"Ooo he's in—he's in! He's in! Is it? Yes, it is! OH MY GOD THAT THAT THAT I'm lost for words what was that ooo"
The voice of the commentator tore through the stadium noise like lightning. "Seven minutes into the game, and yes—it's just as you guessed—Messi! I mean, who else? Who else could strike like that? And he has delivered again!"
The roar of Camp Nou was deafening. The crowd was a sea of arms, flags, and disbelief. Messi stood near the corner flag, arms spread, head tilted slightly back, a soft grin forming as his teammates rushed him, the sound of joy shaking the ground.
"There were talks of a new engine at Barça, a new era," the commentator continued, his voice brimming with excitement. "But come on—as long as this little beautiful man is still at the club, it will always be his as long as Lionel Messi is still playing the beautiful game there can be no new era! What. A. Goal!"
"Carlos," his partner cut in, breathless but composed, "what's even more important right now—with this goal as of right now, Barcelona have levelled with Atlético! Same number of points now! Yes, Atlético still have a game in hand, and by La Liga H2H rules they're technically still first, but… I'm honestly shocked. Who could have imagined this happening just a few months ago?"
"You're right, Maldini," Carlos replied with energy pulsing through his tone. "I mean, let's not forget how poor their start to the season was. This—this is the first time they've even been within three points of the league leaders! and now they are levelled!!! People had written them off completely, said the club was finished, but what a turnaround this has been."
He paused for emphasis before continuing, voice rising with pride. "They're leading Bayern, the defending champions, in the quarter-finals of the Champions League, and now—just seven minutes into this game—they've tied with Atlético at the top of La Liga. Who could have imagined it?"
"What do you mean who could have imagined, Carlos?" Maldini shot back with a grin in his voice. "You know who."
And then the stadium cameras panned upward. The image on the giant screen shifted from Messi's calm, burning celebration to the stands—where a familiar figure stood, his energy raw and unfiltered. Mateo King.
He was on his feet, fists clenched, shouting, jumping, almost shaking with excitement. His face was alive with emotion—like the goal had come from his own boot. The fans near him were swept up in it too, clapping, laughing, recording his reaction.
"You can see what that goal means to him—to the kid, no, to the force many people credit for Barcelona's revival!" Carlos exclaimed. "What a story! What a player! Many are still talking about his new contract and whether he deserves it, but honestly—if you've watched this kid this season, you know it's worth every cent. He's been nothing short of transformative. What a talent. Let's see just how far he can go."
Maldini's voice suddenly sharpened, half shouting, half gasping: "Carlos—look, look—they're pushing again!"
...
"¡Vamos! ¡Vamos!"
Mateo was on his feet, screaming at the top of his lungs, the kind of scream that vibrated through the stands and caught the attention of nearby fans. A few turned to glance at him, caught between amusement and awe, shouting back, "¡Visca Barça!" and he immediately fired back, "¡Visca Barça!" with an infectious energy that made anyone nearby grin the Barca fans who were seated with him was so thrilled to see their Starboy love for the club. He didn't even know why he had stood up when Messi received the ball from the midfield—a pass from Mateo himself—but instinctively, he had. And he had not been disappointed.
Messi, in full stride, was poetry in motion. Mateo's eyes followed him from the stands as he watched as Messi dribbled past Pedro Alcalá, weaving around Alfonso Espino and Álex Fernández with fluid, almost untouchable grace. Perea and Jairo were closing in, desperate to block him, but Messi's composure was flawless. With tight precision, he released the ball, threading it into the net with a margin so small it was almost miraculous.
Mateo sat back for a second, mouth slightly open, marveling at what he had just witnessed. What made it even more surreal was that, in this timeline, this goal was never meant to happen here. In the main universe, it was scheduled to appear during a Copa del Rey final against Athletic Bilbao—a goal that would have instantly gone down as one of if not Messi's best. But due to the circumstances in Mateo's universe, it was now unfolding here, at match day 33 against Cádiz CF, seven minutes in.
And for Mateo and everyone else watching in that moment, none of that history mattered. All they knew was that Messi had just done something that felt straight out of fiction. And thanks to that Barcelona were leading 1-0.
"Fuck! See that goal! Ha ha!" Mateo laughed, collapsing back into his seat with a wide, almost uncontrollable grin. His face radiated joy, still lit up from the sheer brilliance of what he had just seen.
Beside him, Fati turned, eyes wide. "That goal was insane."
"Unreal," Coutinho added, sitting next to Fati, shaking his head in disbelief, still catching his breath.
