A soft evening glow spilled across the room, turning the white walls a warm honey-gold. In the center of the room sat a young woman—Olivia Rodrigo, barefoot, hair tied up in a loose, messy knot, a blanket wrapped around her legs. She looked beautiful in that effortless, cinematic way teenagers do without trying: soft brown eyes, expressive brows, a quiet storm of emotion on her face. Her laptop lit up the lower half of her features, the screen divided into multiple Zoom boxes, each filled with producers, engineers, and label people spread across Los Angeles, New York, London.
Someone on the call leaned forward, rubbing his forehead."Okay, okay, what about starting it in that J-line? You know—let the chords breathe, then slide in the progression slow. The beat is already great, but the intro needs tenderness."
Another voice chimed in from a muted square. "Something more stripped. More diary-like. Like we're eavesdropping."
Olivia exhaled. "You mean 1 Step Forward, 3 hmm hmmm?"
The main face on the screen nodded—Dan Nigro, her producer, wearing a faded hoodie, hair sticking in all directions like he hadn't slept. He tapped his pen on the table.
"Exactly. The beat is there. The structure is there. But Liv…"He softened."…the lyrics need to be personal. This song is… about spirals. Emotional backtracking. When you think you're healing but every step forward drags you back three more. It's self-doubt. It's teenage heartbreak dressed like therapy."
Olivia soaked it in, nodding slowly as she chewed her bottom lip.
"I know," she whispered. "I know, Dan. Don't worry. I'll get the lyrics ready before the next two weeks."
Dan squinted."And recording? What's the plan for that?"
"¡Vamos Barça!" (a scream sounded disturbing the call)
"Oh—uh that's Ainas dad don't mind it—" Olivia pushed hair out of her face. "About what we were saying I can get the equipment here. I can sing it here. I can record everything in Spain."
Dan lifted a finger."Liv, we were thinking maybe it'd be best if you came bac—"
"Dan." She cut him off gently but firmly."Dan, I know this isn't ideal. I know the label wants me back in L.A. But… I genuinely believe this is where I need to be to get this right."
She said his name again, softer this time."Dan. Please. I'm inspired here."
Just then—A scream blasted through the doors, muffled but loud, forcing the laptop speakers to crackle.
"Send Those bastards Bayern home crying! fucking pieces of shit"
Dan blinked."…Are you sure everything is okay—?"
Another yell tore through the home:
"DAD COME ON! YOU'RE DISTURBING OLIVIA!"
Olivia flinched and covered her ear. "Sorry, sorry, the house is crazy right now—there is apparently a huge match and the Aina's dad is a super huge fan of the team playing."
Before Dan could reply, another roar erupted from below:
"TER STEGEN, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? MOVE! MOVE! DON'T JUST STAND THERE, JODER! ESPABILA COÑO, YOU'RE NOT A STATUE!"
Dan ran a hand down his face."Liv… see I believe in you. And I believe in this project. This is our one shot. This album is beautiful—like, really beautiful. It would be a tragedy if we screw this up and the world doesn't get to hear your voice the way it needs to be heard."
His tone grew slightly tense."And the suits at the label are… stiff. They don't love that you're not here. They're worried."
A long pause. Dan looked at her, eyes softening.
"…but I get it. That's where the music is for you right now. So don't worry about the suits. I'll stall them."
Olivia practically melted with relief."Oh, Dan, I love, love, love you."
Dan burst into laughter. "HA! HA—"
A female voice echoed in the background."His wife is here, Olivia."
Olivia snorted. "Hi, Emily."
Emily leaned into frame with a warm smile."Hi, Livvie. How's Spain?"
"I mean, it's gorgeous—like the architec—"
Dan cut her off gently."Olivia, I'll stall the label. But the lyrics need to be hot. Like—they need to hit. You still need to deliver."
She raised a brow. "Don't you trust me?"
Before Dan could answer—
BANG!
The door flew open.Both Dan and Olivia whipped their heads toward the sound.
Aina stood there, slightly out of breath, cheeks flushed.
"Oooh—sorry, am I disturbing?"
She waved at the screen."Hey, Dan."
"Hi, Aina," he replied.
"Sorry, Liv, but we need to leave. The ride will be arriving soon."
Olivia sprang up. "Shoot! When is it coming?"
