4-3.
The thrilling war between Barcelona and Sevilla had finally come to its violent, breathless end. Seven goals. Two teams. Two rivals. Two titans. Two individuals whose battle had electrified an entire league.
This season in La Liga had been baptized something else entirely:The Season of Strikers.
For years, wingers had ruled these lands, dancing down the flanks, filling highlight reels. But now, finally, the great predators of the box — the pure strikers — had reclaimed their throne Excluding the one winger who stared at them from above like a god.
From Karim Benzema, who had blossomed into something frightening since Ronaldo's departure — carrying Madrid's offense with a poise only the world's elite possess.To Villarreal's own poacher, Gerard Moreno, enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime ascent into world-class territory.And of course, Luis Suárez — exiled from Barcelona, fueled by revenge, dragging Atlético forward like a vengeful god determined to rewrite his own ending. His team sitting atop the table — his teeth gritted, his eyes still burning.
This was their year. The year of finishers. The year of the nine.
And if that was the year of strikers —then this was the match of the year.
The entire league was ablaze. In Barcelona, fans poured into the streets of Catalonia, celebrating a performance for the ages. The city vibrated with life, as flags flew, songs rang through the night, and fireworks lit up the skyline like war drums for their rising king.
Online, the opposing fans came swinging with their own weapons:"VARcelona!" they screamed, accusing the referees of robbery.Memes flooded timelines — one viral image of Mateo on his knees, shirt off, tears in his eyes after his late winner, captioned:"Scored against 10-man Sevilla and thinks he won the Champions League."
The poetry, the struggle — all lost in the noise. Because in modern football, truth is often irrelevant. Agenda feeds engagement. Outrage drives the clicks. And so the storm raged on. In a state where Agenda must always agend.
Debates spiraled endlessly. Barcelona fans screamed at rival supporters, their battle cry clear:"We're coming for the league!"And somewhere, under the surface, everyone waited for one thing: the day when their new prince would finally take the pitch beside their aging captain — the one wearing number ten.
But as always in football, time moves on. The sun rises. The sun sets. And the carousel turns.
First, the post-match press conference became the next spectacle — two managers at war, Lopetegui and Koeman, both still simmering, throwing subtle and not-so-subtle jabs. The media devoured every word.
And then — like it always does — came the next match. And the next. And the next.
For a professional footballer — especially in the long, brutal stretch between midseason and season's end — life becomes a metronome.
Wake. Eat. Train. Recover.Wake. Eat. Study tactics. Play.Sleep.Repeat.
It is a life of cold repetition — a symphony of controlled suffering.The flights. The hotels. The endless drills. The tactical briefings. The same training ground. The same conversations. The same muscle aches.The same weight.
For Mateo, everything had changed that night against Sevilla. Overnight, he had become a key cog in Barcelona's machine. The pressure increased, the expectations mounted — but the rhythm remained relentless.
The world outside screamed his name.But inside the grind, Mateo barely heard it. He was lost in the gears of the machine now — head down, boots laced, body aching, mind focused.Victory or failure was no longer emotional. It was procedural.
Game after game, week after week, match after match — until the days themselves began to blur.The silent march of an athlete chasing greatness.
But then, like a drumroll echoing from distant mountains — something shifted.The lights dimmed. The anthem returned. The calendar flipped.
The most sacred stage in the club sport had arrived.
Champions League football was back.
The floodlights of Europe. The grand cathedral where legends are made. Where the strongest devour the weak. Where nerves tremble and hearts pound beneath billions of watching eyes.
And for Mateo — who had already taken La Liga by storm —the mountain had grown steeper.
A new, more brutal chapter awaited him.
A greater test.
A more ruthless world.
A higher throne to chase.
Europe was calling.
And destiny was waiting.
In a brilliant studio lit like a cathedral of football, four figures stood — three men and one woman — gathered to discuss the world's game.
The beautiful game.
The global obsession.
Football.
And tonight, like millions across the world, their attention was focused on one name that had taken over every timeline, every conversation, every barbershop debate, every late-night podcast argument:
Mateo Alexander Nicolás King.
But more specifically, his next great trial.