Balde, seated just in front of them, leaned back and smirked. "He practically just gave Pedri a free-assist there."
Gavi, laughing alongside them, chimed in, "If this is how they dash out assists in the first team, it wouldn't hurt to come play soon."
The group—Mateo, Fati, Coutinho, and Braithwaite—sat together in the same row, buzzing from the goal, while directly in front of them were Mateo's friends, the La Masia students, occupying their seats, still in disbelief at the sheer magic they had just witnessed.
The conversation had barely begun to settle when laughter erupted again, this time at the expense of Lamine.
"I'm telling the truth! I did a play like that too in the tournament!" Lamine said, half-protesting, half-proud.
Mateo reached over, lightly touching his shoulder with a sarcastic smile. "Sure you did."
Lamine's eyes widened, realizing Mateo wasn't buying it. "Well, it wasn't exactly the same! Mine was just against three players, plus I didn't score—I made the assist at the last minute, but everything else was the same. I also cut in after making a run from midfield!" He gestured animatedly as Mateo and the others listened, clearly amused. "You can ask Curbasi and Bernal—they'd tell you."
"Hey, Curbasi, didn't I—" Lamine started, turning to glance at Curbasi, hoping for the confirmation. Lamine didn't know why but when it came to bragging especially in front of Mateo he always wanted to, since joining La Masia, ever since he first laid eyes on Mateo, he had always looked up to the striker. It wasn't just admiration—it was almost reverence. Despite being only three years and a few months younger than Mateo, Lamine couldn't help it. Mateo had this magnetic aura about him, a presence that drew almost everyone in the lower classes at La Masia like moths to a flame. He was, without question, the golden boy of the entire institution.
But for Lamine, it was different. He didn't just idolize Mateo; he wanted to emulate him. And Mateo, in his generosity, had never made them feel small or insignificant because of the age gap. He played with them, laughed with them, made training fun, and treated them like equals. Then, when Mateo debuted for the first team, that dream just grew ten times more. To Lamine, Mateo wasn't just a player anymore—he was the benchmark, the ultimate goal. Everyone at La Masia dreamed of breaking into the first team, but Mateo had done it in a matter of matches, and he had become a complete, unstoppable force. For Lamine, impressing him had become a personal mission of his.
But before Lamine could finish, before he could fully get the words out to confirm the goal he had created, the entire room shifted. All at once, the attention of the La Masia students, Mateo, Fati, Gavi, and even the other attendees in the stadium, turned sharply toward the field. The movement wasn't subtle; with many even shouting, "Go! Go! Pass! Pass!" The excitement, the energy—it was contagious. Lamine's head whipped toward the pitch. Only one thing could trigger such a reaction, and he knew immediately: Barcelona was attacking again.
Just one minute after the goal, Barcelona was already on the move. Lamine's eyes scanned the field, tracking the ball instinctively. He didn't need to know how Cádiz had lost possession after the restart. All he needed to know was the ball was moving fast, and his team was surging forward. He quickly pinpointed Griezmann running down the flank, his determination clear, his body angled to slice through the opposition. Dembele streaked alongside him, the ball glued to his feet as Cádiz defenders—three in perfect formation—scrambled desperately to cover him.
Griezmann flicked the ball across to Dembele in a crisp, clean pass. The crowd erupted, half in cheers, half in urgent shouts. Lamine echoed them instinctively, "Pass! Pass!" The urgency wasn't wasted: Messi was already darting in from the side, his run timed perfectly. Dembele, in a move that made even the seasoned La Masia students gasp, sent a no-look pass—a precise, almost casual flick—allowing Messi to surge in behind him.
The Cádiz keeper came charging out, trying to close down the angle, but Messi, calm and calculating, chipped him with a delicate touch. The ball floated gracefully over the keeper's outstretched hands and into the net. The stadium erupted before the ball had even fully settled. Lamine, along with everyone else in the stands, nearly jumped from his seat, fists pumping, hearts racing, shouting instinctively. The goal wasn't just a score—it was art, it was Messi, it was perfection in motion.
"Goall! Goall!"
The Camp Nou erupted, a tidal wave of sound cascading from the stands as Barcelona fans launched into their familiar, jubilant chant for their captain. The melody soared, joyous and infectious, carrying the excitement of the stadium high above the pitch. Just fifty seconds after opening the scoring, Messi had doubled his tally, putting a brace on the board within the first ten minutes of the game. And yet, the real spectacle wasn't just Messi's brilliance—it was Mateo, the teenage prodigy, who had become an emblem of joy in the stands. He was standing, leaning forward, hands pumping the air, singing along, laughing, and making faces that perfectly mirrored the happiness of the thousands around him.