"In twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes?!" Olivia scrambled around the room. "Where are my clothes? Aina, can I use your makeup? Where are my boots—my black ones, not the brown—wait, the skirt too—"
Both girls whirled around the room in chaos: clothes flying, drawers opening, makeup bags sliding across the bed.
Dan finally spoke up, confused:"What's going on? What's happening?"
Aina marched toward the laptop, answering him dryly:"What does it look like? You've had her all day. I'm taking her out to check out the city."
Dan blinked."Eh— isn't it night there?"
Aina grinned like she'd been waiting to say this her whole life:"Didn't you know, Dan? Don't you know that's when Barcelona is truly alive?"
He opened his mouth to argue but—
"Goodbye, Dan," Aina said, cutting him off.
Emily waved. "Bye, Olivia! Have fun!"
Aina began closing the laptop as Dan protested wildly:
"Wait—Aina—hold on! Liv, the lyrics! also do you think it's wise to"
"Bye, Emily!" Aina chirped.
....
"So… how do I look?"
Olivia spun around, catching her reflection in the full-length mirror. She was wearing a fitted skirt that brushed just above her knees, a soft leather jacket over a tucked-in blouse, and her black ankle boots clicked lightly against the polished floor. Her hair was loose, cascading in soft waves, and her makeup was subtle but perfect—just enough to highlight her youthful glow without stealing from her natural beauty.
Aina, standing a few feet behind her, smiled warmly. "Perfect. Seriously, Liv, you look amazing."
Olivia grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "What did Dan say?"
Aina tilted her head, teasing. "He said you should have a great time. Let loose. Enjoy yourself."
A high-pitched scream echoed from somewhere down the hall, cutting through the room like a bolt of energy. Olivia laughed, spinning lightly to face Aina. "Sounds like someone's excited about something…"
Aina shook her head, laughing. "Don't mind them they are animals when it's time for football. Come on, you've been cooped up all day—you need to feel the city too."
As Olivia stepped out of the bedroom, Aina led the way down the hallway. "You've been so busy since you arrived, I can't wait to hit the town with you. The city's alive tonight," she said, her voice full of excitement.
Olivia fell into step beside her, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Yeah… sorry that i have been busy. It's just…"
Aina cut her off with a soft laugh. "I know, I know. But that's all behind us for the rest of the day. Today… I've got you all to myself, just remember to say my name when you win your grammy."
Olivia's lips curved into a smile, and she leaned in, hugging Aina from behind. "You bet," she whispered, their laughter spilling into the quiet hallway. They giggled together, sharing that light, carefree moment.
Pulling back slightly, Olivia brushed her hair from her face. "Where is everyone?"
Aina groaned playfully, rolling her eyes. "About them…"
As they entered the living room, Olivia's eyes widened at the scene. Aina's dad, Oriol, sat in his usual chair, eyes glued to the television; her mom, Nora, perched on the sofa edge, balancing a plate of tapas in her hands; and her grandmother, Núria, seated regally in the corner, knitting but glancing often at the screen. All three were focused on the match playing live on the TV, completely absorbed.
The room was a shrine to football fandom. Plates of tapas, snacks, and small spills littered the coffee table, and the walls were decorated with banners in Barcelona's iconic blue and red. Each family member wore the number 10 jersey, deep blue with vivid red accents. Olivia's gaze drifted to a particularly striking banner on the wall: the team's colors stretched across, but instead of the club crest, a huge bulldog stared from the center, fierce and comical at once. Oriol wore a scarf with the same bulldog design wrapped snugly around his neck.
Olivia grinned, feeling a rush of warmth. This family wasn't just a fan—they were hardcore, living every pass, tackle, and goal with an intensity that could almost be felt in the air. The family home pulsed with energy, a mixture of smells from cooking, the chatter from the kitchen, and the almost tangible excitement of a family fully immersed in football.
Aina leaned closer, a smile tugging at her lips. "This is them," she said softly.
Olivia's gaze stayed glued to the living room, where the family hadn't even noticed them yet. Every pair of eyes was locked on the television, hands clenching the edges of couches or balustrades, mouths moving with shouts and gasps, completely consumed. She tried to follow the screen, but apart from the top-left corner flashing FCB – FCB, the numbers 0-0 dominating the center, a smaller (3-2) tally to the side, and a ticking clock reading 08:59, the game was an incomprehensible blur.
