"Yo chat! Walia, walia—you joking, you joking! You know what they call me?! You know what they call me?! They call me Speed! Speed! SPEED! Walai you're fucked—your mom can get this dooty booty!"
A scream blasted out into the quiet L.A. night, echoing from the basement of a small family home. Inside, a sixteen-year-old kid sat glued to his desk, eyes wide, veins popping, his whole face scrunched up in that ridiculous, over-the-top expression only he could make. Sweat rolled down the side of his face, glistening under the soft glow of his RGB lights. The setup looked like something straight out of a streamer's dream—dual monitors flashing bright colors, a massive ring light bouncing against the wall, LED strips pulsing red and blue across his ceiling, and a high-end gaming mic standing proudly beside him.
On the screen in front of him was the iconic blue-and-gold "Victory Royale" banner from Fortnite, lighting up the room like a trophy. His mouse was still gripped tight in his hand as he let out one last triumphant yell, almost knocking over the Gatorade bottle beside his keyboard.
"Yo Speed! Yo Speed! Yo Speed!"
A voice echoed through his headset—a fan's voice from the game. It repeated again and again, half teasing, half in disbelief.
Speed grabbed the water bottle and chugged a sip, breathing heavy like he'd just run a marathon. The voice came again, louder this time, "Bro, OMG! You know I almost had you, right?! I almost had you!"
Speed froze mid-sip, eyes narrowing. He slowly lowered the bottle, lips curling into that wild, confused grin. "DUH, I almost—DUH, I almost HAD YOU—duh!" he mocked, leaning close to the mic, face twisting into an exaggerated expression of fake stupidity before exploding.
"YOU DIDN'T HAVE SHIT! YOU DIDN'T HAVE SHIT, MAHN! GET THE FUCK OUT!"
He jumped up from his chair, barking loud, chest forward like some kind of deranged pit bull. "WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!" he barked again, pounding his desk as the chat went insane—messages flying at light speed: "W LMAO 😂", "bro is gone 😂😂😂", "classic speed".
This was a daily livestream from the now-popular YouTuber Darren Jason Watkins Jr., better known as IShowSpeed. The cursing, barking, and chaotic outbursts had become his signature—stuff his two hundred thousand YouTube subscribers were already used to.
But something new had started happening lately. Something that had his fans both confused and entertained.
Speed had started talking, watching, and reacting to European football.
"OOO SUUUIIIII! SUUIIIII! SEWEYYYY! SEWEYYYY!" he screamed, nearly falling out of his chair as he watched a YouTube compilation titled 'Best Ronaldo Dribbling Highlights.' His eyes lit up like fireworks, his face twisted in awe, disbelief, and pure meme energy as the video played.
Every flick, every stepover, every spin had him shouting. He paused the video mid-clip, tilting his head back, clutching his chest dramatically, acting like he was having an orgasm right there live on stream.
And all of this—this new obsession, this madness—had started because of something that happened a few weeks ago.
While he was playing Fortnite one evening—just another loud, sweaty, chaotic stream like always—Speed got asked a simple, harmless question from chat.
"What soccer team do you support?"
It was the kind of question that usually flew by in a flood of other messages. But this time, for whatever reason, he stopped, glanced at it, and replied instantly.
"Cristiano Ronaldo! SEWEY!"
He shouted it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, chest out, grin wide, voice cracking as his mic peaked and chat exploded. It wasn't even that deep—just one of those random, quick Speed moments. But oh, how wrong he was to think it would end there.
Within weeks of saying that one line, his entire career flipped upside down.
His 100k subscriber count? Doubled.
His donation alerts? Nonstop—names flying in the corner of the screen every second:
"$10 from LilChris: SEWEEEYYY!!!"
"$5 from RonaldoIsGoat: W SPEED 🔥🔥🔥"
"$50 from CR7Fan99: bro said SEWEEE lmao 💀💀💀"
His whole chat became a blur of "SUIIIII" spam. Clips of him yelling "Sewey!" started going viral across TikTok, Twitter, and even Instagram reels. The internet had found something electric in his chaos.
But Speed wasn't stupid. He saw what was happening—saw how the people reacted every time he mentioned Ronaldo. So he doubled down.
He went all in.
He started researching the sport, staying up at night watching compilation videos titled "Top 100 Ronaldo Goals" and "Best Football Moments of All Time." He began dropping football talk mid-stream, watching highlights, shouting random player names he could barely pronounce.
And it worked.
In just a few weeks—and after a handful of these "football streams"—his subscriber count rocketed past 231,000.
Speed leaned back in his chair, glancing up at the corner of his monitor where his live count kept ticking upward, hundreds at a time. "Damn," he muttered under his breath. Every second, new fans were joining, laughing, typing "SEWEEEY" like it was gospel. Within hours, it had jumped again—250K—all because of his wild energy and his new obsession.
Then something caught his eye.