Outside the stadium, the internet erupted. "Mateo is just another Messi lover!" "He's just like us!" ran through social feeds, trending relentlessly. Clips of his goofy smiles, his exaggerated celebrations, his obvious love for the game were shared everywhere. Anyone watching could see it: this kid truly adored football. And for Barcelona fans, it wasn't only the spectators at the stadium who felt it. Those watching from home experienced the same electricity. Seeing their young starboy react with such pure passion created a chemical joy, a rush only football could conjure.
After enjoying a moment with the fans, Mateo settled back into his seat, still grinning, still buzzing with energy as he watched the match unfold. Barcelona was now two goals up, but Cádiz, rather than responding aggressively, adopted an uncharacteristically defensive strategy. For the first thirty minutes, Barcelona dominated completely, racking up an astonishing 87% possession. Cádiz hadn't managed a single shot on target. Their only real chance came after De Jong slipped in midfield, allowing Jonsson to pounce on the ball. He released a through pass to Álvaro Negredo, who had a clear path toward goal. But Pedri, never one to give up, sprinted after him, sliding in at the precise moment to snatch the ball cleanly from under his feet. Cádiz protested, but the referee waved them off without a second thought.
For Barcelona, the standout moment came in the 24th minute, a testament to Ousmane Dembélé's sheer brilliance. From his no-look assist in the eighth minute to this point, he had been untouchable. Alba sent a wide pass from the left, and Dembélé drifted to the right, his pace electric. Two defenders tried to contain him, but he toyed with them, feinting, faking a shot, drawing the keeper out. In the center, Griezmann had been ready, but the finish eluded him. Yet it was Dembélé's brilliance in movement, in creativity, that left everyone watching in awe. From dribbles to crosses, to perfectly timed passes, he was a force. The coaching staff, seasoned veterans though they were, simply shook their heads in appreciation; the fans roared in approval. It was known—on his day, Dembélé could be one of the best players on the planet. The problem had always been consistency. But today, he was untouchable.
By the 36th minute, he struck again. A rare counter unfolded, Cádiz venturing out despite their usual cautious approach. Messi, seeing the gap, threaded a pinpoint through ball to Griezmann, who in turn shifted it sideways into Dembélé's path. He accelerated into the box, a burst of power and precision, and finished cleanly. The scoreboard flashed: 3-0. Camp Nou vibrated with the roar of the crowd, echoing the perfection of the move, the fluidity of the connection, and the sheer brilliance of the trio—Messi, Griezmann, and Dembélé.
And that wasn't even the end of the half. By the 43rd minute, Cádiz were completely backed into their own half, playing a defensive shell that Barcelona had already dissected with ease. Dembélé, electric as ever, found a tiny sliver of space down the right. With the ball glued to his feet, he weaved past one defender, then another, his pace blurring their attempts to stop him. Approaching the edge of the box, he didn't take the shot himself. Instead, with the calm of a veteran, he cut the ball back to Messi. The Argentine didn't hesitate—he struck it with precision, the ball sliding dead to the corner. The Cádiz keeper barely moved; the shot was immaculate.
Barcelona 4, Cádiz 0. Messi had completed his hat-trick. Dembélé had already racked up two assists and a goal, Griezmann had one assist, and Pedri's earlier contribution had set the tone. The team was on fire, moving like a well-oiled machine. Every pass, every run, every interplay seemed preordained, the chemistry undeniable.
Fans in the stadium were ecstatic, some laughing and joking about how unstoppable Barcelona looked. Online, the commentary was even wilder. A bold fan had started videoing Mateo, holding the camera up, shouting, "How does it feel, bro, if you were in the game you'd already be on a hat-trick?" Others added their voices: "Mateo would've had six by now!".
Mateo, seated comfortably amid the cheers, just smiled and laughed. He'd stopped the over-the-top celebration after the third goal, his grin now more subtle, almost knowing. The game, in his mind, was already done. No one—not even Cádiz themselves thought they could mount a comeback with this level of precision and firepower. As players retreated to the tunnel for halftime, he waved at a few, sharing a quick nod here, a grin there, continuing his conversations with the people around him. Martin Braithwaite, as usual, was glued to his phone, scrolling away, but the others eagerly engaged.
