The locker room door slammed open.
Ronald Koeman stormed in like a thunderclap. Sweat clung to his forehead, his face red with frustration, his voice already tearing through the room before the players had even sat down.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
The walls shook.
"You're letting them play THROUGH YOU like you're not even THERE! Are you SERIOUS?!"
He turned, eyes blazing, jabbing a finger at the defense, pacing like a lion uncaged.
"They're passing in your face, WALKING THROUGH the middle like it's theirs! Where's the grit?! The bite?! You're standing there like statues! This is not how we defend for BARCELONA!"
He spun on his heels, pointing now—directly at Ter Stegen.
"And YOU! Don't be GLUED to that line!" he shouted. "Come OUT! Don't wait for shots like you're watching TV! You're one of the best in the world—ACT LIKE IT! Command your box! BE BIG!"
The room was dead silent except for the sound of his fury echoing in every corner.
Koeman paced again, chest rising and falling. But his anger wasn't just rage—it was purpose. Fire. Love for the badge. He turned to the attackers now, his voice tightening, focused.
"For this next half... I need MORE."
His eyes locked on Dembele.
"You. TRACK BACK. Help defend. Help the midfield. I don't want to see you walking. I want to see you sprinting—both ways. This isn't street football. This is war."
Dembele nodded, eyes wide.
Koeman turned again.
"Griezmann. Mateo."
They both looked up.
"I need FLUIDITY. I need INTELLIGENCE. Don't stay glued to one damn side like you've got cement on your boots! Griezmann, move through the middle—pull their shape apart. Mateo, drift left, stretch them! You're not just forwards, you're VERSATILE WEAPONS. Use it!"
He paused, walking right up to them.
"You MOVE. You ROTATE. You DON'T LET THOSE DEFENDERS BREATHE. You hear me? The moment they get comfortable—we've already lost."
Now he turned toward the midfield, eyes meeting De Jong and Pedri.
"And you two... Help them. Help the forwards. Help the press. Attack. Attack. Attack. Every second. Every blade of grass. We chase. We bite. We HUNT."
He stepped into the center of the room, voice rising again, arms spread.
"ARE YOU READY?!"
The room stirred, a pulse starting to beat beneath the skin of the team.
"Are you ready to show them who we ARE?!"
He pointed to the crest on his chest, his voice thundering with passion.
"This badge—THIS BADGE is not just a shirt. It's history. It's legacy. It's YOU. It's every fan screaming their lungs out. It's every little kid who dreams of wearing this blue and red. YOU FIGHT FOR THEM."
The energy in the room crackled. The players were standing now.
"You fight for THIS TEAM. For each other. For the moments we've bled for. You fight for the crest. You fight for every single person who believes in this club!"
He clenched his fists.
"You give EVERYTHING. You LEAVE NOTHING."
The tension was electric. Pure adrenaline. Koeman looked around one final time.
"Are you READY?!"
The players shouted back in unison: "YES COACH!"
Koeman threw his fist forward.
"VISCA EL BARÇA!!!"
"VISCA!!!" they roared, voices bouncing off the walls like cannon fire.
"HELL YES!" Koeman bellowed. "LET'S DO THIS! LET'S WIN THIS!"
Mateo could barely sit still.
Koeman's words still echoed in his ears, each syllable like a war drum beating against his chest. His heart was a furnace now, thundering louder and louder with every breath. He could feel the fire coursing through him, adrenaline lacing his veins, goosebumps crawling up his arms like sparks ready to ignite.
That second goal—He had scored it, and it had entered deep. His body had been on the edge ever since. and now?
Now he felt alive.
He clenched his jaw. His fists. His soul. The pressure in his chest wasn't fear—it was desire. A deep, pulsing need to run, to fight, to give more. To bleed if he had to.
"I can go more," he muttered under his breath.
But the truth was harsher. Colder. A silent enemy lurking behind the heat of the moment.
On the stat board In his mind, glaring in bold white digits, was a cruel reminder: Stamina: 70.
And that number—so clear, so unrelenting—cut through the haze of adrenaline like ice water to the face.
He couldn't go on forever.
The high he felt might've made him feel like he could conquer the world, but numbers didn't lie. His legs were burning. His lungs just hadn't caught up yet. At best, he had twenty good minutes left in him before the engine shut down completely.
But he didn't care.
Mateo looked down, gritted his teeth, and clenched his forearm tight with his opposite hand, as if to squeeze out one last ounce of energy. His fingertips dug into his skin. He could feel the blood pumping beneath it.
