"And we are back, ladies and gentlemen, for the second half of what has been an absolutely thrilling encounter!"
The commentator's voice boomed over the electric hum of the stadium, as the broadcast returned to a panoramic view of the fiery crowd—red and white on one side, blue and maroon on the other, banners waving, voices roaring.
"Sevilla 2. Barcelona 2.""En-Nesyri with two. Mateo with two. It's not just a battle of teams anymore—it's become a battle of strikers!"
The co-commentator chimed in, his voice brimming with excitement."You've got a veteran forward—hungry, experienced, ruthless. And then you've got the new sensation, the seventeen-year-old wonderkid lighting up La Liga like it's his backyard."
"The fans are on the edge of their seats. This is war. And the question on everyone's mind—who will strike next? Who's walking out of here with the match ball?"
"Let the showdown begin—"
"—this is the battle of the strikers!"
Click.Sneer.
"Battle of the strikers… my ass."
The voice was grave. Bitter. The kind of tone that cut through the fanfare like a knife.
The camera on the TV panned slowly to Mateo and En-Nesyri, both standing near the center circle, their faces full of intensity as the second half kicked off.
But the man watching it wasn't entertained.
He sat deep in a leather couch, eyes locked on the screen, jaw tight. There was no awe in his gaze—only quiet scorn. The kind that came from wounds too fresh to scar.
From beside him, a softer voice pierced the air.
"Honey… don't tell me you're still bitter about what happened."
The man didn't answer at first.
Because what was there to say?
He was Luis Suárez. The Barcelona legend. Atlético Madrid's current frontman. A living icon of the modern game.
198 goals.109 assists.283 games.13 major trophies.Over 300 goal contributions in fewer appearances than most players ever dream of.
He had given Barcelona his blood, his sweat, his fire. He had shared the pitch with Messi and made history. And for all that…
For all of that…
He got nothing.
No farewell. No parade. No grace. No loyalty.
Just two ugly memories.
Two moments that soured everything he'd built.
"You're not part of my plans for the squad. I have no intention of keeping you."A pause."Goodbye."
That was it.
Five years. Nearly 200 goals. Dozens of iconic nights. All reduced to a phone call that didn't even last five minutes. A one-sided execution by Barcelona's new manager—Ronald Koeman.
And if that wasn't enough…
The second blow came in person.
Suárez had gone to the club's board—his club. Not as a legend seeking favors, but as a man willing to stay, to fight for his place. To show he still had fire in his boots.
But they didn't even take him seriously.
"But don't you…" he had begun, voice tentative, still holding onto dignity.
"Luis, don't you want to go to the MLS?" one of the suits said, grinning like a fool.
Another leaned in, chuckling."Or Saudi—come on, they're handing out money like candy! You'd be perfect there."
Laughter followed.Not with him. At him.
And then the dagger:"You do know how old you are… right? It time to start thinking of your family and money"
That was all it took.
Two moments.Not the Champions League win.Not the Golden Boot.Not the hundreds of goals, the iconic assists, the trophies.
Gone.All of it, erased—replaced by mockery and a hang-up tone.
So when his wife turned to him, asking gently,"Honey, don't tell me you're still bitter about what happened…"
He smiled.
That kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes. A smile that tried too hard.
"Of course not. Why would I be angry?" he replied coolly.
The media-trained line. The perfect PR answer. Smooth and polished.
But his wife knew better.
She gave him a look.One of those looks only a woman who's seen a man through every rise and fall can give.
"Yeah, right," she said, sliding closer to him. Her voice softened."Luis… you need to let go of what happened. Please."
The smile vanished from his face.
His eyes dropped to the floor.His hands clenched together slowly.
"I know. I know… but it's hard," he muttered, his voice suddenly vulnerable—quiet enough to hide, but loud enough to hurt.
She didn't say anything at first. She just lifted a hand and rested it on his cheek, gently turning his face toward her. Her eyes searched his.
"I know it's hard, baby. But you have to let it go. For yourself.""Focus on the future. On the league. On you. Prove them wrong, eh? Show them you're still the best. Make them regret it. All of it."
Her voice didn't shake. It was loving, but firm. The voice of someone who had carried his demons beside him and refused to let him drown in them.
Suárez took a breath.
"Yeah…" he said after a moment."I've heard."
She smiled, seeing that spark flicker back in his eyes. She leaned forward, pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and then stood.
"That's great. Now let me go check on the kids, dear," she said warmly, walking toward the playroom.
"Okay, dear," he said absently, waving as his eyes drifted back to the screen.
Now it was just him and the match.
The way he stared—intense, focused, almost unblinking—told the whole story. Every frame of the broadcast reflected in his cold gaze.
And then… the camera panned.
Mateo. En-Nesyri.Two strikers. Two hat-tricks on the line.The so-called "battle."
Suárez leaned forward, his jaw tightening. His voice barely a whisper, but laced with venom, fire, and ice.
"Let them have their little showdown…" he muttered."When it's all said and done, I'll be the one lifting the title. I'm still number one striker. And I'm not done. Not yet."
