Mateo's breathing slowed for just a second as he drifted left, his boots barely making a sound on the pitch. His head turned subtly, eyes trailing behind him. Koundé's still on me, he thought, spotting the defender lurking, shadowing every move like a ghost that wouldn't leave. Mateo smirked. "Good," he muttered under his breath. Let's use that.
He jogged into the middle, nonchalantly at first, but his eyes were anything but relaxed. They were scanning, searching—until he found it. The ball. With Dembélé. The French winger was perched just outside the flank, facing Sevilla's Acuña. He wasn't charging yet—no, he was studying, baiting, feeling him out like a boxer waiting for the first swing.
That's when the symphony began.
Mateo didn't need to shout. He just moved. A feint to the right—Koundé followed. Another to the left—Koundé followed again. Mateo chuckled in his head. Perfect. He wasn't trying to escape him. He was inviting him. Drawing the string tighter and tighter until it was ready to snap.
Griezmann checked in. Mateo gave him a quick glance, and that was all it took. He peeled slightly right, dragging Koundé with him, opening a slim channel between Fernando and Diego Carlos. Just enough. Dembélé saw it too—he passed. Not to Mateo, but to Dest, who had appeared out of nowhere, slipping into the space Mateo had just vacated.
The tempo quickened. Dest flicked it to Griezmann, who bounced it back to Mateo in a one-touch flurry. Mateo's foot met the ball like he was kissing it, and then with a spin—an audacious drag-back into a roulette—he left Fernando frozen. Space opened.
Now.
The tempo snapped.
It all switched from casual to chaos in a heartbeat. Mateo darted forward, dragging the match into fast-forward. Griezmann ran. Dembélé ran. Even Pedri lit up, racing into the left half-space. Mateo weaved between defenders like a conductor lost in his own rhythm. Every touch was a note. Every move a bar in the score.
He faked a cutback—Koundé bit, lunged—Mateo let him. Then slipped away, sliding the ball to Dembélé on the wing. Acuña lunged. Dembélé, with a flick behind his standing leg, left him reeling. He nudged it to Mateo again, who instantly laid it off to Pedri.
Pedri saw it. The whole field cracked open like an egg.
Through ball. Time stopped.
A razor-threaded pass between Diego Carlos and Fernando. And suddenly, there it was—space. Freedom. Mateo was gone. Griezmann, Dembélé, even Dest—all sprinting ahead like arrows shot from the same bow. Mateo the archer who had pulled the string.
Diego Carlos and Koundé clattered into each other. Koundé snarled. "¡Mierda! ¡Not again!" His eyes were fire. He turned to chase.
But Mateo was already flying.
The ball was glued to his feet. His lungs burned like they were filled with molten iron, but he didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything—not the roar of the crowd, not the clatter of boots behind him, not the ache in his legs. He was dissociating from pain, from pressure.
His heartbeat thudded in his ears louder than the crowd. This is it. I do this or I die here.
He ran.
He didn't look back. Nothing existed behind him. Nothing existed at all except the net—and the man in front of it. Bono. Eyes locked. No fear. No baiting. Just two gladiators, one arena, and one moment.
Mateo inhaled sharply.
His legs were fire. His heart? A war drum. Sweat poured from his brow, but he smiled—wide, wild, defiant. He didn't stop. He didn't hesitate. He didn't blink.
Then—the move.
A pendulum.
Mateo shifted his weight hard to the right. Bono moved. In that heartbeat of commitment, Mateo yanked it left with the inside of his right foot. Fluid. Smooth. Lethal. Bono flailed, sprawled—but too late.
Mateo was staring at an empty net.
His face lit up—not with ego, but joy. A boy's joy. Innocent. Earnest. A wide grin cracked across his face as he wound up his leg, pouring every last ounce of strength, will, and fire into the shot.
He fell.
Flat on the pitch.
But his eyes were fixed on the ball.
Rolling.
Rolling.
It was crossing the line.
Then—shock.
His smile cracked. His mouth opened. Eyes wide.
What…?
There, streaking into his vision like a phantom—
A white jersey with red detailing.
No…
Mateo whispered, barely audible. "No…" He tried to rise, but his legs felt like iron. He scrambled with his arms. Crawled. Desperation. Horror.
Koundé.
He hadn't stopped.
He'd chased.
From the moment he'd been played, he never stopped running. Past his own teammates, past defenders, eyes fixed on the ball and nothing else.
Mateo's heart sank as he watched it unfold.
The ball rolled.
Closer.
Closer to the line.
Blurred.
Then—
Koundé slid.
An explosion of turf and muscle and fury.
His right foot struck the ball with everything he had, punting it clear as he skidded across the line and fell in a heap.
"YEEESSSS!!!" he screamed, fists raised, eyes wild with triumph.
But then— The whistle.
His joy stopped mid-thunder. Head whipped around. Confused.
The referee stood, arm outstretched, pointing to the center circle.
Goal.
As the referee raised his arm and pointed towards the center circle—signaling a goal—the stadium exploded. The once-mesmerized silence shattered into chaos.
Sevilla players went ballistic.
Koundé, who had just finished screaming with joy at his sliding clearance, now snapped to his feet, fury etched into every line on his face. "No! NO! NO!" he roared, his hands slicing through the air like blades. "That didn't go in! WHAT THE HELL!"