Her eyes wandered across the room, instinctively scanning the crowd of men. One wore the same vibrant blue and red as every other banner and jersey decorating the room, while another was clad in white with faint touches of red—Olivia didn't know who was who or what exactly was happening. But then, almost as if drawn by some invisible thread, her eyes found him.
Mateo King.
He stood slightly back from the main cluster, calm but attentive, watching the game with quiet intensity. One hand raised occasionally, fingers twitching as if counting or signaling, and Olivia couldn't tell if he was coaching, celebrating, or just lost in thought. Yet she couldn't look away. He dominated her attention completely.
Aina, nudging her gently, whispered, "Just… let's leave them. They're all zombies when the game's on."
Olivia nodded faintly, eyes still glued to Mateo, the rest of the match only vaguely registering. She tried to focus on the moving players—the grown men chasing a tiny white ball across the green—but 90% of her attention was still on him. Her voice came out barely audible: "Ehn… ehn."
Aina smirked knowingly. "You have no idea. Check this out," she whispered. Then, raising her voice with theatrical flair, she called out: "Okay, bye! Me and Olivia are heading off back to America!"
The family reacted instantly. "Oooo!" someone shouted, the collective gasp echoing off the walls, the kind of sound that erupted when something happened in the game—an audacious pass, a close save, or a sudden foul.
Aina turned to Olivia, a triumphant grin on her face. "See? What did I tell you? not a care in the world They even forget about their daughter who just CAME BACK TO THE COUNTRY" Aina said saying the last part very loud to get their attention but like usual no one even looked back
Before she could finish, Olivia whipped her head toward her, eyes sharp and curious. "What do you think happened?"
Aina froze. "Ehn… what?"
Olivia didn't notice her shock. Her voice was calm, almost casual, as she spoke. "I mean, I was watching, but I'm not sure. I saw Mateo—your cousin—touch the white ball, and then he just kicked it away. And that guy… the one who used his hands to catch it? Also, I thought you couldn't use your hands in soccer, but he just held it. Is that why everyone screamed? Are the people in white cheating?"
Aina's mind went into overdrive. Since when does Olivia care about sports? What is happening? Does this have anything to do with her music? She tried to process Olivia's rapid-fire observation, still stunned by the complete lack of hesitation in the way she spoke.
Olivia's eyes flicked to Aina, expectant. Aina stumbled over her thoughts. "Ehm… I'm not sure. I wasn't really looking at the match," she said quickly, trying to regain composure.
Olivia tilted her head, satisfied. "Oo, okay then."
"Yeah," Aina muttered, still flabbergasted.
Olivia's energy shifted, and she straightened, taking a step toward the room where the family sat. "I'm coming. Let me go ask your dad or someone what happened," she said, already moving forward.
Aina's voice called after her, tinged with urgency. "Wait, Olivia! The driver will be here soon."
Olivia waved her off without slowing. "Don't worry, I won't take long," she said over her shoulder, confident and unbothered.
Aina stood frozen in the hallway, watching her stride toward the family, thinking, What just happened?
...
"What the fuck is he doing? What the hell is Ter Stegen doing? Does he want to cost us the fucking match? Just flopping around like a fish! Joder, coño, move your ass! What the hell, tío?"
Olivia rushed into the living room, her eyes widening at the scene before her. Aina's dad, Oriol, was practically vibrating with energy, shouting at the screen, face red, veins popping as he gesticulated wildly toward the goalkeeper in green so very different that his usual very soft self. He wasn't alone. Nora, Aina's mom, joined in, voice tense and sharp: "It's not just him! What was our defense doing a few seconds ago? We had a chance! How are they already there? Look at Dest—Coman is practically playing with him!"
Olivia opened her mouth to speak. "Excuse me—"
But Oriol was on a roll, ignoring her entirely. "Dest is a fool! I don't know why Roberto isn't starting! But he isn't even my problem See Stegen? See how he's wobbling after that weak shot? He keeps doing shit like this. Yes, the defense isn't helping, but must he always fuck up in big games like this? Mother, what do you think?"
Olivia's eyes flicked to the grandmother, Núria. She didn't understand a single word, but the intensity in her gestures, the way her hands cut through the air and shook with emotion, made Olivia glad she couldn't follow the language. Núria was clearly giving her opinion, and it was fiery, impassioned, unrelenting.
