Lopetegui's face twisted with fury as he stormed toward Mateo, eyes blazing. "Liar!" he spat, voice cracking with rage. His steps pounded like thunder as he closed the distance in a heartbeat, each word a sharp jab. "You're full of it! That's not a goal!" Mateo stood frozen, blinking, stunned by the sudden outburst, his voice caught in his throat. "But the ref said—"
"Shut up!" Lopetegui roared, cutting him off, chest heaving. His words spilled out in a furious torrent, relentless and wild.
From across the pitch, Koeman's voice erupted, fiery and sharp. "What are you on about, Lopetegui? Argue with the ref if you've got a problem, not my own player!" His tone was heavy with disbelief and anger, fists clenched at his sides.
Lopetegui didn't answer. He barely even looked at Koeman. His fury was locked onto Mateo, words flying like daggers. "You don't understand the game! You're weak! You don't deserve to be here!" The insults kept coming, raw and cutting. Around them, players and staff rushed in, hands reaching out, trying desperately to pull them apart before things exploded.
Then, like a sudden crack of thunder, the referee stepped between them, voice booming and resolute. "Enough! ENOUGH!" His hands shot out, physically forcing Lopetegui and Mateo apart. "Lopetegui, that's a yellow card!" The ref's glare was steel as he shouted, "Keep it together or you're out!" He didn't pause before turning sharply to Koeman, brandishing another yellow. "And you. Same warning. What's done is done, now back to your positions."
Koeman's protests were loud and furious. "What? What did I do? I was just and you gave him just a yellow—" But the ref cut him off, voice low but unyielding. "Go. Back to your lines. Sevilla, kick off."
As the players dispersed, Lopetegui's glare didn't fade. "Fine," he spat under his breath, voice dripping with venom. "I see how it is. But this match isn't over." His chest rose and fell, furious breaths punctuating his words as he shouted, voice raw and desperate. "You can't cheat to win! God sees everything! The real winners will be known. This? This won't stop us!"
Turning on his heel, he called sharply, "En-Nesyri! Come here!" The young striker jogged up, eyes wide but attentive.
Lopetegui leaned close, intensity crackling between them. "You need to turn up. You think I'll let some 17-year-old steal the spotlight? No way. Are you on? Are you ready?"
En-Nesyri nodded quickly, determination flashing in his eyes. "Yes, yes!"
Lopetegui's grin was sharp, almost predatory. "Good. Let's go."
Meanwhile, Mateo shuffled back to his spot, heart pounding. The whistle blew — kickoff.
Sevilla moved the ball around, quick and confident. Mateo started running toward it, each step heavy but determined. He finally reached the ball and took a breath — maybe this was his moment. He smiled faintly, feeling a flicker of hope.
Then it hit.
A wall of sneers and boos crashed down like a storm from the stands — deafening, overwhelming. Mateo froze, caught off guard, the sound ringing in his ears, momentarily blinding him.
Before he could even react, Acuña slammed into him hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. The ball was ripped away, Acuña clearing it with brutal force.
Mateo hit the ground hard, chest heaving. He looked desperately toward the ref, hands raised in silent plea.
But the referee just looked away, ignoring him.
Acuña sneered down at him, voice dripping with contempt. "Get up. What, want a penalty too? Hah!" He laughed coldly, turning his back without a care.
Mateo grimaced but pushed himself up, crawling to his feet, fingers brushing the grass as he steadied himself. Around him, laughter and cheers erupted from the opposing fans, the cruel soundtrack to the foul he'd just suffered.
It wasn't just Sevilla fans losing their minds — the entire football world online had erupted. Especially the fans of a certain Spanish capital team, whose hatred for Barcelona burned fiercer than ever. The rivalry was no longer just on the pitch; it was everywhere — in tweets, comments, heated debates.
On Twitter, @Asensii20, a notorious Real Madrid fanatic with millions of followers, dropped a bombshell tweet. Attached was a clip of Koundé's clearance — from one angle, it looked like the ball had barely crossed the line.
The tweet read:
"You can never beat Varcelona. What kind of witchcraft is this? This goal was given, good lord. La Liga pushing some new agenda here. We haven't even gotten rid of Messi yet and now they bring this kid in to cheat for them? Good lord, the league is finished. We all know who they want to hand the title to."
Within seconds, the tweet blew up, the notifications flooding in.
The replies were a war zone: Real Madrid fans swarmed in, angry and vocal.
"Barca cheats, always have. Remember 2009 against Chelsea? Still allowed to get away with this? Insane."
