Public Relations. PR.
A term that once barely existed in footballing conversations, yet by the modern era, it had become as important—if not sometimes more important—than the game itself.
PR was now everything.
The silent war off the pitch. A battlefield of perception, branding, and narratives. You could score a hat-trick on Sunday and be a villain by Tuesday if your image faltered. In today's football, the story people believe about you could be just as powerful as what you did on the pitch.
But it wasn't always like this.
There was a time, not so long ago, when football was... simpler.
"Back then, footballers played. And that was it."
Old-school fans, the purists, the romantics—they'd tell you that.
"Pre-1990s, no one cared about a player's fashion sense. No one was watching their Instagram lives. It was about the Saturday performance. Sunday's newspaper headline. Monday's pub debates."
The clubs held the pen on the narrative. The media, gate-kept by newspapers and the occasional radio interview, would follow. A footballer's life was their own—unless, of course, scandal came knocking. Only then would the public peek behind the curtain. Otherwise, you were judged by your 90 minutes, and everything else was smoke.
Then the 90s happened.
Or as many would later call it—the dawn of football's global awakening.
The Premier League rebranded in 1992. UEFA did the same with the Champions League. Suddenly, football wasn't just a sport; it was entertainment. A product for global consumption.
And there, standing at the center of this shift, was a man with a right foot of gold and hair that could stop traffic.
David Beckham.
Beckham wasn't just a footballer; he was a movement. The way he styled his hair could make front-page headlines. His marriage to Victoria Adams (a Spice Girl, no less) transformed him into a crossover star—football's first true global celebrity icon. For the first time, people who didn't care about football knew who a footballer was.
It wasn't about what he did on the pitch anymore. It was also about how he looked, how he spoke, where he stood, and who he stood beside.
PR had entered football—and it wasn't leaving.
Clubs began to take notice. They started hiring professionals—not coaches, not scouts, but image consultants. Damage control experts. Sponsorship handlers.
The game had changed.
The 2000s took it a step further.
Now, it wasn't just about players—the clubs themselves became brands.
Manchester United. Real Madrid. Barcelona. These weren't just football teams; they were global corporations. A club's fanbase was no longer limited to its city. It spanned continents. PR wasn't an option anymore; it was survival.
Image rights became financial weapons. For the first time, a player's name, face, and signature pose were worth almost as much as their goal tally. Every player had a logo. Every celebration was a trademark.
Cristiano Ronaldo's arrival at Manchester United in 2003 was more than a football transfer. It was the blueprint of how to craft a global brand out of pure athletic excellence combined with calculated PR genius.
Official statements. Strategic press conferences. Magazine covers. Brand partnerships. Clubs weren't just selling jerseys anymore—they were selling identities.
And then came the social media era.
The 2010s flipped the script entirely.
PR was no longer controlled solely by clubs.
Now, players had direct access to the world.
Twitter. Instagram. Facebook.
With a single post, a player could bypass media narratives. They could build their own brand, control their own headlines, and—if they were savvy enough—become their own empire.
But it came with a price.
Every misstep? Viral.
Every controversy? Amplified.
Every contract dispute? A public saga.
PR became not just important—it became a survival skill.
You were no longer just judged on your goals and assists. You were judged on your tweets. Your endorsements. The emojis you posted. The image you projected.
Take Neymar's world-record move to PSG in 2017.
That wasn't a transfer. That was a global event. It was choreographed like a movie premiere. Teasers, documentaries, hashtag campaigns. It wasn't just a player switching clubs—it was a billion-dollar marketing machine in motion.
Players started hiring their own PR teams, separate from the clubs. Personal image managers, social media strategists, even crisis response experts. The off-field game became just as strategic as the on-field one.
By the modern day, it was no longer a debate.
Brand mattered.
In fact, it mattered as much as performance.
A footballer's PR and on-field excellence fed off each other.
Play well, and your image soars. But without the right PR? You fade into the noise. Perform poorly, and PR can shield you, manage the narrative, remind the world of your potential. They were two sides of the same coin, feeding, amplifying, and sustaining each other.
The balance was everything.
An elite footballer wasn't just an athlete anymore.