Oriol and Núria's argument radiated tension; Olivia could almost feel the heat between them. She looked across the room at Nora, who was now silently observing the chaos, eyes glued to the television, lips slightly pursed, hands resting lightly on her knees. She seemed detached from the verbal storm between husband and mother-in-law, entirely absorbed in the game.
Olivia took a careful step toward her. "Nora… Nora," she called softly, trying to get her attention without startling her.
Nora jolted slightly as Olivia touched her arm. "Jesús!" she gasped, looking up, wide-eyed. Then relief softened her features as she recognized her visitor. "Oh… it's you, Olivia." She placed a hand over her heart. "Oh my God, you scared me there!"
Olivia laughed softly. "Sorry, I just wanted to ask you something."
Nora waved a hand. "Oh, it's fine, honey. Was it… are we making too much noise? Sorry, dear." She turned toward Oriol, her voice gentle but firm. "Honey, we're disturbing Olivia, keep—"
Olivia shook her head quickly. "No, no, no. It's not that. I'm done composing for today already."
"Oh, is that so?" Nora blinked, curiosity creeping into her voice.
"Yes," Olivia said, pointing toward the television. "It's about that."
Nora followed her finger and finally saw what Olivia was referring to—the match, alive and chaotic on the screen, players darting across the pitch, jerseys blurring in motion, the sounds of shouting echoing through the room, blending with the commentary and Oriol's exclamations.
...
"So that's basically what football is about," Oriol's voice boomed across the room, commanding attention. Olivia had asked for Nora to explain the sport, and Nora had begun, trying to guide her through it gently. But as soon as Oriol caught wind of the conversation, he had taken over with grandiose confidence, as if he were passing down an ancient legacy. He spoke with that fervor only a lifelong Barcelona fan could possess, making it his mission to indoctrinate another soul into the ways of being a true Culé before they unknowingly fell into the clutches of the evil white side. Despite all the theatrics and dramatic hand gestures, his explanation was surprisingly clear, almost poetic in its simplicity.
Olivia leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. "I think I got it now," she said, her voice soft but full of enthusiasm. She nodded rapidly, turning her gaze between the players darting across the screen and Oriol. "So, there are eleven players on each side. The first person is the goalkeeper—he's the only one allowed to use his hands. The other ten all have their own roles: defenders, midfielders, and strikers. Each position has a purpose, a way to control the game and protect their side. And the point… the point is to get the ball past the opposing net and score goals."
Nora smiled softly from the couch, a hand lightly resting on her knee. "Yes, exactly."
Oriol, still fixated on the TV, nodded in agreement, a small grin tugging at his lips. "There are other rules, of course. Offsides, fouls, all sorts of nuances. But that's the basic idea. That's football in its essence."
Olivia tilted her head, absorbing the explanation. "Okay, then." She glanced back at the screen, following the fast movements of the players, their kits blurring with every sprint, the ball flicking from foot to foot. "It's still 0-0," she murmured. "So the team still needs to score to win. What happens if they don't? Does the game just continue, or would it end as a draw?"
Oriol didn't even turn his head, his eyes glued to the match, tracing the movement of every pass, every run, every feint. "Well," he said without taking his gaze from the screen, voice steady but tense, "normally it would either end like you said, a draw, or they would play extra time. And if no winner is decided, then it goes to penalties… that's a whole thing entirely. But this match… this one is different. If it ends like this, we would get the win."
Olivia blinked, tilting her head in curiosity. "Oo, why though is that fair—"
But before she could finish, a sharp voice cut through the living room, tinged with irritation and disbelief. "I'm back already. Canceled the ride. The driver was not happy, neither am I. I can't believe I dressed up to watch football with my parents. I blame you, Olivia!"
From the corner of the room, Aina appeared, striding across with purposeful steps. She went straight to the large, plush coach where her grandmother sat, enveloping her in a tight hug. The older woman smiled warmly, hands rubbing Aina's head gently, a quiet reassurance in the chaos of the room. Yet, just like her son Oriol, her eyes never left the TV, unwavering in their focus on the game.
Aina's gaze, however, flicked to Olivia—and it wasn't kind. She glared, a sharp, calculated look that made Olivia momentarily freeze.
Olivia tilted her head, voice soft, almost innocent. "I'm sorry… I just thought it would be fun to watch the match. We can go out another time…"
Aina's eyes didn't soften. "You know what? I can't believe you made us cancel just so we could watch football." Her voice was half exasperated, half incredulous.