"Ehn?" he said suddenly, squinting at his chat.
The comment section was blowing up with messages—thousands of them—everyone talking about the same name.
"Mateo King🔥🔥🔥"
"Yo Speed react to Mateo King ad!"
"Barca's new kid bro he's insane!!"
Speed tilted his head, blinking fast.
"Yeah mahn… Mateo. Heck of a player," he said with an unusually flat tone, trying to sound confident.
Truth was, he had no clue who the guy was. He'd probably seen the name once or twice during his random late-night research, but he couldn't remember the name, the team, the league, nothing. Still—he wasn't about to look dumb in front of 200,000 people.
So, moving quick, he called in backup.
Since diving into this whole football thing, Speed had picked up a few new moderators—guys who actually knew the sport. Without wasting time, he pinged them on Discord, dropping into the voice channel as they joined one by one.
"Yo, yo, yo! Mods! Hop in! We got some Mateo dude trending or sum, let's get on it!"
Within seconds, the stream lit up again—voices coming through Discord, chat spamming, laughter, chaos, and energy flooding the screen. The mood shifted instantly.
The IShowSpeed football era was about to go full throttle.
Three of his moderators popped into the Discord voice channel almost instantly, their voices buzzing with excitement.
"HOLY SHIT! Sup Speed!!" one shouted, practically vibrating through the mic.
"Yo yo yo, Speed! What's good my man!" another chimed in, his tone hyped as if the stream itself could feel their energy.
"Bruh, Speed, you seeing this?" the third one added, laughing.
Speed, leaning back in his chair with his headphones slightly tilted, grinned. "Yo yo yo! What's up y'all! Chill, chill, I see y'all, I see y'all," he said, his usual charm layered over the chaos, waving at the webcam and nodding to the mods.
But these guys weren't just hype men—they were moderators for a reason. They knew exactly why Speed had added them, and they weren't about to waste a second. Within moments, they were breaking down the topic that had the chat exploding.
"Yo, Speed, dude, that Mateo King Barcelona signing video…" one started, voice practically shaking with excitement.
"Bro, HOLY FUCKING AURA! I legit almost lost myself seeing how he appeared," the second jumped in, hands probably in the air if you could see him, his words racing with every syllable.
"Yeah, and when I saw him in it—BRO—he's actually the club's number 9 now!" the third moderator shouted, practically tripping over his own words.
"I haven't even watched the video yet, man," a fourth piped up from the background after joining. "Heard it's on Barca's IG page, but Fabrizo already posted about the number yesterday. Bro, it's insane… isn't he like 17? He has to be the youngest number 9 ever in the sport at this rate!"
Speed didn't waste a second. Grabbing the topic, he leaned forward, face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.
"I haven't watched it either, mahn! Opening it NOW!" he shouted, voice cracking slightly from excitement.
He dragged the Barcelona Instagram page onto his screen, immediately sharing it with the stream. The first thing everyone saw was Mateo posing with the iconic number 9 shirt, chest out, grin sharp, standing like he owned the pitch already.
Chat blew up instantly:
"He really is number 9?!"
"Dude why are we talking about soccer?? Fortnite, back to Fortnite!"
"Mateo King!! Did you see the hat trick against Bayern? Bro's insane!!"
"I'm so pissed he's not playing today!!"
"Did you guys see his salary? He might be the richest teenager in the world!"
Speed's laughter cut through the chaos as he leaned back, clutching his headphones, his eyes wide as he scrolled down. "Bro… BRO, CHAT, CHAT, LOOK AT THIS SHIT!"
The moderators, hearing his voice escalate, started shouting, laughing, and echoing his excitement:
"DUDE! 15 MILLION LIKES ALREADY!!" one yelled.
"Man, it hasn't even been a day!" another screamed.
"BRO, HE'S TRENDING HARD!!" the third shouted, making barking noises just to match Speed's energy.
Speed, practically bouncing in his chair now, threw his hands up. "OKAY OKAY OKAY LET'S CHECK IT OUT!" he laughed, voice cracking from pure hype, leaning closer to the monitor.
He clicked the video, eyes glued, and the chat erupted again—emotes flying, names scrolling, donations pinging nonstop. The moderators were shouting in unison, laughing, barking, and hyping every second with him, as the stream entered pure, unfiltered chaos.
Everywhere was black. A slow, haunting track played, its bass vibrating through the room and into Speed's chest. He let out a laugh, almost nervous, almost in awe. "Dude… I'm getting goosebumps," he muttered, eyes glued to the screen as the opening notes seeped into every corner of his LA basement setup.
Then, a deep, resonant voice cut through the music: "La Masia. You've probably heard of it,but do you really know of it?…"
The screen flickered to life with a montage of youth players, sweat streaking their faces, cleats sinking into wet grass, hearts pounding with raw energy. Every frame screamed discipline, hunger, and an almost unbearable intensity. Speed leaned closer, shouting at the screen like he was part of the action: "Damn! Look at that grind, bro! That's insane!"