He was a product.
A brand.
A story.
And in this era, if you weren't controlling your story—someone else would write it for you.
Then came the 2020s.
And suddenly, the fragile balance between on-field brilliance and off-field branding started to tip. Slowly at first, but by the time the new decade fully kicked in, it was undeniable.
PR had the advantage.
Of course, the pitch still mattered. Your performances still decided whether you started, whether you were called "great," whether you could genuinely touch immortality.
But PR? PR could make you feel like greatness long before you even reached it.
PR could craft your aura, magnify your every goal, disguise your every flaw. It could inflate your market value, control award campaigns, even make an average season seem elite. The right image could get you trending faster than the actual football.
It was now an industry of perception.
Look no further than Jack Grealish. A phenomenal player, no doubt—but his off-field charm, his media presence, the image of his calves, his headband, his cheeky interviews, his partying… that's what kept his name alive even when his performances weren't headlining. His PR was so good they were already talks about a massive transfer to Manchester city.
Jude Bellingham—an undeniable talent, but it wasn't just his football that had Europe swooning. It was the maturity, the leadership narrative, the "England's golden boy" image carefully crafted around him. He was already turning into Dortmund's version of Mateo in his first season there.
In the modern game, PR didn't replace your talent—but it supercharged it. It was the amplifier.
But in football, the league you played in was your biggest PR weapon.
The top five European leagues—La Liga, Premier League, Serie A, Bundesliga, Ligue 1—were always the standard-bearers of exposure. Playing in any of these leagues guaranteed you a place under the spotlight.
But that spotlight wasn't equal.
There was one league where that light didn't just shine—it blinded.
The English Premier League.
No league on the planet matched its media power, global audience, and PR machinery.
The Premier League had taken the blueprint that UEFA, Real Madrid, and Barcelona had drafted in the 90s — the vision of football as a global spectacle — and weaponized it into a relentless entertainment juggernaut.
It wasn't just football anymore.
It was Hollywood with goalposts.
A weekly blockbuster saga — broadcast to over 200 countries, filling stadiums with roaring cauldrons of noise, and generating TV deals that rivaled the GDP of small nations.
The Premier League didn't just sell matches.
It sold stories.
Rivalries that felt like mythologies.
Managers who were treated like movie directors.
Players who were marketed as global superstars before they even kicked a ball for their new club.
And within the Premier League, the "Top Six" — Manchester United, Liverpool, Manchester City, Chelsea, Arsenal, Tottenham Hotspur — stood as colossal institutions, their PR machines humming louder than anyone else's. These weren't just football clubs anymore; they were media empires with football teams attached.
If you wore their jersey, your career wasn't merely observed—it was narrated, dissected, monetized, glorified, and sometimes villainized, all on a scale no other league outside of Spain's powerhouses could rival.
Of course, there remained La Liga purists — fiercely loyal supporters who would argue, with burning passion, that Spanish football was technically superior, tactically deeper, and spiritually more 'pure' than the frantic, commercialized pace of the Premier League.
And in truth, they weren't entirely wrong.
Spain's best clubs — Real Madrid and Barcelona — still operated on a different plane altogether. Their PR gravity, their media pull, was a phenomenon in itself, rivaling the entire Premier League's collective power. The glow of their badge carried history, dynasty, and a romantic aura that no amount of Premier League cash could replicate.
But…
Outside of Spain's loyalists?
Outside the stubborn hearts of Madridistas and Culés?
The rest of the world had reached a quiet, unanimous agreement.
The Premier League was the best league in the world.
No matter how many times a Premier League club stumbled in Europe…
No matter if none of them made it past the Champions League quarterfinals in a season…
Yes, there would be mockery. Yes, there would be jabs from Spanish, Italian, and German media.
But never — not once — would anyone dare question the Premier League's throne as the undisputed global capital of football entertainment.
It wasn't just about trophies anymore.
It was about influence.
About visibility.
About owning the narrative.
The Premier League had become football's ultimate stage, a vortex where brand power and athletic prowess fused into a product that the world consumed relentlessly, matchday after matchday.