"It's not like that," Olivia replied quickly, trying to sound casual, though her chest tightened. "The game is… looking interesting Plus I'm tired and its late."
"Since when did you like the sport? Or any sport, for that matter?" Aina's tone was sharp, skeptical. She pinched her face slightly, her brows furrowed, eyes narrowing. "Whenever my cousin gets mentioned recently, you always get… weird. I hope it isn't what I'm thinking."
Olivia's face flushed immediately, her cheeks warming as she stumbled over her words. "Wh-what are you talking about?" she stammered, hands fidgeting slightly. "It's not that! What are you thinking? The game is just… nice. Plus, we can go out another time."
Aina's lips curved in a small, teasing "Hmm."
Olivia shook her head rapidly, a mix of embarrassment and exasperation. "Shut up."
Aina couldn't help it—her laugh filled the room, light and melodic, cutting through the tension.
From the couch, Nora lightly tapped Aina's leg, her voice calm and gentle, trying to redirect the energy. "Don't be sad. You guys are still here for a while. Plus, it's probably for the best. Everyone would be watching the match anyway—so many services and stores would have been slow or even closed. Eat some tapas, hmm? Let's all watch the game."
Aina nodded, reaching for the small snack and popping it into her mouth. The taste was simple but comforting, a little reminder of home. Her mother leaned closer, lowering her voice, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
"And about what you were saying earlier… Olivia acting strange when Mateo is brought up… what's that about? Does she have a crush on him?"
Aina's eyes widened, her mind racing. Her normally stoic, composed mother was leaning in, hanging on every word as if she were about to uncover a juicy secret. Aina felt a strange mix of disbelief and concern, her thoughts spiraling. What's really going on today?
...
While Aina was still dealing with her mom, Olivia turned back to her impromptu football lessons from Oriol. His eyes were glued to the TV, but he gestured with his hands like a teacher explaining a lesson.
"So, about what I was saying," Oriol began, his voice firm but enthusiastic, "the competition they're playing today is called the Champions League. It's a two-leg game, and this is the second leg."
He pointed at the scoreboard on the screen, hand slicing through the air like a conductor guiding an orchestra. "See that? The 3-2 number beside the 0-0?"
"Yeah," Olivia replied, trying to keep up, eyes wide as she followed his gestures.
"That," he continued, pointing at the numbers with emphasis, "was the first match. We won three, they scored two. So, if the game ends with 0-0 today, with the aggregate, we actually win 3-2. Got it?"
Olivia nodded slowly, her lips parting as she tried to say "oo," but before she could finish, something in her peripheral vision caught her attention.
Her eyes followed the players moving across the field, instinctively drawn to the familiar number 10 she had seen countless times before. Without fully realizing why, she started shouting, "Go! Go! Go!" Her voice was small at first, uncertain, but then her instincts took over as she saw him weave past a defender in white almost effortlessly.
The number 10 she regularly saw anytime she saw someone wearing the jersey passed the ball to Mateo, and her heart jumped into her throat. Mateo surged forward, sprinting toward the goal. Olivia had no idea why, or what exactly he would do, but her instincts screamed that she was witnessing something important. She couldn't help herself. "Go! Mateo! Go!"
The room around her exploded in cheers.
"¡Vamos! ¡Sí! ¡Vamos, vamos, vamos!" Oriol shouted, pumping his fists in the air, his voice reverberating through the living room.
"Goal! Goallll! Mateo! Mateo! Mateooo!"
Nora's voice joined in, sharp and jubilant. "Yes! Yes!" She jumped slightly in place, clapping her hands, eyes wide with excitement.
Even Grandma Núria, usually calm and reserved, let out a soft, delighted laugh, her hands gripping the edge of her chair as Oriol continued bouncing around, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Those bastards! They think this is last season! They would cry! We are fucking Barça! Fuck them! Fuck them! Ha! Ha!"
Olivia laughed, a mix of joy and disbelief, as she joined in the shouting, the energy infectious. Nora was bouncing beside her, chanting "Goal! Goal! Goal!" over and over.
Aina, finally relaxing, started laughing with them too, her stern glare from before completely gone. Olivia caught her eye, smiling widely, and for a moment, all tension melted away in the shared ecstasy of the moment.
"Say it! Visca Barça! Visca Barça!" Oriol roared, dragging them all into the chant.
And just like that, the living room was a hurricane of laughter, cheers, claps, and high-fives—a small, chaotic celebration of sport, family, and pure, unadulterated passion.