The looming storm: Barcelona vs PSG.
The new teenage prodigy versus the crowned prince of Paris.
Mateo vs Mbappé.
The CBS Sports Golazo UEFA Champions League studio was alive.
Kate Abdo, Thierry Henry, Jamie Carragher, and Micah Richards — a panel of legends, humor, and passion, standing before the screen where destiny's next chapter was unfolding.
Then, amidst the calm hum of studio lights, Thierry's voice rang out into the silence — weighty, poetic, and full of disbelief:
"Three goals in ten minutes in his debut… to stage a comeback."
"Four goals against the second-best defensive side in Spain — a last-minute header from another world."
"A goal and two assists off the bench against Osasuna at the Camp Nou."
"One goal, three assists away at Real Sociedad just days later."
"And four goals — four — plus two assists against Eibar back home."
"Thirteen goals. Seven assists. Five games."
"Twenty... I repeat — twenty goal contributions in five matches."
Thierry paused, shaking his head, eyes wide as if trying to process the absurdity.
"This is ridiculous. What is this? FIFA? Career mode?!"
As his voice trailed off in disbelief, laughter cut through the air.
Jamie Carragher grinned mischievously.
"What happened, Titi? Feeling jealous? Couldn't you have done that too back in the day?"
Thierry chuckled, waving the paper dramatically.
"Pardon? Maybe. But at seventeen? Definitely not."
Kate Abdo chimed in, her signature blend of sharp wit and charm cutting through the banter:
"Please. Lord knows if it was you defending him, Jamie, these stats wouldn't even be that high."
Micah Richards burst out laughing, slapping the table.
"Ooooh, that's cold, Kate. Cold! True… but cold."
Jamie raised his hands, feigning indignation.
"Oh, come on now!"
Thierry leaned in, arching his brow with playful defiance.
"What? Don't tell me you've forgotten, Jamie — 2003, 2004 — hat-trick. 4-2. Hmm? Hmm?"
Micah roared with laughter.
"Ooooh! That's true! Producer — can we get that on the screen? Let's roll the highlights!"
Jamie shook his head laughing.
"Ha ha — alright, alright. Can we get back to the topic now?"
Their camaraderie was electric — like old friends at a pub who just happen to be legends of the sport.
The chemistry was effortless — the banter real.
And yet, beneath the jokes, the entire world shared their awe. Because like everyone else in world football, they were discussing the player who had taken over every headline, every hashtag, every whisper inside the game's inner sanctum:
Mateo King.
The teenage wonder.
The boy who had flipped Barcelona's season on its head.
The story nobody could stop watching.
But tonight's focus wasn't just on his past — it was on his future.
The next chapter.
The colossal matchup that was days away.
Barcelona vs PSG.
Mateo versus Mbappé.
The future versus the present.
Barcelona fans, once battered and broken, had found new life with Mateo leading their charge. Their hope was reborn, their pride restored.
The fans screamed into the night:
"We did the remontada against you before — and we'll do it again!"
Not to be outdone, PSG supporters clapped back with venom:
"Mbappé hat-trick again — this time at the Parc des Princes!"
The neutrals, with no horse in the race, watched in gleeful anticipation — expecting fireworks, drama, and history. Two heavyweights. Two legacies colliding.
Despite Porto's shocking elimination of Juventus — sending Cristiano Ronaldo home on away goals —
Despite Dortmund's narrow victory over Sevilla, led by the monstrous Erling Haaland —
Despite Liverpool's simultaneous clash with RB Leipzig that same night —
The world's gaze was here.
All eyes — every eye — turned to Paris.
The main event.
Even in the CBS studio, amidst the jokes and laughter, the energy was building. The unspoken understanding was clear:
"Okay, okay!" Jamie said, his Scouse accent slicing through the laughter like a whistle. "Can we get back to the topic at hand?"
The group chuckled, and Micah immediately fired back, amused by Jamie's tone.
"Here we go—'Mr. Serious' returns!" Micah teased, shaking his head. "You always gotta reel it back, don't you?"
Jamie waved him off, grinning. "No, listen, listen—this actually reminds me of a TikTok I saw this morning."