Still, as massive as that was, there were two clubs, standing at the absolute summit of football's media dominance. Two behemoths that had turned the art of football PR into a religion. Two teams whose very names echoed power and prestige globally.
Real Madrid.
Barcelona.
If you thought the Premier League's PR was insane, Madrid and Barça were in a different stratosphere.
At these clubs, starting in a single El Clásico could make you a household name in countries where football wasn't even the main sport. Being a starter for them didn't just give you exposure—it gave you status. Play well there that's the end.
Your name was automatically whispered in Ballon d'Or conversations.
Your image became synonymous with world-class footballing standards.
You weren't fighting for media attention. You were media royalty by default.
That's what playing for Barcelona did. And.
That was the privilege Mateo King had.
And all of those benefits—the glitz, the glamour, the untouchable aura—it was now pouring over Mateo like a tidal wave.
Meanwhile, across Europe, Erling Haaland was tearing the Bundesliga to shreds. His goal-scoring feats were terrifying—record-breaking. But even with his staggering numbers, there was always that lingering question, whispered in transfer debates:
"Can he do it in the Premier League?"
"What happens when he faces tougher defenses week in, week out?"
"Bundesliga tax?"
Even his Champions League goals, though reducing those doubts, couldn't fully erase them.
Kylian Mbappé? He had faced a similar path. Despite his electrifying rise at Monaco and his earth-shaking transfer to PSG—greatly reduced after winning the World Cup at 19—but still the "farmer's league" slander would still sneak into conversations. His brilliance wasn't in question, but the league's reputation always hovered, forcing him to repeatedly prove his worth on the biggest stages.
Both Haaland and Mbappé—two of the most gifted attackers of their generation—had to fight perceptions built by the league they played in.
Mateo?
He didn't have that problem.
He had played just 8 games for Barcelona—and already, no one was questioning his level.
The only criticism anyone dared to throw his way was the classic deflection of doubters clutching at straws:
"It won't last."
"He can't keep up this pace."
"The goals will dry up eventually."
But no one—no one (well, no one that actually mattered they were still the useless trolls online, but they mattered so very little in the schemes of things.)—but the critics the professionals the coaches the media non denied that he was already operating at the absolute top level.
That's the Barcelona effect.
That's what being at a club of that magnitude does for you. It gives you credibility you haven't even finished earning yet.
And now, his numbers were starting to spread.
It started with a Barcelona media team —a girl who had been monitoring Mateo's highlights, mesmerized by the sheer volume of clips flooding her feed. She wasn't the first to see it, but she was the first to package it perfectly.
One post.
One infographic.
It blew up.
Mateo King — Season So Far (All Competitions):
8 games played
21 goals
7 assists
5 hat-tricks
9 big chances created
3.4 key passes per game
Shot accuracy: 69%
Average game rating: 8.62
A stat line so insane that it began circulating beyond just Barcelona fans. It reached the legends. The old guard. Ex-players not just from Barça, but from rivals, neutrals, even retired greats from Italy, Germany, England. They all saw it.
It was more than stats. It was an insane portfolio of destruction.
And for Mateo King, the story wasn't even halfway written.
Xavi Hernández, mid-interview, paused as the inevitable question came:
"Mateo King. Could you imagine coaching him someday?"
A smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes carried more—something deeper.
He exhaled. "That's a gift," Xavi said, voice steady. "When you get a player like that, someone who already understands space the way he does, who moves without needing to be told… that's a responsibility for a coach. You don't limit it. You don't over-structure it. You just give him the tools to expand."
He leaned forward, almost speaking to future Xavi—the manager he would become.
"I look at him and I think, there's still so much more. He's only scratching the surface. If I were coaching him? I'd give him more. More responsibility. More freedom. He's ready."
Ronaldinho, ever the joyful spirit, was all grins as a Brazilian TV host asked him about Mateo. But when he spoke, the energy shifted—it felt personal.
"I remember when Leo came. The first day. He didn't speak much, but you saw it. In his touch. In his smile. It was different." He gestured, eyes brightening.
"This kid—Mateo—it feels the same. That same special thing. You don't teach it. You feel it. And I'm telling you—Barcelona is about to witness another chapter of magic."
