle in the net as if it had betrayed him.
Dest knelt with his hands on his thighs, breathless.
Busquets barked orders, frustrated, eyes wide with disbelief.
And Ter Stegen sat up slowly, looking at the goal as though trying to comprehend how that just happened.
Back at the halfway line, Mateo stood a little ahead of the center circle, motionless at first… then—
"Come onnn!" he screamed, throwing both arms out wide in frustration. His voice cracked, not just from the shout, but from the exhaustion creeping into his lungs.
He sighed deeply, dragging his hands down his face, pacing in a tight circle. He was breathing heavier now. His jersey clung to his skin, soaked in sweat. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His legs—once fresh and electric—were starting to burn.
As Sevilla's players mobbed En-Nesyri near the corner flag, Mateo's eyes darted to the scoreboard. 43rd minute. Just two more minutes till halftime, but it felt like he had already played a lifetime.
This was supposed to be his game. His moment. The one he would dominate early and kill off before it even had the chance to become a contest.
Instead, it had become a brawl—a war of attrition. And right now? He was losing.
After scoring the opener, he had been relentless. Pressing high, chasing every loose ball, hounding defenders. He had even created a golden opportunity for Dembélé, a chance that had sent the entire bench to their feet—but Dembélé had blasted it high over the bar.
Mateo had been everywhere. A neutral observer, unbiased and fair, would have had no doubt: Mateo had been the best player on the pitch tonight. Not even En-Nesyri with his two goals had played with the same urgency, the same influence, the same hunger.
But football… football wasn't a one-man sport.
That was the truth Mateo was starting to understand—deeply, painfully.
No matter how brilliant you were, if your team wasn't playing at your level, you were fighting with one hand tied behind your back.
And tonight? so far?
Collectively, Sevilla were undeniably better than Barcelona.
Mateo was feeling it now. The pressure. The weight. The noise. The heartbreak.
He stood frozen in the center of the pitch, surrounded by a storm of roaring Sevilla fans who were practically levitating in ecstasy. Their cheers cracked through the air like thunder. Red and white scarves twirled above their heads like whips, banners waved with fury, and fists pounded the railings. The Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán had become a living, breathing beast—and it was screaming.
His eyes darted up to the scoreboard. 2-1. 43rd minute. And it wasn't just a number. It was a slap. A loud, echoing slap to the face. What he thought would be his match—his moment to dominate and silence doubters—had become a bloody war. And he was losing.
Meanwhile, just by the sideline near Barcelona's technical area, Sevilla coach Julen Lopetegui had quite literally lost the plot. The man had stormed over into enemy territory, jumping like he'd just won the lottery, arms flailing and his coat halfway slipping off his shoulders.
"YES! YES! MORE! MORE! I TOLD YOU! ATTACK! ATTACK! NO MESSI, NO MAGIC!" he yelled at no one in particular, hopping up and down as he threw invisible punches in the air. "GO! GO! GO!" he screamed, his voice cracking like he hadn't celebrated in years.
Ronald Koeman, clearly annoyed, stormed toward the fourth official, face red and furious.
"What the hell is this?! He's literally in our box! He's in OUR ZONE, shouting like a lunatic!"
The assistant referee tried to calm things down, but Lopetegui heard the complaints and threw his hands in the air, voice full of mock innocence.
"What?! WHAT?! I was just talking to my team, eh?! You want me to shut up now, yeah? This is BULLSHIT!"
"Back to your area, coach," the official said firmly, holding his arm out like a barrier.
Lopetegui reluctantly backed off, muttering curses under his breath, still buzzing with adrenaline, still smirking. The camera caught him whispering to his assistant: "No Messi, no magic, no miracle, huh?"
Back on the pitch…
PHWEEEET!
The sharp blow of the whistle cracked through the air like lightning. Mateo didn't even flinch. He turned immediately, sprinting toward the Sevilla half as if yanked forward by some invisible force.
He didn't feel his legs. Didn't feel the weight anymore. He didn't hear the crowd. All he could hear was the clock in his head. Tick. Tick. Tick.
46th minute. A flash of light. He glanced up. The assistant referee held the board: +2.
Just two minutes.
Two minutes to save a first half that had spiraled into disaster.
Mateo's heart started racing harder—not from exhaustion, but from fury. This game… this goddamn game had proven to him more than once tonight that it didn't matter how brilliant you were, if your team wasn't at your level, you were doomed. And it had never been clearer.
"No…"
He muttered the word under his breath, almost as if refusing to accept a fundamental truth.
No.
Who decided that? Who made that rule?