Micah's face lit up instantly with shock and amusement.
"You're on TikTok?" he exclaimed, voice booming as always. "Jamie Carragher? TikTok? Are you serious?"
Kate, smiling slyly, added her own jab. "Oh, Jamie, don't tell me you've gone fully Gen Z on us now."
Jamie, playing along, puffed out his chest dramatically like a dad trying to be cool. "Listen, I'm a modern man, yeah? I gotta stay current, keep up with the kids these days. Gotta know my memes, you know?"
Micah doubled over laughing, while Henry just shook his head with a chuckle. Kate covered her mouth, amused by Jamie's "dad joke" energy.
Jamie continued, still smiling as he pulled up the stat he had memorized. "Anyway! This is what I saw — and honestly, it's kinda beautiful. In 2015, when Messi got injured, right? He missed eight matches. But Barça? They weren't worried. Because in those eight matches… a prince stood up."
Jamie paused, his voice lowering, adding an almost poetic rhythm to his words.
"Neymar Jr. stepped forward. In those eight matches, 13 goals. 9 assists. The crown didn't fall. It was simply passed."
He paused again for dramatic effect. "And now… 2021. Messi's out again. But once more, a prince has risen to the occasion. Mateo King. 13 goals. 7 assists. Keeping the king's legacy alive while wearing the Blaugrana. Another prince… standing tall beneath the same spotlight."
For a moment, even Micah was quiet.
"Wow," Kate said softly, smiling. "Beautiful speech, right there."
Jamie raised his hand modestly, shrugging. "Well… it was on TikTok," he admitted, and the table erupted into laughter again.
Thierry, his arms crossed, finally spoke up, his tone shifting into sincere admiration.
"All jokes aside—this is insane," Thierry said, shaking his head slowly. "20 goal contributions. At just 17 years old. At Barcelona. In La Liga."
He raised his hands slightly, like a man genuinely baffled by what he was witnessing.
"I'm blown away."
Micah, still chuckling, chimed in. "Whatever they're feeding them at La Masia—sign me up for that diet!"
Laughter rippled through the studio again, but then Kate brought it back to business, her journalist instincts taking over.
"Mateo King," she began, her voice steady and clear, "is truly a marvel. But… can he do it when the stars shine brightest? Against PSG?" She glanced around the table.
"Now before the first leg, Thierry and i—you both picked Barcelona to qualify. While Jamie—you and Micah both picked PSG. But after that first leg, with this sudden resurgence from Barcelona and the emergence of Mateo… have your hearts shifted? Or are you sticking with your original picks?"
The air grew slightly more serious now, as eyes turned to Thierry first.
"You know what?" Thierry said, leaning forward with a calm conviction. "I'm sticking with Barcelona."
Jamie gasped, eyes wide with mock shock. "Really?!"
Thierry shot him a playful glance. "Yeah, really."
Kate turned her gaze to Jamie next. "I guess that means you're still staying with Paris Saint-Germain, Jamie?"
Jamie nodded. "Of course," he said confidently. "Mateo? Fantastic lad. Brilliant, truly. But still not truly proven at this level to handle that champions league pressure. Mbappé is proven. We've already seen it — first leg, Mbappé ran riot. He's top three in world football right now, no doubt. Even if Barça score, I believe the defense will decide it. And Barcelona's defense... they simply cannot hold Mbappé."
Thierry quickly cut in, raising a finger. "And who's number one then, eh?" he said, smiling mischievously. "Everyone's saying Mateo vs Mbappé — but for the first time, everyone's forgetting about someone. Another 'M' in this equation."
He paused, his eyes gleaming as he delivered his point.
"We all know that Messi will be available for this match. It's not like he's injured. If Mateo and Messi click on that pitch? I know they can stage the comeback. And let's not forget—Neymar's out for PSG again."
Micah couldn't resist throwing in his usual quip. "Off to his sister's birthday, am I right?" he said, laughing.
The group chuckled, and Micah leaned in toward Kate.
"Okay—you sold me, Henry. I'm switching. I'm with Barcelona now. They've got the momentum. PSG haven't been convincing in Ligue 1 this season. If Barça show up with that fire, I think they can pull this off."