But their laughter didn't last long. Olivia, still smiling widely, glanced back at the screen—and froze. Mateo, who had just been sprinting toward the corner flag moments ago, was now charging toward the man in black she had been told was the referee. Her smile drained away, replaced by a sudden tightening in her chest. The Barça players swarmed around him, gesturing wildly, shouting, hands raised, the anger on Mateo's face sharp and intense.
"Wh—what's happening?" Olivia blurted out, her voice almost trembling.
Oriol, still in cloud nine from the goal, turned toward her with a confused expression. "Ehn? What?"
Olivia waved her hands at the screen, eyes wide. "The match… look! Look what's going on!"
Oriol whipped his attention back to the TV, his face suddenly tense. "What's going on?!" he muttered, leaning forward, eyes scanning the screen.
Nora's voice chimed in, her tone sharp but confused. "Is it offside, or what?"
Oriol ran a hand through his hair. "No… no, I watched it. The timing was perfect. It can't be offside. Was there a foul in the buildup?"
"VAR," Nora said, eyes narrowing at the screen, "is checking for a possible offside."
Oriol's jaw tightened. "How—why, how? What was offside there?"
Olivia's head bobbed up and down in confusion, her voice frantic. "What's offside? What's going on? Didn't they score?"
Aina, standing slightly behind her, leaned in and whispered, "The referee is checking if Mateo was in front of the last defender before he got the ball if he was the goal is invalid and its cancelled."
Olivia's face twisted in disbelief. "What would happen if he was in front of the ball? Why? That's not fair! Why would they just take his goal?"
Her gaze darted back to the screen. The Barça players were still clustered around the referee, gesturing and shouting, the tension in their movements almost palpable. The players in white also approached, jostling lightly against the Barça men.
"Hey! They're shoving! They're shoving!" Olivia said, her voice a mix of awe and panic, as she saw a player in white push Mateo slightly. Mateo didn't flinch—he kept gesturing at the referee, his focus unbroken, face fiery with insistence.
It didn't take long before the replay of the goal appeared on the screen. Oriol's voice cut through the room like lightning. "Look! I said it! It's a goal! Lahoz is just so fucking blind! I don't know why he's still refereeing Champions League matches—fucking cheat!"
He pointed frantically at the screen, voice rising with every word. "Why is he taking so long? It's a clear, good goal!"
Aina rolled her eyes slightly, voice calm but teasing. "Come on, Dad. Don't be biased—it's close. Mateo's leg kind of shoots forward…"
"What are you saying?!" Oriol barked, stepping closer to the TV, finger stabbing at the screen. "See? Boateng! His leg is holding Mateo! He couldn't set the offside trap fast enough! It's a clear goal!"
Nora raised her hand slightly, her voice firm. "Quiet. Everyone. He's done checking."
Oriol muttered through gritted teeth, "Better give the goal…"
The room grew taut with tension. Mateo Lahoz, the referee, had finished consulting the VAR. Every eye in the living room—Grandma Núria, Nora, Aina, Oriol, and Olivia—was glued to the screen. The atmosphere was heavy, almost electric. You could hear whispers, murmurs, and the low hum of disbelief as each second stretched endlessly.
Some muttered under their breath: "Come on… just give it…" "It's obviously a goal…" "Lahoz, open your eyes don't be daft!"
The tension was unbearable, a mixture of fear, anticipation, and hope, and every heartbeat seemed synchronized with the movement of the ball on the screen.
Oriol's eyes stayed glued to the screen as the referee blew his whistle, sharply pointing toward the assistant referee. The gesture was immediate and decisive, and Oriol couldn't hold back.
"Bastards!" he roared, his voice cracking with frustration.
Grandma Núria, sitting in her chair, practically jumped from her seat, waving her hands in disbelief. "¡Malditos!" she shouted, her voice carrying that mix of fury and astonishment that only a true Barça fan could muster.
Oriol slammed his palm against the armrest of the couch. "I knew it! Why is Lahoz still refereeing big matches in 2021? That guy hates Barça! How is that offside?"
Olivia, standing behind him, could feel the room's tension ripple through her. Even from her vantage point, she could see it wasn't good. On the TV, Mateo's face was a portrait of shock and disbelief. He raised his hands, palms open, in a universal gesture of "What just happened?" His teammates quickly moved to console him, patting his back and trying to calm him down, but Olivia noticed the subtle frustration in the way Mateo's jaw tightened and the way his eyes darted toward the referee.