Patrick Kluivert, now a senior figure at La Masia, didn't hesitate when reporters caught him after an academy match.
"Everyone's surprised now," Kluivert said, "but we've seen this coming. The signs were there when he was thirteen. Then fourteen. At fifteen, we knew." He glanced toward the pitch, almost as if visualizing the next generation.
"La Masia isn't done. The world thinks it's been quiet… but no. Mateo is just the start. The storm is coming. They're not ready."
Thierry Henry, never shy to voice his footballing instincts, doubled down on his earlier statements.
Late at night, during a Premier League post-match panel, the conversation veered toward La Liga. Toward Mateo.
Henry's voice was low, almost like a prediction, but with the sharpness of absolute belief.
"People keep asking me, 'Henry, is this kid for real?'" He shook his head. "Stop asking. Watch. This kid is going to win it all. Ballon d'Ors, Champions Leagues, World Cups… he's not just here for show. He's here to take over."
Even Gary Lineker, always composed, addressed the Mateo situation on BBC News, but with his signature calm professionalism.
When asked about Mateo's firm stance on representing Spain over England, Lineker didn't dance around it.
"Yes, it's a shame. A talent like that, choosing elsewhere—it stings. But it's his decision. And let's not panic. England has a generation brewing. We're still equipped to win the Euros. But of course, when you see a player like Mateo… you can't help but wish he was wearing a Three Lions jersey."
And the voices didn't stop at Spain, England, or France.
Lothar Matthäus, German legend, commented in Bild:
"Mateo reminds me of the young stars who changed the game. The Haalands, the Mbappés. But what's scary—he seems to be arriving faster. Germany will face him in a few years. We were lucky the first one they brought was south American but this one. We should prepare early."
In Italy, Francesco Totti gave a rare interview to Gazzetta dello Sport:
"He plays like an Italian fantasista trapped in a modern system. Freedom, but discipline. Flair, but efficiency. He's got the Roman streets in his soul, but he's doing it in Barcelona. The kid is different."
Even outliers joined in.
Dele Alli, once the golden boy of English football, now a shadow of his former self, spoke candidly in a late-night podcast:
"I watch Mateo, and I think… damn, I wish my body was still 17. Watching him reminds me of how it felt to be free, before injuries, before the noise. He's got that thing—the hunger. Protect it. Cherish it."
Mateo's clips were everywhere. Every goal, every sprint, every cheeky flick. The highlights weren't just viral—they were viral within the virals. Social media couldn't keep up.
His followers had surged to a staggering 5 million in just days from the previous 1 million. The "#MateoKing" hashtag had become its own entity—used by fans, brands, pundits, even players.
He wasn't just trending.
He was taking root in the world's consciousness.
A household name.
And yet, for Mateo King, this wasn't a peak.
It was barely an introduction.
Because while the world raved, while legends commented and media spirals exploded, Mateo was quietly preparing for another chapter.
A chapter that would take him beyond club football.
International duty was calling.
...
"Fuck—where is this guy?"
Mateo muttered, flopping back onto his bunk bed, frustration simmering in his chest.
He sat there, legs sprawled, rocking a white singlet and a pair of old Barça academy boxers, his hair a mess, looking every bit like a man waging war with invisible enemies.
Yes. Boxers. Singlet.
Mateo sighed, long and dramatic, like a man carrying the weight of the world in polyester underwear.
He leaned back on the bunk, hands behind his head, eyes drifting lazily toward the ceiling. But as his gaze wandered… it stopped. Froze.
He blinked. Squinted.
No.
No way.
There you were.
(Yes—you.
Sitting there. Reading this. Acting all innocent like you're not perched on your bed, phone in hand, probably in your own boxers. Maybe worse.
Mateo's eyes narrowed.
"You're judging me, aren't you?"
He didn't even need to ask. He knew. He felt it.
Probably a few crumbs on your shirt. Chips? Biscuits? Doesn't matter. You're not slick.)
(And yeah, the author sees you too, buddy.
Don't get it twisted—I'm writing this in the same state. Boxers, singlet, and a half-dead laptop.
We're all in the trenches together.
So, no judgments. Let's move on with our collective shame, shall we?)
