"Enjoy the ball. The result will come."
"I will make you the best footballer in the world."
That night etched itself into the core of Mateo King's soul.
He wouldn't realize it fully in the moment — not with the scent of Messi's home still fresh in his nose, not with the aftertaste of Antonela's lunch still lingering on his tongue, or with the soft echo of Thiago's laughter chasing him down the hallway — but something had changed.
That night was a turning point. A quiet, irreversible shift.
Like a star drifting into the pull of a new gravity.
Messi's words… they weren't just encouragement. They were legacy. They were weight. They were a torch passed down from the greatest to the one he saw potential in — not to copy him, but to continue him. To evolve the very thing he had carried for decades.
And those two phrases — one light, one heavy — would come to be one of the major things to define everything Mateo became.
Not just as a player.
As a man.
"Enjoy the ball." The freedom to express. The courage to risk. The love of the game above all.
"I will make you the best footballer in the world." The standard. The responsibility. The fire.
Those weren't just words. They were the blueprint. The compass. The promise. And for Mateo… they would become law.
And Messi — he didn't wait.
Because just days later, football returned.
Matchday.
Mestalla Stadium. Valencia.
Another proud La Liga giant now fading in the shadows of its history, limping through a forgettable campaign. Eleventh in the table, restless in the stands, pride wounded — but still dangerous.
Mateo stood on the pitch under the glow of the stadium lights. The wind kissed his face, but there was no voice in his ear. No system prompt. No stat updates. No simulated advantage. Two games in a row
Just silence.
And purpose.
And yet — that voice from days ago echoed louder than any system ever could.
"I will make you the best footballer in the world."
Mateo's jaw clenched. His eyes burned with a fire that hadn't been there before. This was more than a match. It was the first step of the promise. The first page of a new chapter. And he wasn't walking alone — he was carrying belief from the best in the world.
The referee raised his whistle.
And blew.
And it began.
A promise had been made.
And conviction — burning, unspoken conviction — ran like electricity through the veins of every Barça player on that pitch.
There was no speech, no extra orders from the touchline. But something was different. The rhythm. The flow. The intent. It was as if the eleven men wearing Blaugrana understood each other beyond words — responding to something deeper than tactics.
They pressed harder. Passed cleaner. Moved sharper.
Every touch was purposeful. Every run, meaningful.
Because when the heart of your team — two hearts, Messi and Mateo — play like men chosen by destiny…
the rest of the body follows.
The air was thick with noise as the game at Mestalla kicked off. Valencia, 11th in the table but proud and dangerous at home, started with energy. But within minutes, that energy was silenced.
4th Minute
Messi had the ball near the right sideline, barely inside the Valencia half. A simple pass seemed likely — but then, in a blur, he cut inside. One. Two. Three defenders — each trying to close him down, each failing as he twisted through them with delicate touches and shoulder feints. He approached the edge of the box, the crowd rising in anticipation, thinking surely he would shoot.
But he didn't.
With a flick of his left foot, cheeky and effortless, he sent a lofted through ball toward the far post — threading the gap between Diakhaby and Gayà.
Mateo was there.
Not stopping. Not thinking. Just reacting. The ball floated down, and without letting it touch the ground, he unleashed a savage volley. The sound of leather smacking leather rang like thunder.
Cillessen barely moved.
The net rippled, the stadium gasped, and Mateo turned away, pumping his fists, as the scoreboard lit up: Valencia 0 - 1 Barcelona.
7th Minute
Pedri darted into midfield, pressing hard. A misstep by Soler — and Pedri pounced. He poked the ball free, then stormed forward, threading between Račić and Wass.
Messi drifted out wide, pulling defenders with him. Pedri feinted like he was passing to the captain. Valencia's back line shifted — a fatal error.
In that instant, Pedri sliced an insane through ball down the middle. A line-breaker. Clinical.
Mateo was gone.
Brutal pace. Like he'd been fired from a cannon. Diakhaby tried to keep up — no chance. The field opened. Mateo was one-on-one with the keeper.