Back on the pitch…
The camera cuts in close—Mateo's chest is heaving, each breath sharp and labored. The sound of his own breathing echoes in his ears, a rhythmic storm beneath the chaos around him. The stadium roars like a living beast, and over it all:"GET BACK! GET BACK!""SWITCH! SWITCH!""PRESS HIM!"Barcelona defenders yelling, the claps and stomps of Sevilla's bench, coaches barking instructions like fire. It was a warzone of sound—boots thumping, the ball zipping through the grass, and whistles tearing through the tension like gunshots.
Ten minutes in, and the match had been brutal from the first whistle.
Barcelona had come out with fire—two chances within the first two minutes, fast pressing, clever switches. The kind of start that grabs headlines. But even in their hottest spell, Sevilla had outdone them. Since tweaking their formation to a deadly trio of forwards backed by two attacking midfielders, they'd become relentless. Tireless. Hungry.
Barcelona's backline had been stretched to the brink, hanging on by instinct and grit. But somehow, just barely, they hadn't broken.
Now, on the far left of the pitch, Mateo stood hunched slightly, dragging in air like it was gold. Sweat traced down his neck, his kit clung to him like a second skin. He hadn't come out to the left by instinct—he'd followed the bench's call. The tactic was clear. Shift the defense. Create space. But with how his lungs burned, it was hard to think tactics.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Koundé.Still there. Close. Too close. The center-back had been glued to him since the second half began, trailing him like a shadow with teeth.
Mateo narrowed his eyes and took two small steps forward. Koundé followed—like clockwork. Even here, out on the wing, far from the central danger zone, the defender refused to give an inch.
Three fouls. Three hard hits. All in just ten minutes. It wasn't football anymore. It was personal.
Still bent over slightly, Mateo twisted his head back and called out between breaths, voice jagged and mocking:
"Aren't you a little far from your position?"
Koundé didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just kept staring.
Mateo grinned, a little defiant spark dancing through the exhaustion in his eyes."You know," he added, tilting his head with a smirk, "if you keep following me like this, you're gonna leave a whole lot of unnecessary space behind. Might cost your team."
It was bait. Pure, clean bait. And Koundé bit.
"Can you just be quiet?" Koundé snapped, the tension finally cracking his calm. But his smile was forced, defensive. "Or what—getting scared? Finally realizing I've got your number? That it's over? Ehn? Ehn?"
Mateo let out a breathy laugh, hoarse but amused. His voice was tired, but his tone had fire.
"Oh, don't worry about me," he chuckled, chest rising and falling fast. "I've got enough in the tank to score the winner and dunk on you while I'm at it."
He grinned wider, eyes shining despite the sweat, and took one step further out wide, knowing Koundé would mirror him again.
The defender muttered something low, barely audible even to himself.
"Yeah right."
But he moved closer.
He wasn't letting Mateo go—not now, not ever. Whether the winger had anything left or not, he was going to be right there, breathing down his neck.
But Koundé wasn't the only one who saw it.
The cameras hadn't picked up on it yet, but some sharp-eyed analysts had. A few fans had noticed, whispering in the stands or on Twitter—Mateo's slowing down.His shoulders drooped. His runs lacked that signature zip.
And on the touchline, both coaches saw it too—clear as day.
Over at the Barcelona bench, Koeman's expression turned to horror.
"Shit… shit… shit…" he hissed under his breath, gripping his clipboard with white knuckles. "Was he always this… this weak stamina-wise? Why didn't we push fitness harder?!" He turned toward the bench, desperate eyes scanning the players seated.
One word escaped him."Fuck."
There was no one. No attackers left. No one who could even pretend to offer what Mateo did. No spark. No threat. The well was dry.
On the pitch, Mateo received the ball, passed it off quickly, then sprinted—or tried to. A Sevilla defender intercepted before it even reached the target.
Koeman's eyes followed the run. It was too slow. Far too slow. This wasn't the Mateo who'd carved defences open like a scalpel.
The coach sighed, the acceptance heavy in his chest.Mateo was done.
But just a few feet away, on the opposite bench, Sevilla's coach grinned like a wolf in a slaughterhouse.
"He's tired," he muttered, smiling. The kid—the thorn in his flesh—was finally out of gas.
Checkmate.
Back on the pitch…
And no one knew how tired he was better than Mateo himself.
His breathing was shallow now, but fast. His legs felt heavier with each step, muscles burning, calves tight, hamstrings shrieking.
But he knew his body. Better than anyone. And somewhere deep inside, a quiet system—a rhythm, a pulse, a signal—was telling him the truth:
He was almost gone.
The edge of exhaustion was right there. He could feel it creeping in with every skipped heartbeat, every second where his vision blurred just a little. His knees felt weak. His shoulders sagged. And yet…
His eyes.
Still sharp.
Still scanning.
Still burning with that same fire.
"I need to score," he thought, scanning the pitch. He looked at the movement, the shape of the play, the positions of the defenders. "What can I do… before I give out completely?"
He didn't want to waste this.
Didn't want to collapse without taking one more shot.
And then he saw something. A detail. A flicker of space. A mistake.
A chance.
A big smile crossed his face as he muttered under his breath—quiet, but full of dangerous intent:
"This is my hat-trick."
A/N
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