Why couldn't one player drag a team to victory?
Why not him?
He was a striker. And sure, people liked to say all positions were equal. Midfielders had their elegance. Defenders their strength. Goalkeepers their heroics. But Mateo knew.
He knew exactly why strikers were idolized, why their names were chanted the loudest, why they made the headlines.
Because if there was one position on the pitch that could turn a match on its head...
If there was one position that allowed a single player to flip a game inside out—it was the striker.
And the way to do that?
Score.
You could dribble all you wanted, you could make 200 perfect passes, cross from the heavens, play like Mozart in cleats—but if no one scored, it meant nothing. It was poetry without punctuation. A book without an ending.
Mateo was not going to let his story end here.
"Isn't it just to score?" he thought.
His breath steadied. His body, which moments ago had screamed in fatigue, suddenly felt electric. Charged. His eyes began scanning the pitch wildly, hunting. Searching.
Looking for a way through.
Looking for the kill.
Mateo broke rank.
Without warning, he abandoned the frontline. Jules Koundé, confused, flicked a glance over his shoulder, catching a blur of red and blue sprinting past him. His brows furrowed in disbelief as Mateo darted toward midfield like a man possessed.
He wasn't chasing a loose ball. He was chasing destiny.
There—Frenkie de Jong. The Dutchman had the ball but was moments away from losing it as a Sevilla midfielder closed in fast.
"Frenkie!" Mateo yelled, voice sharp and cutting through the roar of the stadium.
De Jong's head snapped up just in time. Mateo raised a hand and pointed—now.
The two executed a perfect one-two. De Jong slipped the ball to him and darted past the press, and Mateo quickly returned it. The Sevilla midfielder was left spinning as they danced through him like two ghosts in the fog.
The ball came back to Mateo's feet. One touch. His boots felt like fire. He spun with it, eyes immediately scanning.
Right wing.
Dembele was making his run. Perfect angle. Perfect timing.
But Mateo didn't even flinch.
No.
He'd lost count of how many golden chances Dembele had butchered. He wasn't risking it—not again. Not now.
No passes for missed prayers.
He looked away coldly, turning his back on Dembele's sprint like it didn't even exist.
Then—
"Mateo! Here!"
The voice hit him like lightning. Instinctively, he turned.
Pedri. Arms waving. Eyes wide. He was close, just before the pass would've been lost to a Sevilla player trying to intercept.
Mateo didn't hesitate. He sent the ball with a sharp flick, shouting as he took off again, "LET'S GO!"
Pedri didn't even take a touch. He hit it first time.
The ball soared, gliding with elegance to the left flank like it had wings. It sliced through the air toward Griezmann—already surging forward like a man chasing fate.
Mateo didn't look back. He didn't need to. His eyes were on the goal, his legs pumping harder, faster. This wasn't just a run. It was war.
Griezmann, on the flank, heard the wind rushing past his ears. Jesús Navas was thundering beside him, the Sevilla captain breathing down his neck, shoulder to shoulder, cleats nearly clipping.
Two veterans locked in a sprint, fighting over a future that belonged to neither of them.
The ball bounced once ahead. Griezmann leaned forward, pushed harder. Navas was fast. Griezmann was just faster. He couldn't turn this run into a goal—he knew that.
But he also knew who could.
That kid.
The one already tearing up the pitch like a missile.
If he put it in the right space, Mateo would get there.
No doubt.
And if he scored, sure, maybe Griezmann's minutes would shrink. Maybe he'd warm the bench next week.
But he didn't care.
The team came first. Always.
Griezmann reached it. One touch.
A single perfect touch.
He didn't stop to admire it. He just struck it forward into the space. Into the unknown. Into belief.
In the center, Koundé had seen it unfold—every pass, every move, every inch. And now, he saw where Griezmann had played it. His heart sank.
"Shit."
The ball flew past him into open grass—dangerous, inviting, deadly.
He turned, pivoting hard. His boots tore at the turf. Ahead, the Sevilla keeper was already storming out, rushing to intercept. But Koundé didn't stop. He couldn't. Because—
That boy was behind him.
Mateo.
He was coming. Fast.
"I have to clear the ball."
"I have to score."
Two minds. Two missions.
Mateo had no idea what magic had unfolded behind him. All he knew was that the ball was there. In the space. Calling to him.
The goal was waiting. The moment was waiting.
And so he dug deeper.
He pushed harder.
His foot slammed against the grass, sending mud flying. His muscles burned, lungs screaming. But nothing mattered.
He ran like it was the only thing left in the world. Faster.
Faster than ever.
Then it happened.