And then, the cruelest part for the fans in the room: the scoreboard flashed. The "1" that had briefly appeared in front of the first Barça goal vanished, reverting back to zero. The room fell into a tense silence for a heartbeat, before the exclamations of disbelief and anger returned.
By the 27th minute of the match, Mateo King had produced a thrilling moment after a perfectly timed through ball from Messi. The stadium had erupted, hearts racing with anticipation, only for the joy to be stolen moments later. After a careful review by the referee and VAR, with the ref scrutinizing the replay on the pitch-side monitor, the goal was ruled out. The score reverted to 0-0 on the night, though Barça still held the aggregate advantage at 3-2.
The Barcelona players, Mateo in particular, had protested vehemently, voices raised in disbelief, gesturing at the referee, shaking their heads. But the game waits for no one. On the pitch, play resumed with relentless intensity, each player pushing forward, chasing the ball, the rhythm of the match refusing to pause for their frustration. In the living room, Oriol leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of his seat, while Nora muttered under her breath, the tension mirrored in every muscle of her body. Even Grandma Núria had straightened in her chair, eyes sharp, leaning into the drama unfolding on the screen.
Minutes stretched and the players battled across the pitch, a symphony of shouts, whistles, and the constant thud of the ball against cleats and goalposts. Olivia, still absorbing everything, found herself drawn into the ebb and flow of the match, heart racing in sync with the action.
And then, after what felt like an eternity of passes, tackles, and near misses, the clock ticked onward, mercilessly toward the next milestone.
The 46th minute arrived.
...
"We are so bad! I don't get what Koeman is doing! We are completely exposed!" Oriol shouted, slamming his hands on the armrest, voice thick with frustration.
Nora tried to calm him, her tone firm but gentle. "Now, Oriol… what could he have done differently? It's not just him. The players are trying their best."
"Well, first of all, why is he playing Dembélé? Why the hell is he starting him?" Oriol shot back, eyes glued to the screen.
Nora raised an eyebrow, slightly exasperated. "Weren't you praising him after the last match?"
"That was then! This is now! He shouldn't be starting, and it's not just him. Look at Dest—horrible! Just gave away a corner instead of punting the ball away. Lacks experience. And the midfield—they're too loose. Busquets, Pedri, they keep running back to help the defense. We're losing ground there. At least change the tactics if these are the players he wants to use. Long balls into Mateo! He's fast! lets use the high line they are playing But no, we've just been on the defensive since the start—it makes no sense!" Oriol fumed, pacing slightly as he gestured wildly.
Suddenly, the referee's whistle pierced the air from the TV. All heads snapped back toward the screen as the Bayern players set up to take the corner.
"See Müller! See how he's free! He's completely free! What the hell is the defense doing?" Oriol barked, leaning forward in his seat.
Nora pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. "Oriol… you're making noise, they can't hear you!"
"See how Müller is free! No one's marking him!" Oriol insisted, pointing at the screen.
"And Alba—what is he doing? He should be moving toward him!" Nora added, voice tense.
The corner was taken. Kimmich swung the ball in with precision. Oriol's voice rose over the chaos: "See! See! See my defense! Look at this! Look at this!"
Inside the box, players jostled and moved, arms flailing, legs colliding. Alba tried to shift toward Müller, but his movements were too late. Piqué leapt, stretching every sinew, but it was no use—the ball soared over him, a perfect arc into the air.
Ter Stegen stood frozen, a statue, eyes wide as the ball arced past him, untouched. The ball slammed into the back of the net.
"Fucking said it! I said it! Shit! Shit!" Oriol exploded, throwing his hands into the air, voice cracking with fury.
Olivia felt a pang of sadness. The insults, the swearing, the sheer intensity of Oriol's anger—they washed over her, but they didn't register. Her gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the screen. The white-clad Bayern players were celebrating, hands raised, voices shouting, a storm of joy in contrast to the tension on the Barça side.
Then, the camera cut back to Mateo. Sweat dripped down his face, and he wiped it with his shirt. His expression was tight, determined, unyielding focused entirely on the match ahead. Olivia couldn't look away, her heart tightening with every movement he made.
0-1. Bayern Munich led at the camp nou aggregate (3-3)
A/N
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