"Typical. The refs always favor the Catalans."
Meanwhile, Barcelona fans fired back, equally fierce:
"Cry today, cry tomorrow, cry forever. Mateo's the king, best striker in the league. Bring Benzema outta here."
"Let them rage, we're watching the future of football right here."
And among the fire, a few voices tried to stay calm and reasoned, but even they were drowned out by the chaos.
Back on the pitch, the tension was palpable, thick as fog.
"Oof, Mateo King is down again!" the commentator exclaimed, their voices tight with concern.
"This is just bullying at this point," the co-commentator added, shaking his head. "The ref just walked right past that — didn't even call a foul."
"That's rough," the first voice admitted, "but hey, Sevilla fans love it."
There was a sharp laugh between them. "Well, I can give you three reasons why they'd cheer for that —"
"Three goals against Sevilla's defense, one of the best this season — that's insane!"
"The kid's last match was no fluke. This… this is a habit now."
Suddenly their tone shifted.
"Wait, wait! What's happening? En-Nesyri is one-on-one with the keeper! He's running! He's— GOAL! GOAL! Sevilla has done it again!"
"The equalizer! Just seven minutes after Barcelona's third! Sevilla strikes back!"
"En-Nesyri again! Six goals, third hat-tricks already this season? What is this? Is he feeding off Mateo's energy or what?"
"The stadium's on fire! This match—this match is something else."
The camera cut to Lopetegui, Sevilla's coach, who was on his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs, eyes blazing with passion.
"Best striker! Best striker!" he yelled, pointing at En-Nesyri, who rushed over to celebrate with his coach.
The scoreboard read 3-3. The battle wasn't over. Barcelona's dreams were hanging by a thread.
Mateo looked exhausted now. His runs had slowed, his fire dimmed. The weight of the match—long, brutal—was taking its toll on the 17-year-old phenom.
Without Messi, without La Masia magic lighting the way, could Barcelona hold on? Was this the beginning of the end for the Catalan giants' league aspirations?
Only time would tell.
As the game resumed, the intensity hadn't dropped one bit. Sevilla controlled the tempo, the rhythm of the game shifting. Mateo, once fiery and fierce, seemed drained. The Sevilla players grew more aggressive, the fight for every inch fiercer.
The drama, the heartbreak, the passion — all boiling over in a match that would be remembered long after the final whistle.
The game pressed on with relentless intensity. Sevilla controlled the attack now, their confidence surging with every touch of the ball. En-Nesyri and Luuk de Jong had taken command of the pitch, dictating the tempo with precision, pushing Barcelona back relentlessly, hunting for that next killer blow.
But Mateo—he was a shadow of the player he had been earlier. His once-blazing runs had slowed, his spark dulled under the crushing pressure. Koundé toyed with him mercilessly, forcing Mateo into tight spaces, shutting down every attempt to break free. No longer did he dart past defenders; now, he settled for cautious short passes, doing everything he could just to keep the ball away from danger.
Meanwhile, Pedri had become a warrior. He was everywhere on the pitch—covering, defending, even throwing himself into desperate last-man saves. The boy was a one-man army, saving Barcelona's skin time and again.
Griezmann and Dembélé had both found chances, but under the growing weight of pressure, they squandered them. Ter Stegen, however, stood tall—pulling off a world-class save that sent the crowd into a roar of disbelief.
En-Nesyri was nearly on the cusp of scoring his fourth goal, the ball just inches away from turning this match into a nightmare for Barcelona. The physicality of the game had soared off the charts—five yellow cards already, three for Sevilla, two for Barcelona. Then came the moment that shattered the balance: Ocampos, with a brutal and vicious foul, dragged Busquets back like prey. The referee's hand shot out—a red card. No choice.
This was what it meant to fight for the league—raw, unyielding, blood and bone and spirit clashing under the floodlights. Passion distilled. Football in its purest, cruelest form.
Suddenly, a scream tore through the roar of the crowd.
It was Pedri.
He was down on the ground, clutching his calves after a heavy foul from Luuk de Jong. The referee finally blew his whistle, halting the chaos for a moment.
Luuk muttered under his breath, sharp and dismissive, "Get up, stop faking. I barely touched you." But the pressure didn't ease.
The referee approached Pedri, concern softening his stern expression. "Are you alright? Can you continue? Do you want to come off?"
Pedri gritted his teeth, wincing through the pain but shaking his head firmly. He waved the ref off. "I'm fine, I'm fine." He struggled to rise.