"I need to do more," he whispered.
"I need to die playing."
He wasn't just fired up—he was bubbling, volcanic, on the verge of eruption. Koeman had lit a match inside him, and now there was no turning back.
But across the tunnel, in the red and white side of the stadium, the war drums were beating just as loud.
"FORWARD, FORWARD, FORWARD!"
Lopetegui's voice shattered the air like a cannon. He was pacing like a madman in front of his team, fire flashing in his eyes. This wasn't just Barcelona's battlefield—this was his territory too.
"I WANT PRESSURE!" he screamed, veins bulging from his neck. "WE DON'T LET UP!"
He spun on the defenders now, stepping closer, jabbing a finger toward the pitch as his face flushed red with fury.
"That seventeen-year-old—I don't CARE about his age!"
His voice cracked like lightning. The players stared, frozen in attention.
"Get ROUGH with him. Touch him. Bump him. Push him. Make him feel us. I want him suffocating. I want him in hell. You understand me?! DOMINATE HIM."
Then, without missing a beat, he turned and barked toward the bench.
"JORDAN—you're OFF."
The midfielder blinked in disbelief, but Lopetegui had already turned.
"DE JONG, YOU'RE IN!"
A fresh change. No hesitation. The shape was shifting. The mentality was clear.
"We go full throttle. Pure three attackers now—no more waiting. We HIT them with everything."
Then he stormed toward En-Nesyri.
Their eyes locked.
Lopetegui grabbed him by the shoulders, face inches away—his voice booming, raw and primal. Even spit flew as he roared.
"YOU. ARE. UNSTOPPABLE!"
The words shook the room.
"This is YOUR match, Youssef! Do you HEAR ME?! This is your moment—YOUR BLOOD, YOUR GOAL, YOUR NIGHT!"
En-Nesyri didn't even flinch as a droplet landed on his cheek. He didn't care. He was locked in, eyes wide with battle lust.
"Yes, Gaffer!" he shouted back. "YES!"
Lopetegui turned, shouting at the squad now with a fist in the air.
"Yes, yes—NOW, SEVILLA! We can do this!"
"This is our home! This is our domain!"
The whole Sevilla bench erupted—shouting, banging on lockers, stomping their boots—
Lopetegui stood in the center of the locker room, his chest rising and falling with heavy, calculated breaths as the roar of fired-up players echoed around him. Boots slammed into the floor, fists pounded into palms, voices shouted chants of war—but he stood still, like the eye of a storm, letting the chaos feed him.
And then he smiled.
They told me to pull back. His assistants—always cautious—had practically begged him to revert to Sevilla's trusted shape, the structured, defensive rhythm that had carried them to narrow but consistent victories. They warned him. "Don't overcommit. Don't chase the third. Stay solid."
He had waved them off.
Cowards.
What they didn't understand—what they never felt—was that sometimes, instinct was louder than logic. Yes, they'd built their season on 1–0 wins, 2–1 escapes, careful containment. But this was different. They'd scored two against Barcelona already—two—and they weren't flukes. They were earned. They were a statement.
Yes, they had conceded. But unlike their goals—born from unity, movement, pressure—Barça's were lightning strikes, flashes of individual brilliance. Or rather, one particular individual.
Lopetegui's smile faded slightly as his jaw tightened.
That seventeen-year-old...
His hand slowly curled into a fist.
People watching the highlights would see a tap-in. A lucky run. A textbook goal. But he had seen the full picture. The kid had tracked back—not just jogged, but sprinted. Supported the midfield. Dragged defenders. Created space. The goal wasn't just about the finish—it was about the intelligence, the invisible influence, the cold decision-making beyond his years.
That wasn't a goal by accident.
That was the kind of play Lopetegui had nightmares about. No Messi? Sure. But somehow, Barcelona had pulled another diamond out of nowhere. Another prodigy. Another damn problem.
He clenched his fist tighter.
But he wasn't afraid. He had already made the decision. Koundé would shadow him. The order had been given. Guard the boy. Rough him up. Get in his head.
He trusted Koundé. He trusted the fight in his men.
And the fuel behind that trust wasn't just passion—it was cold, brutal, undeniable data.
In the top four, Barcelona were the team that had conceded the most goals.
That defense? It cracked.
And tonight? Lopetegui would shatter it.
His smile twisted into something darker—something feral.
Yes, he thought, releasing his clenched fist like a general unsheathing a blade. I'm going to destroy them.
Name of the next chapter - Die at the pitch (battle of the strikers)
A/N
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