"Rubbish! That's all rubbish—IT'S BULLSHIT! That's bullshit, I fucking saw it! I was on!"
Mateo's voice exploded through the dressing room, raw and cracking, echoing off the tiled walls. He was pacing like a caged animal, chest heaving, sweat still dripping down his jaw. His boots clacked aggressively against the floor each time he turned.
A few teammates looked over; others didn't even bother—they were already fuming about their own frustrations. The whole room was a storm.
The door swung open.
Koeman entered, clapping loudly. "HEY! Enough! Everyone calm down. No panic—no panic."
But the tension didn't fade. Mateo rounded on him immediately.
"Gaffer, I swear I was on! I saw Boateng's legs! Why didn't he just use the line? Why—why didn't they use the fucking line also VAR why did he go check himself what's the point of them at all?" he shouted, pointing angrily at the air as if the VAR screen was still hovering in front of him.
Koeman held a palm out, voice firm but not unkind. "Mateo, I know. I know. But we can't dwell on that."
Mateo grit his teeth. "But—"
"No." Koeman stepped closer, lowering his tone so the words landed harder. "Also, this isn't your first high-level match. You know this. Football—at this stage—it's not just about you or your team's abilities. The referee's tendencies matter too. Sometimes more than we want to admit."
The room quieted slightly, only the sounds of massages and tape ripping filling the gaps.
Koeman continued, "We put all that behind us now. No dwelling. Focus on what's next."
Mateo breathed sharply through his nose, looking away before giving the tiniest nod, frustration buzzing off him like heat. Lenglet passed him and rubbed his shoulder. De Jong squeezed the back of his neck.
Still, Mateo muttered under his breath, "It's still bullshit…"
A kit assistant came over and handed him a cold energy drink. Mateo unscrewed it aggressively and took a long gulp, the bottle crackling under his grip.
Across the room, chairs scraped, players shuffled, medics wrapped ankles, and voices overlapped. The halftime locker room in the Camp Nou right now was a battlefield of noise—frustration, pain, sweat, and adrenaline mixing in the air.
"Guys, guys, guys!" Koeman clapped again, louder this time. "Everyone here. Focus."
Little by little, the players drifted closer, some limping, some rolling their shoulders, some stretching thighs. The physios continued their work beside them.
Koeman waited until he had all eyes.
"Honestly? I won't lie to you—we are getting played out there."
Mateo exhaled sharply, wanting to jump in, but the coach raised a hand before he could.
"Yes, I know. I know we might be getting unfair calls out there."
Immediately, voices erupted around him.
"He called a foul when I didn't even touch him!"
"That was shoulder-to-shoulder, how is that a free kick?"
"He's blowing for every soft tackle!"
"He booked me for nothing—NOTHING!"
Hands gestured aggressively, boots stomped, players shook their heads. You could tell half of them didn't even know if they were right but—they just felt wronged, felt robbed, and all the small "maybe fouls" and "maybe nots" were blurring into frustration.
The room buzzed louder and louder—
"So what?"
The words cut through the locker room like a blade.
Everyone froze. The chatter, the boots scraping on the floor, even the physios moving around the tables—everything stopped. Every head slowly turned toward Lionel Messi, who was still sitting on his seat, calm but burning with a quiet fury.
Even Ronald Koeman jolted slightly, instinctively stepping forward.
"Wait, that's not—" Koeman began, trying to get control before things escalated.
But Messi lifted a hand gently—not rude, not aggressive, just… decisive.
"Gaffer," Messi said, eyes still fixed on the team, "Let me talk to them."
For half a second Koeman was stunned. Messi asking permission was practically unnecessary—everybody knew it. If Messi wanted to speak, no one could realistically deny him. But the fact he asked… that alone saved Koeman's authority, preserved his dignity in front of the squad.
Koeman exhaled, and a small, grateful smile stretched across his face.
"You all listen to your captain," he said quietly, stepping aside.
And Messi stepped forward.
He didn't take a long stride—just one measured step into the space Koeman left open. But in that single movement, the entire atmosphere shifted. Despite being physically smaller than the coach, he suddenly felt bigger, heavier, towering over every ego and every doubt inside the room.
You could tell by the details.
Boots that were half-tied were dropped to the ground. Players who were slouching straightened up subconsciously. A physio who was taping an ankle paused mid-wrap. Conversations died instantly. Even the sound of breathing seemed to hush.