Then, a hand appeared — rough, worn, yet steady. Mateo. He was breathing heavily, his jersey smeared with dirt and grass stains, sweat and grit streaking his face. Without hesitation, he offered support.
"Are you okay?" Mateo's voice was rough but steady.
Pedri pressed his foot down cautiously, wincing from the sharp sting, then nodded. "Yeah… I'm good. Just… these guys are relentless."
Mateo grimaced knowingly, his weary eyes meeting Pedri's. The dirt on Mateo's jersey told its own story — the countless fouls, the brutal punishment he had endured throughout the match.
Pedri, sweat dripping, chest heaving, lowered his voice. "What about you? You holding up?"
The answer came like a punch to the gut.
"No."
Mateo's voice was low, raw with exhaustion. "My legs feel like lead. I can't run anymore… I'm so tired. So weak. Sometimes, I just want to die out there."
Pedri's eyes widened in shock and worry.
"Then let's get the coach to sub you off," he urged.
"No," Mateo breathed out bitterly. "If he hasn't taken me off by now… it means we have no one better. So…"
Pedri sighed deeply, the weight of the team's struggles settling heavy on his shoulders. "Fuck… I really want to beat these guys."
Mateo suddenly looked up, his eyes wide and shining with something pure — hope, innocence, belief.
"Then let's beat them," he said simply.
Pedri blinked, confused. "How?"
Mateo laughed — a fierce, carefree sound — jogging backward with a grin that could light up the darkest night. "We have a free kick now. And remember what I said earlier — in the air… I'm god."
His laughter rang out, fiery and inspiring, as he headed back into position.
Pedri stood still for a moment, watching him. Despite the bruises, the exhaustion, the battered body before him, Mateo seemed untouchable in spirit.
A smile broke through Pedri's tension as he moved toward the free kick spot.
Frankie de Jong joined him, eyebrows raised in question. "What's the plan?"
Pedri just looked at him, a grin spreading wider. "We have a god in the front. Why not use him?"
The stadium was a cauldron of noise, nerves stretched taut as the clock ticked mercilessly toward the 96th minute. The commentators' voices dropped to hushed reverence, weaving words thick with suspense and awe.
"96th minute now… Barcelona with a free kick," one whispered, barely audible over the roar. "Can they snatch victory here? Or will Sevilla, once again, steal a draw? For the fourth time this season against the giants, no less…"
The other voice joined, poetic and breathless, "And what a game it's been—a breathless, thrilling 3-3. Funny enough, the first time Sevilla has scored three goals all season. A match that's been a tempest of passion and skill, and now… it's all coming to a boiling point."
Pedri, the tireless maestro of the midfield, stepped forward to take the kick. The commentators poured over his stats as if reciting scripture: pass accuracy north of ninety percent, balls recovered in every corner of the pitch, relentless, everywhere at once. "Just eighteen years old," one marveled, "and already the favorite to be this year's Golden Boy. If you're searching for a reincarnation of Iniesta, here he is."
A beat passed, then another.
"What will Barcelona do with this? Can they carve out a moment of magic in these dying seconds? Or will Sevilla's iron grip hold fast once again?"
Inside the box, the tension was a living, breathing thing.
Mateo stood where strikers often linger in these moments of cruel fate, heart hammering against ribs like a frantic drum. The air was thick with anticipation and the weight of expectation.
Diego, the Sevilla defender, sidled up with a cruel grin, eyes sparkling with mockery. "Ooo, you again, kid," he sneered, laughter curling from his lips like smoke. "Seems my partner really showed you what's what. Well, I'm back. I'm here to finish the job. Let me make this easy for you."
His body slammed against Mateo's, the pressure crushing down like a boulder. Mateo's legs trembled under the weight, his muscles screaming in protest. Diego's laughter echoed again. "This is just sad. Why hasn't your coach subbed you out yet?"
Mateo said nothing. His mind was a storm.
I'm tired. So goddamn tired. My legs are lead. My lungs are on fire. I just want to lie down. To sleep. To disappear.
But then — a flicker.
But the job's not finished. No. Not yet.
His eyes snapped open, the haze lifting. He would be honest: the last thirty minutes had been a struggle. A fight just to stay in the game. No fast runs, no dazzling moves. Just survival.
But now — now was the last minute. Everything came rushing back. The fire. The fight.
He slammed his fist into his thigh, muttering to himself, voice rough, barely a whisper, "One last time. Even if I burn out. One last time."
The referee's whistle sliced through the tension like a knife.