Mateo exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath.
"Dude, why are you screaming? And… why are you talking to yourself?"
The voice drifted up casually from below. Mateo's eye twitched. Slowly, he peered down from his top bunk.
Alejandro Balde.
Controller in hand. Locked into a FIFA match. Didn't even glance up when he spoke.
Beside him, Gavi. Casado sat opposite them hunched, phone in hand, scrolling like his life depended on it. Neither looked at Mateo. Neither cared that he was fuming above them.
Mateo squinted.
"Are you guys always this free nowadays? Don't you have, I don't know, training?"
His voice dripped with sarcasm as he grumbled, resting his chin on the side rail of his bunk, watching them with narrowed eyes.
Balde didn't even flinch. Still locked on his screen, thumbs flying across buttons.
"The new head coach is… what was it again—ah, yeah. 'Revising tactical transition models.' So, we're free today," Balde answered nonchalantly, like it was the most normal sentence in the world.
Mateo's brow furrowed.
Gavi snorted. Still not looking up from his phone, he muttered, "Don't mind him. He's just mad because Pedri's late. He's stuck here."
"Ehn? Pedri?" Balde echoed, his FIFA player smashing into an opponent without him caring.
"Yeah, Pedri's driving him to the airport. They're going to Madrid from there but…"
"But—he's late," Mateo finished for them, his voice dangerously flat.
He stayed there, perched on the bunk, staring down at them as they casually discussed his life like he wasn't two meters above them. His left eye twitched again. Neither Balde nor Gavi looked up. Casado was deep into Instagram reels.
Mateo had had enough.
With a loud thud, he leapt from the bunk bed, landing on the floor with an exaggerated crash that shook the lockers.
BANG.
The sound reverberated through the dorm.
Gavi didn't flinch.
Balde's FIFA player committed a foul but he just sighed.
Casado didn't even scroll faster.
It was as if a meteor had landed and they'd already adapted.
Mateo stood there, hands on his hips, daring one of them to react.
Finally—finally—Casado, without lifting his head fully, just his eyes, glanced up from his phone. His gaze traveled lazily from Mateo's face… to his bare legs… to his white singlet.
"And this," Casado said dryly, "is what you're wearing?"
Mateo's face deadpanned. He let out the driest fake laugh possible.
"Ha. Ha. So funny. Casado, you're a damn comedian," he muttered, before snapping his fingers and pointing to the corner of the room. "For your information, Mr. Captain, my clothes are right there."
He gestured proudly to a meticulously arranged locker, where his outfits were hung like they were ready for a runway show. Shirts ironed razor-flat. Trousers lined perfectly. A pair of polished shoes placed beneath, gleaming like mirrors.
This wasn't a regular day. This was Las Rozas.
The Spanish National Team's headquarters.
Mateo wasn't about to show up in sweatpants. No way.
His mom had gone full Sunday Church Mode™, personally picking out his best outfits. She had ironed them with military precision, sprayed them with enough cologne to fumigate a stadium, and hung them up like a proud family crest. Mateo had spent an hour yesterday arranging them, double-checking everything.
All that was left was for Pedri to call.
Then, and only then, would he transform from Dorm Goblin Mode to La Roja Debutant Elegance.
But as of now?
He was still in boxers.
Waiting.
Waiting for Pedri.
And the clock was ticking.
Knock. Knock-knock… knock… knock-knock-knock.
It wasn't a regular knock.
It was a code. A sequence.
The kind of knock that sounded like it belonged in a spy movie — one-two pause, one-pause, triple tap finish.
A secret knock designed not for secrecy itself, but for protection.
Mateo's head snapped towards the door.
He didn't ask who it was. He didn't need to.
Only a handful of people knew that knock. And it wasn't for greetings. It was to warn or better still not warn.
It was a knock that said: "Hey, Its me no need to pause the game."
And since four of the regular knockers — Balde, Gavi, Casado, and Mateo himself — were already inside…
That meant only one person could be on the other side.
Mateo got up from his bunk, didn't even bother to ask.
He unlocked the door, swung it open—
"Fermin," Mateo said, unsurprised.