He didn't panic. His stride slowed for half a second, he swayed — a pendulum swing — and lashed it low into the bottom corner.
Goal. Again. 2–0 Barcelona.
Before 10 minutes, Mateo had scored twice. Mestalla was stunned. The away section roared — chants of "HAT-TRICK! HAT-TRICK!" ringing loud. Flags waved, fans danced, knowing the game already felt sealed. A third goal seemed inevitable. A fourth? Expected.
The home fans? Silent. Like a crowd waiting for the storm to pass. On the Valencia bench, only the coach's voice rang out, shouting — desperate, animated — barking instructions no one believed.
"Focus! Stay tight! We fight back now, don't fold!"
But even he didn't sound convinced. His words trailed with a sigh. Defeat already crept into his tone.
On the Barça bench, the mood was the polar opposite. Koeman was up, shouting encouragement, but with a grin playing on his lips. The substitutes behind him — laughing, joking, all smiles.
Except one.
Ousmane Dembélé.
He watched the pitch, arms crossed, face blank. Messi had just delivered another unreal pass to Mateo, who took off again like a bullet.
Dembélé blinked. Even he — quick as lightning — was shocked at that pace. The only one he'd seen match it was another Frenchman…
Kylian.
He watched, breath held, as Mateo reached the box and — this time — misfired. He hit it early. The shot curved beautifully past Cillessen — but hit the post. The ball ricocheted back. A missed hat-trick.
The bench groaned. "OOHHHHH!" Coaches and players alike cursed the missed chance.
Dembélé? He felt… a flicker. A tiny, unwelcome spark of relief.
Then guilt.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He tried to shove the feeling away, but it lingered.
Since Mateo's rise, life hadn't been easy. Not at Barça.
The system had changed. The entire playstyle now revolved around Mateo's speed and finishing. Messi had dropped deeper, playing like a midfield maestro. Griezmann served as a battering ram — pulling defenders, opening channels. Mateo? The tip of the spear. Deadly.
Where did Dembélé fit in?
Not as Griezmann — he couldn't hold up play, couldn't bully center-backs.
Not as Messi — no one could do what Messi did.
Only one position made sense.
Mateo's.
And he knew — honestly, painfully — he wasn't taking that spot. Not with Mateo's form.
The only reason he still saw minutes was Mateo's stamina — still developing. But the coaches were working overtime on that. Recovery, fitness, nutrition. Sooner or later, Mateo would be a 90-minute machine.
And then… it was over.
Contract talks had stalled. Silence. His agent kept trying, but the club ignored them. Excuses, delays.
And now? They wouldn't even take his calls.
Dembélé had been angry. At the club. At Mateo. But deep down, he knew… this wasn't their fault.
This was a skill issue.
He had come here for glory. Big money. Ballon d'Or dreams.
But injuries. Inconsistency. Missed chances. Every time he thought he was back — form vanished. And now, as he watched Mateo's movement — the fire in his eyes, the hunger, the ease…
Dembélé realized football — Barcelona — wasn't waiting for him.
Someone else had seized the moment.
And for the first time, Dembélé thought:
Maybe I should leave.
While Dembélé wrestled with his future on the bench, the match raged on.
And Valencia, perhaps shaken by those two early blows, began to claw their way back. Maybe it was the coach's relentless shouting, the echo of desperation in his voice, but something clicked. The defenders tightened their lines, their midfielders pressed harder, and they started barging at Barça's door with more confidence, more aggression.
By the 17th minute, the shift was clear. A slick sequence began from Carlos Soler, who outmaneuvered Busquets near the center circle with a clever flick. Soler pushed the ball to the left flank, where José Gayà surged forward, overlapping with Cheryshev. Gayà sent in a wicked cross into the box—dangerous, fast, begging for a connection.
Maxi Gómez leapt.
For a second, the entire stadium froze.