Kate smiled, wrapping it up gracefully.
"And that's that," she said brightly. "Thierry sticks with Barcelona. Micah follows Thierry—"
"Hey!" Micah interjected, drawing more laughs.
"—Jamie stays with PSG. And me?" Kate smiled. "I'll stay neutral and just enjoy the show." "Hey that's not fair" Micha said as Kate just ignored him.
She looked directly into the camera now, delivering her signature closing with smooth confidence.
"Wednesday night is going to be a thriller — and you can expect us to be there live as Barcelona take on Paris Saint-Germain. This is the UEFA Champions League. I'm Kate Abdo — goodnight."
The lights dimmed slightly as the CBS Golazo logo gently faded into the background, the excitement for the clash ahead hanging in the air like electricity.
As CBS Golazo wrapped up its broadcast, the segment quickly set the football world ablaze. The panel's debates echoed far beyond the studio walls, spilling straight into the ocean of fan conversations online. Within minutes, the comment sections lit up like wildfire, each side taking their position like soldiers before battle.
"Kate coming after Jamie — this show is priceless! Finally free my boy Micah for once 😂"
"Thierry is always biased 🤦♂️. Mateo is good, and yeah Messi is back, but Jamie is right. Barca's defense can't handle Mbappé. If they defend like the first leg, I PROMISE you Mbappe's bagging another hat-trick."
"Exactly, Henry! People are forgetting about Messi — that's their biggest mistake. Another Remontada coming. Just watch."
"Are we seriously comparing Mateo with Mbappé? WORLD CUP WINNER MBAPPÉ? Barcelona PR is insane. Five good games and suddenly he's the next coming? Madness."
"Jamie on TikTok?! What's your username? We're following you 😂"
"Barcelona kills me. They really think this is 2009 or 2015. No comeback is happening. You guys better start thinking about next season. Madrid's winning the Champions League and Atletico's taking La Liga. You lot are finished."
"People keep doubting us, but I know my squad. Thierry gets it. This is the comeback of Barcelona. Just watch."
The battlefield of opinions raged — some filled with belief, others soaked in skepticism. Some fans rallied behind the dream of another miracle; others waved the cold flag of realism, anchored by past heartbreaks. Optimism clashed with cynicism, faith battled facts, hope stood tall against history. And yet, like always, football thrived in the chaos of debate.
While the fans argued... while the world voiced their certainties and doubts... while timelines flooded with hot takes and hashtags...
...in the heart of Catalonia, beneath the Spanish sun, the real battle was quietly already underway.
CLANG!
The sharp metallic sound of the ball ricocheting off the post rang through the quiet training ground before it bounced into the back of the net with a satisfying rustle. The oohs and wows of the coaching staff and a few watching teammates followed immediately after.
From his position between the sticks, Ter Stegen stood frozen — motionless, his eyes wide for a brief second as if trying to calculate how, for the umpteenth time that morning, the ball had slipped past him with impossible precision.
With a dramatic sigh, he pulled off his gloves, shaking his head.
"That's it," he muttered, deadpan. "I'm going to get some water."
Laughter erupted behind him as he walked toward the sideline, leaving his gloves swinging loosely in his hands.
Messi, strolling slowly toward Mateo, clapped lightly, amused by both the goal and his goalkeeper's exaggerated exit.
"Nice shot," Leo said, smiling.
Mateo, still catching his breath, rubbed the back of his head shyly. "No, no — it was your pass. You did all the work. I just... shot the ball."
Messi raised an eyebrow, still smiling. "Come on," he said, nodding toward the cones. "Let's run it again. I want to figure out exactly which angles you prefer. We'll get the timing perfect."
Mateo nodded, smiling brightly as he followed behind his idol. The light breeze swirled around them as the sun bathed the pitch in a golden glow. There was no pressure here. No weight of expectation, no heavy headlines hanging over his shoulders. No talk of PSG, of Mbappé, or of comebacks.
Just a 17-year-old boy, training with his hero, passing the ball under the Barcelona sky — free, unbothered, completely in the moment.
A/N
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