Fermín López stood there, grinning like a man with breaking news, eyebrows raised in that 'y'all are missing something legendary' way.
He didn't wait for an invite. He breezed in.
"WHAT are you guys doing?!" Fermin barked, loud and dramatic.
"Do you guys even know what time it is?! You're still here playing FIFA like nothing's happening?!"
Mateo, closing the door slowly, squinted.
What is it now…?
His brain ran through scenarios at high speed—
Training? No, they were free.
Match? No, that was later.
Meeting? Nope.
Wait.
Wait, wait, wait—
Fermin didn't let him finish the thought.
"It's the Champions League draw, dumbasses. It's starting. NOW."
Mateo froze mid-step.
Ah. That was it.
That was the panic.
Behind him, the room had gone still.
The PS5 screen remained frozen — FIFA paused, showing a digital scoreboard:
Manchester City 2 - Barcelona 1.
But the game was now forgotten.
Priority One had entered the building.
"Clear the table, Gavi!" Fermin ordered, already yanking out a silver MacBook from his backpack.
Casado slid off the bed. Balde grabbed a chair, spinning it around. Mateo just stood there for a beat, watching the sudden flurry of movement, before plopping down on the edge of his bunk.
In less than thirty seconds, five boys were huddled in a semi-circle around a tiny laptop, their eyes glued to the screen as it flickered to life.
The room, once filled with button-smashing and goal celebrations, was now a battlefield of tense silence.
UEFA Champions League Draw – Live.
And right then, in that tiny dorm room, the entire world shrank to that screen.
"Bro, I swear if we get City, I'm unplugging this laptop myself," Balde muttered, kicking back in his chair.
"You didn't unplug your controller when you were losing 2-1 though," Gavi shot back, not even looking up from his seat.
"Guys, shut up, it's starting," Casado said, his hand pushing Balde's face gently aside like a sliding door.
The UEFA Champions League Draw was live.
The scene on the screen was pristine. Elegant. A ballroom dressed in sleek blue hues, the famous silver Champions League trophy gleaming at center stage like a king on a throne. Spotlights danced. Cameras panned across VIP seats lined with suits, legends, executives — the chessmasters of European football.
At the center, standing poised with a mic, was Pedro Pinto — UEFA's familiar host, polished as ever.
He stood in his classic navy suit, smile sharp, voice calm, as he welcomed the viewers.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the UEFA Champions League quarter-final draw," Pedro began, his tone smooth, perfectly rehearsed.
"The road to Istanbul gets shorter. Today, fate will draw the path."
Mateo sat back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the feed but… distracted. His eyes kept flicking down to his phone. Pedri's call still hadn't come. Where are you, man?
But the show went on.
"Let's now welcome on stage two men who know this competition better than most," Pedro continued. "Legends of Juventus. Gianluigi Buffon… and Cristiano Ronaldo!"
The room tensed.
"OOHHH, Damn Ronaldo" Balde shouted, pointing at the screen. Despite them being la masia students even they were struck by Ronaldo that was just how much the man had made his name in world football.
"Ronaldo's header goal last month—bro, man jumped like eight feet high. Did y'all see that? Like a frickin' kangaroo."
"Buffon's older than my dad but still plays its insane would love to play against him someday cant lie," Gavi added, shaking his head.
Casado smirked. "Yeah, but you're 16 and you're still playing FIFA in your dorm room. So let me just say the chances of that happening are Ehn i don't think i need to finish"
The banter kept flowing, but Mateo wasn't in it.
He was quiet.
He watched as Buffon and Ronaldo, two titans of the sport, took slow, steady strides towards the draw stand. Their movements had a weight to them, like they weren't just walking — they were carrying decades of legacy.
And yet, Mateo's attention was split. His eyes kept darting to his phone, lying face up on the table. Waiting.
Pedri, where the hell are you?
The camera panned in as Buffon and Ronaldo took their places, Buffon's massive gloves making the draw bowl look like a toy. Ronaldo smiled charmingly for the cameras, already scanning the crowd.
"Alright, gentlemen, let's get to work," Pedro said, stepping aside.