He charged the referee, Acuña right behind him, Fernando's arms already flailing as he pointed violently at the assistant. Diego Carlos looked like he was ready to throw a punch.
"YOU BLOODY THIEF!" Koundé screamed, his eyes wild, as they swarmed the official.
The crowd turned riotous, thousands of voices roaring in disbelief or celebration. Blue and red shirts leapt in joy while white and red bellowed in outrage. The air itself felt thicker, vibrating with fury and confusion.
Down on the grass, Mateo was still on the floor, sweat clinging to his face like dew on steel. He blinked at the noise, his ears ringing. He turned his head—and saw Griezmann sprinting at him, breathless, red-faced, shouting his name.
"Mateo! Mateo!" Griezmann screamed, dropping beside him, gripping his shoulder. "Did it go in?! Was it a goal?!"
Mateo, still dazed, mumbled, "Ehm… I think so—"
But Griezmann didn't wait.
He was up in an instant, spinning around like a man possessed. He threw his arms up and sprinted across the pitch, yelling, "IT'S A GOAL! IT ENTERED! IT FUCKING ENTERED!"
He waved frantically at the other Barça players, who stood near the halfway line, tense and unsure.
Griezmann's shout snapped them to life.
Pedri, Dest, Dembélé—they all bolted toward the referee, surrounding him, shouting over one another, demanding clarity. "Ref! It's in! It's IN!" "Don't you dare take that away!" "You saw it! WE saw it!"
In the commentary box, chaos mirrored chaos.
"This is absolute madness here at Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán!" "It's turned into a complete riot, I can't even hear myself think!" "Well, Jim, I'll tell you this—that ball looked like it crossed the line. At least from one angle." "Are you joking? It's criminal we don't have goal-line tech in La Liga! This is a disgrace!" "And wait—oh dear—it's not just the players now. The coaches are going at it too!"
Indeed, on the sideline, Lopetegui had completely lost it.
"FRAUDS! CHEATS!" he bellowed, having to be restrained by two assistants as he lunged forward. His tie was half-off, hair disheveled, a man on the edge.
"Get your bloody hands off me!" he snarled as they pulled him back.
Across from him, Koeman wasn't having it either.
"You're one to talk, eh?! Check your own defense first you should have been on 2 red cards already!" Koeman roared back, eyes blazing.
Linesmen and fourth officials were desperately trying to calm them both. A warning was issued—neither cared.
And then…they saw the referee moving.
The referee—Mateu Lahoz, eyes wide and jaw clenched—was walking quickly away from the crowd of players hounding him, trying to escape the chaos. But as he turned—
BAM. He bumped right into Lopetegui.
"You're a bloody cheat, Lahoz!" Lopetegui shouted in his face, shoving off his assistant who tried to hold him back. "You're gonna gift them this, huh? You're giving the King his fucking crown again? You people are why la liga is not competitive you all want the same winners everytime cheats cheats !"
Koeman saw this and barked, "Oh no you don't!" before storming up to them.
Both managers now flanking the referee, their voices climbing, cursing, demanding answers. Lahoz's expression was a mixture of shock, fury, and fatigue.
"Enough!" he snapped, hands raised. "One more word from either of you and you're GONE!"
He stormed toward the VAR station near the touchline, crowd howling all around him. Sevilla fans threw insults like daggers, their faces twisted in fury.
He slipped the headset on. "VAR, what's this?! Was that not a goal?! Tell me now!"
"We're checking, referee," came the voice in his ear. "Check FASTER. This is a season-defining goal—we CANNOT mess this up," Lahoz barked.
The monitor lit up.
Tense moments passed.
He squinted at the screen, jaw tightening. "What am I looking at? That angle's shit."
"It's tight, Lahoz. One angle shows the ball maybe over, another looks inconclusive… Decision's yours."
The pressure slammed into him.
The noise was deafening.
He glanced up—both teams were watching. So were the coaches. So were millions across the world. The weight of two clubs, two cities, and the entire La Liga table rested on his call.
Just a few feet from him, Lopetegui paced, muttering to Koundé. "You cleared it, right?" "I'm certain, coach. I SLID. I TOUCHED it!" Koundé snapped. "Good. They'll see that. VAR will clear this. Just wait."
A few steps away, Koeman put an arm around Mateo's shoulder, his voice low and confident.
"It went in, right?" Mateo looked past him, toward the chaos, then nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure it did." Koeman gave a tight smile. "Good. That's all I need. You did your job. The rest is in his hands now."
Two teams. Two sides. One truth.
All of it held by one man.
Mateu Lahoz, alone in front of the monitor, hand to his mouth, staring down history.
"And now… the moment of truth," the commentator whispered. "The stadium holds its breath—look, even the birds have gone silent."
Lahoz turned.
He faced the pitch. His shoulders rose, then fell.
He raised his arm. His hand pointed… TO THE CENTER CIRCLE.
"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" "HE'S GIVEN IT! THE GOAL STANDS! BARÇA HAVE THREE! MATEO KING HAS THREE HE HAS DONE IT!" "Second game. Second hat trick. SIX GOALS IN TWO GAMES. THE KING IS CROWNED!" "The new beacon of Barcelona has struck again—and he's silenced Sevilla in their own fortress!"
Just as pandemonium exploded—
"Wait—wait—oooooh no no no—what's this??" "OH FOR GOD'S SAKE—LOPETEGUI IS RUSHING AT MATEO!!"
A/N
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