Mateo took off like a bullet.
He didn't even think about the fact that he'd just passed the ball to Pedri. He didn't glance back. He just ran forward with terrifying purpose—like the world depended on it. The noise of the stadium dimmed in his ears, his vision narrowed. All he saw was space. All he felt was fire in his legs. The kind of fire that didn't burn you—it fueled you.
Far ahead on the left, Griezmann was already sprinting with everything he had. Jesus Navas was right behind him, breathing down his neck, the Sevilla veteran clinging to every inch. Their feet pounded the turf like war drums, fighting for a ball that was still spinning freely toward the touchline.
Griezmann knew he couldn't score from there. The angle was wrong, his body position off. But he also knew something else—that kid would be there. The kid with the absurd speed. If he just left it in the right space…
He didn't even hesitate. One touch. A perfectly weighted pass. A gift into the vacuum of green.
Koundé, tracking back in the center, saw it all unfold in front of him. He saw where Griezmann's ball was going—behind him. Past him. Shit, he muttered under his breath, his eyes widening as he twisted his hips and turned.
The ball rolled through open space now, taunting them both.
Koundé's lungs burned. His legs screamed. But he couldn't stop. He wouldn't. Not when the stakes were this high.
He glanced ahead—his goalkeeper was already rushing forward, trying to beat Mateo to it. But then even the keeper started slowing down. Panic written all over his face. He realized he wasn't going to make it in time—not before either Mateo or his own teammate got there.
And just like that… it was down to two.
Mateo vs. Koundé.
A one-on-one race for glory.
Koundé's mind raced. He was closer to the ball, but the kid was matching him stride for stride—no, he was gaining on him.Shit. He knew he couldn't outpace Mateo. He just didn't have the speed. Desperate, he threw his arm out, trying to hold Mateo back—just enough to slow him, to rattle him.
Mateo didn't care. He slapped the arm off, jaw clenched, heart thundering. Every ounce of pressure, expectation, and belief that had been heaped on his young shoulders—he welcomed it. This wasn't fear. This was fire. This was hunger.
"This is it," he thought. "This is the moment."
Just then, Koundé made a decision. The only one left.
He slid.
It was a full-bodied slide, desperate and dangerous, boots slicing the turf like knives. But Mateo didn't flinch. He stepped over Koundé's sweeping leg at the very last second, almost losing his balance, stumbling slightly—
But he didn't fall.
He lifted his right foot.
"Get in," he whispered, eyes locked on the ball.
And he struck.
Hard. High. True.
The ball flew like a rocket. It curved through the air like it had a soul, rising and bending—a blur of motion and madness. The goalkeeper, now frozen in no man's land, leapt desperately, his arms stretched to the heavens.
But it was too late.
The ball screamed into the top right corner.
Top bin.
It clipped the post.
And went in.
Mateo hit the ground from the shot's momentum, grass on his shirt, heart in his throat. He didn't even care. He pushed himself up with wide eyes, face still grim, like he didn't believe what just happened. Dirt on his elbow, breath short, chest heaving.
Then he saw it.
The net rippling. The ball nestled inside.
Goal.
He shot up to his feet like a man reborn, a scream already bursting from his lungs.
He took off for the corner flag, sprinting with raw joy as the away fans erupted, their voices drowning the stadium, an explosion of sound and soul. His teammates were charging after him, arms in the air, their faces full of disbelief and admiration.
"GOAAAAAAAL!!!" he screamed.
The commentator lost his mind.
"WHAT A GOAL! WHAT A GOAL! OH MY GOODNESS—JUST SECONDS BEFORE THE END OF TEH FIRST HALF, BARCELONA HAVE EQUALIZED! Mateo King! MATEO KING HAS DONE IT! WHAT A RUN! WHAT A FINISH! WHAT A COMEBACK! THIS… THIS RIGHT HERE… THIS IS WHY WE LOVE FOOTBALL!"
The roar from the stands shook the broadcast as the camera panned to stunned faces, Sevilla fans with hands on heads, jaws dropped.
"Coming into this match, everyone was asking—Where's Messi? No Messi, no party, no win. Well, let me tell you something—EVEN WITHOUT MESSI, BARCELONA ARE ALIVE! BARCELONA ARE STILL FIGHTING!"
"And it's all thanks to a SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD KID! No, you're not hearing me wrong! MATEO KING, AT JUST 17, HAS LOOKED THIS GAME IN THE EYES… AND SAID 'I'M IN CHARGE NOW!' SEVILLA 2, BARCELONA 2… AND THIS IS JUST THE FIRST HALF!"
A/N
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