But his header was wild, uncontrolled, veering far off the mark and slicing into the crowd. A golden chance wasted. The Barça fans behind the goal breathed again, taunting the striker as the ball landed on the advertising boards. Goal kick.
Ter Stegen calmly placed the ball and resumed play.
From there, the match became a tug of war. In the 21st minute, Messi collected a pass from Dest near the halfway line, turned swiftly, and danced past Račić with ease. His eyes scanned ahead, and as always—Mateo was on the run, pulling Diakhaby out of position with his blistering pace.
Messi sent a through ball.
But Gabriel Paulista anticipated it, sliding in to cut it off with a crunching tackle that drew a roar from the home fans.
In the 28th minute, Pedri spun his marker brilliantly in midfield, then drove forward, slipping a sharp ball to Griezmann on the left. Griezmann held it, using his strength to shield it, before laying it off to Jordi Alba overlapping. Alba whipped in a cross toward Mateo, who had peeled away from his marker, but Correia intercepted, clearing it desperately.
Valencia were fighting now—gritting their teeth, throwing their bodies in the way. Every Barça attack met a wall of orange.
But all that pressure, all that fight, brought fatigue.
As the 45th minute approached—just seconds from halftime—Valencia made a crucial mistake.
They relaxed.
Maybe they thought they'd done enough to stop the bleeding. Maybe they felt safe, knowing they'd held Barça at bay since the 7th minute.
But Messi was watching.
Walking around the pitch casually, his head low, eyes constantly scanning. He noticed it—the slackened shoulders, the looser marking. He saw the ball drift to Jordi Alba on the left, who was looking for an option.
Messi didn't call for it.
He drifted inward instead, his movement slow at first, then deliberate. Two Valencia defenders clocked his motion. They hesitated—should they follow him? Should they hold their line?
It was a trap.
They couldn't leave him free, so they followed. But following him meant leaving their defensive structure vulnerable.
And Messi, with all his years of experience, was leading them exactly where he wanted.
He picked up speed.
Busquets, sensing the shift, played a quick one-two with Messi. De Jong joined in, giving Messi another option. With a sudden burst, Messi wove through the two trailing defenders, the ball glued to his foot like magic.
Griezmann drifted wide, into the space the defenders had vacated. Everyone—everyone—expected the pass to go to him.
It didn't.
Messi unleashed a devastating, defense-splitting pass straight through the heart of Valencia's line. It made Pedri's earlier pass look like child's play. It was surgical, precise.
And Mateo was already gone.
He had started the run before the ball even left Messi's foot, as if he could feel it coming. He burned past the final defender. Cillessen rushed out.
Mateo went to shoot—
And was clipped from behind.
He stumbled, fell.
The whistle blew.
Penalty.
The stadium erupted into chaos. Valencia players swarmed the referee, shouting, gesturing, trying to plead their case. But it was no use. The ref pointed firmly to the spot. The decision stood.
Messi stepped forward.
Cillessen stood on the line, heart pounding. He'd faced Messi before—years ago, in training. But this felt different. This was a penalty. This was humiliation waiting.
The whistle blew.
Messi approached.
And passed.
A short, gentle tap sideways.
Gasps echoed around the stadium. The defenders froze, stunned. Everyone except one.
Mateo.
Already moving.
The keeper had dived, reacting to the penalty, leaving the net open. Mateo swept in and smashed it home.
Goal.
3-0.
Hat trick completed.
Before halftime.
The away end erupted, chanting, singing, dancing. The home crowd sat in stunned silence.
And Mateo King, arms outstretched, was already sprinting back to Messi, who stood smiling.
A promise fulfilled. A dream continuing.
After halftime, the match seemed all but settled, with Barcelona commanding a 3–0 lead. Valencia's coach, desperate for damage control, made two substitutions—bringing on fresh legs to try and regain a sliver of control. His shouts had grown hoarse, his motions frantic, but his eyes betrayed the truth. He had written off the match.