Much of the discussion centered on Coutinho, the Brazilian attacking midfielder. Questions flew fast: "How did the Premier League's training compare to La Masia's?" "Was the pace really as brutal as they say?" "What's the biggest difference in match intensity?" Even the smaller nuances—how players managed transitions, positioning, or pressing—were dissected. For these Spanish-born, Barcelona-bound La Masia students, the Premier League was a distant, almost mythical land. Few had ever considered leaving their home club, let alone the league, but curiosity burned: how did the other side train? What made it 'the best league in the world'?
Coutinho, once one of the brightest stars in England, answered patiently. He spoke of the physical intensity, the tactical discipline, the relentless tempo of matches, and the subtle differences in positional play and decision-making. He compared it to La Masia, where development wasn't just about producing professional players—any top-class academy could do that—but creating world-class talent consistently. Messi, Xavi, Iniesta, and even the small boy sitting near him were proof of that. The students leaned in, eyes wide, absorbing every detail, asking more questions: "What about set-piece routines?" "How often did you practice under pressure?" "How did you manage recovery after long matches?"
Even amid these intense conversations, they didn't miss the match. Cheers erupted, groans followed near-misses, and laughter echoed across the seats. The energy in the room blended perfectly with the energy on the pitch, creating a rare, almost intoxicating atmosphere.
By the 68th minute, after over twenty minutes of relentless Barcelona possession and Cádiz desperately defending, the next breakthrough finally came. Barcelona scored their fifth goal, adding yet another layer of dominance and celebration to the match.
This time from an insane free-kick from twenty-five yards out—the prime Messi spot—Barcelona struck again. The foul on Dembélé on the right side of the pitch had given Messi the perfect opportunity, and a hot, focused Messi in that position the freekick was practically a penalty. He didn't disappoint. The ball sailed with precision, curling just past the wall and over the desperate dive of the Cádiz keeper, who stretched every inch but couldn't get a hand on it. The stadium erupted once more. Messi had secured his fourth goal of the game, and Barcelona's dominance was now unmistakable.
With the scoreline already emphatic, both Koeman and Álvaro Cervera began making substitutions. Both coaches had reached the same conclusion: the game was effectively over, though their reasoning differed. Cervera, resigning to defeat, rotated his defenders and midfielders, pushing his team into a more aggressive posture He wasn't about to give a clean sheet to Barcelona. Koeman, meanwhile, made tactical substitutions for a different reason entirely—rest. Key players needed recovery ahead of their crucial clash with Bayern Munich in just three days. Some of the first-team regulars were removed simply to protect them, others because the margin was wide enough to allow for experimentation.
By the 70th minute, both Pedri and De Jong were substituted, effectively removing two of Barcelona's midfield core. Messi was taken off in the 79th minute, passing the captain's armband to Sergio Busquets. Lenglet and Alba followed in the 85th minute, exhausting all five available substitutes. with the rotation and the slight uptick in Cádiz's aggression, the result of that was already written.
Sure enough, in the 87th minute, Cádiz managed to breach Barcelona's defense for the first time. Substitute Iván Alejo unleashed a ridiculous outside-foot strike from the right side, catching Ter Stegen slightly off guard. The ball kissed the back of the net, Cádiz's first and only goal of the match. While the goal hardly threatened the outcome, it offered a small, bittersweet relief to Cervera, who at least got to see his team notch one score against a relentless opponent.
The drama wasn't finished yet. In the 93rd minute, just over a minute past the allocated stoppage time, Barcelona struck again. Dembélé, relentless and explosive, carved open the Cádiz defence once more, finishing with his second goal of the night the sixth of Barca's and the seventh of the night. The stadium exploded. The Cádiz players, fans, and coaching staff were furious, storming toward the referees and demanding why the game hadn't ended sooner. Their frustration boiled over, resulting in three red cards—Cervera and two players sent off. For Koeman, the goal and the final whistle were a much-needed confidence boost. Recently Critics had been questioning whether the team was overly dependent on Mateo since the striker was scoring almost all Barca goals recently and whether their depth could sustain results. A goal fest 6-1 win against the 12th-place team silenced many doubts and reaffirmed the squad's trajectory.
.....
None of that mattered to Mateo and his group. After the match, they made their way down to the locker room, laughter echoing in the corridors as players celebrated around them. Mateo had brought along the younger kids—Lamine, Curbasi, and Bernal—who were ecstatic, filming and laughing as they interacted with their idols. Every encounter with Messi was unforgettable. Though many had met him before, seeing him receive another Man of the Match award was something else entirely. Dembélé had been a major contender with two goals and two assists, but Messi's four-goal masterclass secured his accolade once more, adding to his already staggering collection.