The metallic balls in the glass bowl gleamed under the lights. Buffon reached in, hand swirling, the sound of plastic scraping echoing dramatically as the tension in the room thickened.
The boys leaned in.
"Okay, he's pulling now, he's pulling—" Fermin narrated, eyes wide like a commentator hyping a penalty shootout.
The ball opened with a soft click.
"Bayern Munich," Buffon read out, his deep voice resonating through the speakers.
"Ah, big guns first!" Casado exclaimed.
"Of course they start with Bayern," Balde muttered, shaking his head.
But before Mateo could even react to the Bayern news, his phone vibrated.
His eyes snapped down.
Incoming Call: Pedri.
Finally.
He picked it up instantly.
"Finally, dude," Mateo said, exhaling as he stood up from his chair.
"Sorry, bro," Pedri's voice came through, a little breathless. "Had to drop my brother off first. I'm outside now, we can go."
Mateo smiled faintly. "Say less."
As he grabbed his clothes from the neatly arranged locker, the others were already back to debating.
"Who do you think Bayern will get? Imagine they give them City that match would be insane," Fermin said.
"Nah, UEFA's giving us Bayern. Just watch," Gavi sighed, deadpan. "Scriptwriters are on smoke this year."
Mateo pulled his shirt over his head, straightening his church-ready outfit—crisp, ironed to perfection, his mom's perfume still lingering faintly on the fabric. This wasn't just a training kit day. This was his first trip to Las Rozas, where Spain's national team gathered. He wasn't showing up sloppy.
Buttoning up, tucking in, sneakers laced. Sharp. Clean. Ready.
"Alright, later boys," Mateo said, adjusting his collar as he headed for the door.
But then—
"Wait!" Balde called out suddenly.
"Mateo, bro, wait—look!"
From the laptop speakers, the host's voice echoed:
"The next team to face Bayern Munich will be…"
Mateo paused mid-step.
Buffon's hand reached into the bowl again, rolling, picking, opening.
The white slip of paper unfolded.
"Barcelona."
The room froze.
On the screen, the two names appeared side-by-side, their badges gleaming on-screen.
Bayern Munich vs FC Barcelona.
Quarterfinals.
Mateo stood still, half-turned, staring at the laptop.
He saw it—the cold, brutal symmetry. Bayern. Barça. Again.
His lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers curling into fists.
He had seen this matchup before.
But now, this time, he was in it. And he wasn't going to allow what happened last time ever happen again as long as he was in Barca.
Germany. Otterfing.
A small town tucked gently into the Bavarian countryside, just 30 kilometers south of Munich. Quiet. Humble. The kind of place where life didn't rush — it breathed.
In the heart of that town stood a home that was as modest as it was immaculate. It wasn't grand. No towering gates or sprawling lawns. But the white-painted walls were spotless, the windows gleamed like glass from a showroom, and the small front garden had flowers arranged so perfectly, you could believe they grew in formation. Every stone on the path was placed with love. It was the kind of home that didn't scream wealth — but whispered pride.
Inside, the house was a picture of calm simplicity. A tidy wooden kitchen, sunlight pouring through lace curtains, everything in its place. A small television perched neatly on the counter played the Champions League draw, the volume just loud enough to hear the names echo.
And there, standing by the kitchen island, was a man.
Arms crossed. Expression calm. But his eyes — sharp.
On the screen, the image froze for a second.
FC Bayern München crest on the left.
FC Barcelona crest on the right.
FCB vs FCB.
He cracked a smile. A slow, knowing curve of his lips.
"Barça again, ehn?" he muttered to himself, his voice carrying a soft German blend.
His eyes flicked to the side — to the phone resting on the marble counter. The screen lit up with notifications, buzzing with the world already reacting to the matchup. But his attention wasn't on the messages. It was on the task forming in his mind.
He reached for the phone, lifting it with a casualness born from habit, but his grin was already wider now. There was an amused glint in his eyes, as if the universe had just nudged him on the shoulder.
"Well…" he said, turning the phone in his hand, switching it to front-camera mode, his reflection appearing.
"I guess it's time to make another video greeting them again, ehn?"
His tone was light, but the undertone was sharp. Playful, but precise.
He tapped record.
A/N
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