On the other side, Ronald Koeman stood composed. Calm, but decisive. He made three changes. First, he took off Antoine Griezmann, who had worked tirelessly, drawing defenders and holding play together. Then Jordi Alba, having done his job on the left flank, was withdrawn. And for the third—and perhaps most telling—he subbed off the hat-trick hero himself: Mateo King.
A dominant display. A ruthless finishing touch. Mateo had earned his early rest. Koeman wasn't willing to risk his physicality any further today. The job was done, and with a nod to the future, he made the switch. Off came Mateo to rapturous applause from the away fans, and on came Ousmane Dembélé.
But Koeman hadn't changed the system. He hadn't adjusted the playstyle. Dembélé would now play in Mateo's role.
"Same rhythm, same mission," Koeman muttered to his assistant. "Let's see what Ousmane can do."
The game resumed with familiar energy. Messi was still Messi—dancing through lines, creating angles where none existed. Dembélé tried to mirror Mateo's movements, sprinting into channels, pressing high, drawing defenders. To his credit, even though he was noticeably slower than Mateo, he was still faster than any Valencia player on the pitch. But the difference wasn't speed.
It was finishing.
By the 54th minute, Dembélé had already fluffed two chances. One came from a Messi pass that sliced through the defense like a knife through butter. Dembélé reached it—his pace undeniable—but he hesitated, trying to set his feet. The result? A weak shot that skidded wide.
In the 60th minute, another moment of frustration. Pedri won the ball in midfield with a tenacious tackle, sending De Jong surging forward. He slipped Dembélé through, and the winger found himself one-on-one with Cillessen.
He shot.
Straight at the keeper.
The crowd groaned, and worse still—Valencia countered.
Thierry Correia pounced on the loose ball, driving down the right. In a flash, Valencia surged forward, three on two. Carlos Soler whipped in a dangerous low cross, and Maxi Gómez, unmarked, smashed it home.
3–1.
A lifeline.
The Mestalla crowd erupted, and suddenly, a glimmer of hope returned to the home side. But it was short-lived.
By the 75th minute, Messi decided he was done playing games. He picked the ball up near the halfway line, eyes scanning like a hawk. Valencia's defenders braced, expecting a typical Messi run into the box.
Instead, Messi ghosted past Račić and Wass, danced around Diakhaby, and just as everyone expected the cutback or through-ball—he let fly.
Outside the box.
Left foot. Curling. Dipping.
Top corner.
Cillessen didn't even dive.
4–1.
The bench exploded. Messi stood there, calm, brushing his hair back as if it was routine.
Koeman clapped slowly. Then made two final changes.
Pedri, who had run himself into the ground, was subbed off. Messi followed, walking off to a standing ovation from the away fans and even polite applause from some Valencia supporters who knew they had just witnessed greatness.
All five substitutions made. Statement complete.
The final ten minutes played out with little urgency. Barcelona controlled the game, content with their lead, while Valencia looked defeated.
Final whistle.
4–1.
Barcelona players beamed with satisfaction. Another win. And with it, they had drawn level on points with Atlético Madrid in the title race. The smiles were wide—but they didn't last.
Just a few hours later, Atlético played Getafe.
It was tense, tight—until the 90th minute.
A familiar figure struck.
Luis Suárez.
1–0. Atlético won. The league leaders restored their cushion, denying Barcelona a chance to truly celebrate.
But while fans focused on the title race, something else had begun to take shape.
In the La Liga top scorers table, a name had surged upward.
Third place—just behind Messi, Suárez, and Benzema, who were tied in second.
Mateo King.
18 goals.
But it wasn't just the number.
It was the games played.
7
18 goals in 7 games
People stared. Eyes wide. Jaws slack.
"Who the fuck really is this guy?"
And while questions buzzed across the footballing world, Mateo's own world was shifting again. Because tomorrow, not only was the Champions League draw set to define Barcelona's path ahead—
Tomorrow also marked the beginning of a new chapter.
International break.
And Spain had called him.
Mateo King.
A boy who once only dreamed.
Now, about to represent a nation.
The journey continued.
A/N
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