The match also served as a public rebuttal to the online trolls claiming Messi couldn't score again. The scoreboard—6-1—and the quality of the performance told a different story. Messi's brilliance, complemented by the team's energy, had rendered the skeptics irrelevant.
For Mateo, the rest of the day became a blur of excitement. After leaving the locker room, the La Masia kids were whisked away by Fati to a luxurious restaurant, where laughter and conversation flowed freely. They returned to the dorm; the day was so fun the older students even allowed the younger ones an almost unprecedented opportunity: a round of FIFA. The room buzzed with energy until Marc Bernal delivered a crushing 7-3 victory over Mateo, nearly driving the overly competitive striker to madness. The others laughed, mocked, and recorded every moment, cementing it as yet another memory for them to use to laugh against Mateo.
It had been a much-needed day for him—a day of reprieve, fun, and connection with friends. But as the evening drew near, a reminder of responsibility arrived. Mateo was called out by the dorm supervisor.
So there he stood. The evening had settled into a calm hush, the La Masia dorms a few meters away where he guessed the older students were still wrapped up in their FIFA battles. That, however, was far from his mind. Mateo stood upright, a piece of paper in his hand, scanning it carefully. The dim light of the hallway highlighted the edges of the sheet as he studied it, anticipation mixing with curiosity.
Dieting Plan for Mateo King
What Mateo was holding in his hands immediately caught his attention—a neatly folded sheet, officially stamped by the club. It was his new dieting plan. Someone from the club had personally delivered it, specially tailored for him, optimized not just for strength, but for stamina. The idea was simple: make sure Mateo could sustain his explosive style from minute one to the final whistle, without fading like so many before him.
He unfolded the paper and scanned the list. It was filled with the usual suspects for a stamina-focused diet: bland, tasteless foods, boiled vegetables, lean proteins, and carbohydrate portions carefully measured for energy release. Yet somehow, even as he looked at the uninspiring lineup, a smile crept across his face. Maybe it was the thought of the challenge ahead, or the fact that he loved pushing himself to the limit.
Truth be told, Mateo couldn't wait to start. He had already set a personal goal: to be able to play a full 90-minute match by the time El Clásico rolled around, and absolutely by the Champions League final, if and when they made it that far.
Normally, he would start feeling drained around the 75th minute—an issue that had now become a major concern at La Masia. Youth players weren't really expected to step directly into professional matches and perform at peak stamina, so the academy never really focused on that too much. Yet here he was, an anomaly among anomalies, defying the standard showing the club they had some flaws to their training plans.
The academy's youth directors had grumbled, gawked, and rewritten parts of the training schedule so on the rare chance a situation like Mateo came up again the player would be fully ready. much to the dismay of Gavi and the others.
But Mateo wasn't bothered. He knew that most players in his situation wouldn't even dream of meeting the stamina requirements until halfway through the next season, just as the club's medical director had warned.
Mateo, however, had never been "most players." And perhaps to mock the very idea of limitations, a new ability had emerged after the Bayern game. He could still remember it vividly. Just after stepping off the pitch at the Allianz Arena, following the late picture with Pedri and the team, as he walked back toward the bus, he had heard it—a quiet, undeniable whisper of ability, promising more than anyone expected.
[ding] — the iconic sound of the system echoed in Mateo's ears, and what followed was just as unmistakable:
[Sign-in detected: Stellar performance — Hat trick staged in the Champions League quarterfinals at the Allianz Arena. Host receives new ability: Kimmich Mentality]
At first, Mateo was puzzled. His initial hope was that this wasn't some gimmick—nothing like the Ronaldinho Lucky Charm nonsense he had gotten before. But as he sat on the bus, scrolling through the system's description, the reality settled in.
[Ability: Kimmich Mentality]Effect: Greatly boosts match focus and mental clarity, helping the player stay calm under pressure, ignore critics, and maintain peak performance while pursuing a desired result. When fully concentrated on a single training session for a low or average Physical attribute, it doubles the improvement gained—but only if the host is completely free of distractions and wholly focused.]
Mateo read through it again, a smile slowly spreading across his face. He couldn't use it to boost his already high stats like imagine he started training his speed under this effect—but this was precisely the tool he needed for his stamina training it was like it was tailored just for it. For the focus requirement? Mateo didn't even blink. At sixteen, with no vices or distractions and endless amount of desire to become great, he was about as pure a host as the system could have hoped for.
Unbeknownst to him, however, fate had a little irony in store. Right now, somewhere in the airport in La, the world's greatest human temptations—the vices that no man could resist—were quietly assembling, ready to board a plane bound for Spain.
A/N
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