The voice continued, low and urgent: "Grit. Blood. Fights."
Speed's eyes widened. "Bruh… BLOOD?!" he screamed, pointing at the clips. "LITERALLY BLOOD, man! You see that and sum people would be telling me football aint tough?"
The montage shifted, focusing on Mateo during his La Masia days. The camera lingered on the grass-stained elbows, the streaks of blood from a fresh scrape. His face twisted with pain, mouth open in a scream, body tensing as if every fiber was fighting to push through. Mateo's determination radiated from the screen in waves strong enough to make Speed slam his hands on his desk. "BRO! He's a savage, bruh! I'm telling you—LOOK AT HIM!"
Suddenly, the visuals pulsed faster, lights blinking in sync with the beat. Clips overlapped with flashes of journalists, microphones shoved in the faces of kids, urgent news reports scrolling rapidly: "La Masia producing elite talent… scandals… records… unforgettable moments teens breaking bones, leaving home, training till they black out, all so you can remember their names…" The chaos of media, urgency, and reality collided in a storm of sound and images.
Then, with an almost terrifying intensity, the deep voice boomed over everything: "Well… DO YOU—"
And the room seemed to explode
Then, suddenly, everywhere went bright.
The blackness of the opening vanished as the screen flooded with light, revealing the next sequence. Kids ran across pitches, kicked balls in cramped streets, tripped over puddles, and fell hard in dusty markets. Some missed easy passes, some slipped, some laughed nervously after clumsy mistakes—but through it all, the fire in their eyes was unmistakable. The video wasn't hiding the struggle; it was celebrating it.
One by one, each kid looked directly into the camera at the end of their clips, their voices firm and proud as text flashed beneath: "Remember my name: Andrés Iniesta". Another: "Xavier Hernández Creus". Then: "Gerard Piqué Bernabéu". Each legend of La Masia, now immortal, had been that raw, imperfect child—screaming, stumbling, learning. The montage flowed, rapid but deliberate, showing the roots of greatness.
And then… silence.
The music vanished. The colors dimmed. The screen focused on a small figure alone on a field at night. Unlike the others, the kid's shadow stretched long under the faint floodlights. He ran forward, measured, and struck a freekick. The ball arced beautifully, curling past the imaginary wall and landing with a satisfying thump in the net.
The kid turned slowly to the camera. The comment section exploded instantly—thousands of viewers spamming, shouting, and screaming in disbelief. Speed himself leaned forward, barking and shouting, "SEWEY! SEWEY!" as if the energy from the screen had leapt into the room.
Subtitles appeared: "Remember my name… Lionel Messi."
Even Speed's moderators, seasoned veterans of his chaos, were going wild, spamming emotes and shouting in the voice chat. But the video wasn't done.
It instantly cut to a homemade-looking clip. A massive, empty field stretched under a grey sky. You could hear the faint murmur of voices: "Okay, take one… say remember my name then say your name after that…"
Nothing else appeared. Just the iconic camp nou field.
A voice, impatient, called out: "Come on, guys… this won't work."
One of Speed's mods squealed in the Discord channel, fangirling: "THIS IS IT! THIS IS IT!"
Speed laughed hysterically, slapping his desk, already hyped beyond control.
From the video, a kid spoke back: "Why isn't it going to work?"
The impatient voice approached, stepping into frame: "Come on…"
And then—the screen shook. The camera shifted. Hazel eyes locked onto the lens. Mateo King appeared, filling the frame, his expression calm yet charged, almost untouchable. The aura emanating from him was palpable. His hazel eyes caught every reflection of light, burning with confidence and promise.
"Simple," Mateo said, a quiet but powerful grin crossing his face. "They already know my name."
The camera's perspective fell back slightly, showing his shadow stretching across the field. His laugh echoed faintly, haunting yet magnetic. Then a flash of red—his jersey number, 9—lingered on the screen as the video cut to black.
"Holy… fucking… aura… fuck!" Speed roared.
The chat went insane. Moderators spammed emotes, their voices rising in excitement: "I've watched this like ten times and it still gets me! HOW CAN SOMEONE HAVE THAT MUCH AURA, DUDE?!"
Someone in the chat screamed: "SPEED! SPEED! What's your take? SPEED!"
Speed didn't answer immediately. He was frozen, one hand under the desk, shaking slightly. Grunts escaped him: "Aww… fuck… awwn… oo…" His breaths came fast, shallow, ragged faking doing a 'solo practice' if you know you know. Then he started speaking again, more aggressively:
"Awww… fuck… huff… huff… huff… HOLY SHIT! That shit was so—"
A/N
If you want to read 20 chapters ahead with daily uploads and to support me subscribe to my Patreon below There is also a picture of how mateo looks like posted and later there would be votes and all on the site some you wont need to pay to vote but you can if you want to support me thanks
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