Mateo felt the world narrow down to a pinpoint, his body writhing with energy he didn't know he still had. He wiggled, twisted, shaking off Diego's clutches as the defender tried to hold him down, tried to break him. But Mateo shook him loose — a fierce storm unleashed.
Ahead of him, Dembele stood, a solid wall — and Mateo used him. Shoulders pushing against Dembele's, he launched himself upward, a leap fueled by desperation and hope.
His head connected with the ball in a thunderous clash. The ringing in his skull was immediate, sharp — a painful, electric shock that shot through his body.
Instinctively, he shook his head, clearing the haze just enough to direct the ball. Mid-air, tumbling over, he didn't care about the pain, the fall, the world spinning around him.
His eyes locked on the ball as the keeper lunged, fingers grazing it — a whisper of contact.
But the ball slipped past, crossing the line.
Mateo hit the ground hard, landing awkwardly on his back, breath whooshing out of him in a ragged gasp.
Then—above the roar—a deafening, wild sound erupted from the far end of the stadium, where the away fans screamed their joy. A goal.
He pushed himself up, not caring about the searing pain that flared through his body, not caring that his teammates were pulling at him, trying to steady him.
Weak, trembling, he staggered toward the corner flag.
He ripped his jersey over his head, tears streaming down his face, voice cracking as he screamed, "Gooooaaallll!"
The stadium exploded.
His teammates swarmed him, lifting him, jumping, shouting, tears mixing with sweat and dirt. The camera caught every raw, unfiltered emotion—the exhaustion, the relief, the triumph—all etched on Mateo's battered, bare chest.
He was a mess. A warrior. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.
"AHHHHH! GOOOAAAALLL! GOAAALLLLL! GAOLLLLLL!" The commentators' voices shattered the night. "It's a goal! At the 96th minute! Mateo King has done it! He just scored for Barcelona! Surely this seals it! Surely he has proven himself — THIS is why the coach never took him off. This... this is immortality. This is crowning himself on the battlefield of his childhood club. THIS is what it means to play for Barcelona."
Twelve miles away, inside the home of the living legend—Messi's house—the sound of the goal exploded through the walls. His children erupted in joyous screams, "Goooaaalll!" The air thick with celebration, Mateo's own son laughed wildly, jumping and shouting, "Mateo is the best! He is the best! He is the best!"
Mateo's voice cracked with emotion on the screen, shouting at the camera as the cameras zoomed in on his tear-streaked face — raw, unfiltered joy and relief flooding his eyes.
Messi stood frozen, staring at the screen. The commentators' words washed over him like a tide he hadn't expected. He saw the boy—Mateo—so young, so fierce, so vulnerable. And then the tears welled in Messi's own eyes.
For years, Messi's fire had been flickering low, the game that once set his soul ablaze now feeling like a grind. With Xavi gone, Iniesta gone, Neymar gone, and now Suarez's departure this season, his love for football had quietly slipped away. He'd been playing as if it was just a job—no passion, no joy—just endurance, keeping fit for the World Cup, and maybe, just maybe, dreaming of leaving Europe behind after that.
The spark of love for the game was dimming.
But watching that 17-year-old boy cry in triumph at a comeback in a league game... something stirred deep within Messi. Something he hadn't felt in a long time.
A small, almost imperceptible smile curled on his lips as he whispered, "Maybe... maybe I need to start trying again."
Back on the pitch, the referee's whistle sliced through the night.
"And it's over!" the commentators' voices rose again, the crescendo of a symphony finally reaching its peak. "Barcelona 4, Sevilla 3. Barcelona have won it—not because they were better, not because of tactics or grand plans. No Messi, no party. Yet here they are, victorious at one of the toughest grounds in world football. The same stadium where Real Madrid was shut down, where Atletico was slayed. And they scored four goals. No, no, Mateo scored four goals! He carried Barcelona on his back—he alone proved to everyone that no Messi? We still win. We are Barca. We are one of the greatest clubs in the world."
"Is this the beginning of Mateo King's domination in La Liga? Seven goals in just 100 minutes of play? Is this the birth of another legend? The rise of the Catalan giants from the ashes?"
The commentary softened, took on a poetic tone, reverent and awed.
"This—this is what it means to play for Barcelona. More than a club, more than a name, more than history and trophies. It is about heart, about fighting when every muscle screams for rest. It is about legacy and love, about proving that the spirit of this great club can never be extinguished. And tonight, Mateo King reminded the world that Barca's soul is alive, burning brighter than ever."
A/N
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