And Mateo… even he lifted his face, the ungrieved, frustrated expression melting away as Messi claimed the room.
Every pair of eyes locked onto the little giant now standing in the center.
And when he spoke, his voice carried with a weight that pressed into the walls themselves.
"So what if the ref is after us?" Messi began, voice low but sharp. "So what if we didn't get the call? So what if they cancelled our goal? So what?"
He took another step, gaze sweeping across every single teammate.
"Are we going to give up because of that? Is that who we are now? Are we going to walk back out there, lose in our own home, and then afterwards complain that the referee was against us?"
A few players lowered their eyes.
Messi didn't blink.
"Tell me—what do you think happens after that? We say, 'we were robbed,' some fans agree, some reporters say yes, yes, Barcelona deserved that goal…" He shook his head. "And then what? What changes?"
Silence grew heavier.
"We go home," he continued softly, "and they go to the next round."
No one moved.
Messi's jaw tightened.
"And the fans…" He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then back down. "Do you think they deserve that from their players? For us to give up? For us to blame someone else?"
The room went tense—so tense it felt like the air itself couldn't move.
Messi's voice, which had been firm a moment ago, suddenly cracked open into something uncharacteristically loud—raw, shaking, burning.
"The fans!" he roared, the sound bouncing violently off the locker room walls. "The people who came from far out—some travelling across cities, some even flying into the country! Buying tickets they'd been saving for all year long just to watch us, to see us play, to see their club, to shout their lungs out!"
Players flinched—not out of fear, but because the emotion behind the words struck deep.
Messi took a breath, shoulders rising, face flushed.
And then he screamed, louder than anyone had ever heard him inside these walls:
"YOU OWE THEM SOMETHING!"
Silence crashed back instantly.
He jabbed a finger toward the floor, toward the badge woven into every sock, shirt, and heart in the room.
"We—we owe them something!"
His voice shook with fury and devotion.
"Do you think they deserve to hear, 'we were robbed'? Do you?"
Nobody answered.
Not a whisper. Not a shuffle.
Messi's eyes blazed.
"Well? DO YOU?!"
"No!" the room exploded back, voices overlapping in rough, desperate unison—frustration, fear, adrenaline, everything boiling in the air like electricity. The sound bounced off the cold walls, raw and trembling, but Messi wasn't done. Not even close.
He stepped forward, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, eyes blazing with the kind of fire that makes grown men straighten instantly. His voice cut through the noise, sharp as steel:
"So what do we do?" he demanded, scanning every face—Mateo, Pedri, Busquets, Alba, all of them frozen, listening.
"What do we do now? We go out there and we fight."
His voice rose, cracking with passion.
"We fight for our spot. We fight for this club. We fight for the badge on our chest and the people watching us. We fight because we don't lay down, we don't fold, we don't disappear. Not tonight. Not ever."
Silence. Heavy, trembling, alive.
Then Messi drew in a breath as if pulling the entire weight of Barcelona into his lungs—and he roared:
"Visca Barça!"
"VISCA BARÇA!" the locker room thundered back, the walls trembling with unity.
Mateo shot to his feet instantly, shouting with a fierce grin, "Visca Barça!" His voice mixed with the others as the room erupted. He slapped palms with teammates, whistled loudly, thumped shoulders, hyping everyone around him as if he were made of pure electricity.
Shirts were pulled tight, fists pumped, players shouting each other's names. A fire had been lit.
But amid the chaos, amid the shouting and boots being stomped on the floor, someone wasn't moving as wildly.
Pedri González sat on the bench, hands on his knees, eyes lowered—not out of fear, but focus.
The words "you owe them something" echoed in his head like a drumbeat.
He wasn't hearing the shouts anymore. He was hearing something else—memory.
The car ride.
The long, quiet drive when he and Mateo were reporting for national duties. The promise they had both made that night—a promise of change, growth, elevation.
And Pedri had promised something too.
He hadn't told anyone. He didn't need to. It was just for him.
I'm not powerless anymore…
He remembered being in Las Palmas. Young. Small. Sitting on a worn-out sofa with the TV light flickering against his face as Bayern tore Barcelona apart. He wasn't on any pitch—he was a kid watching giants crumble, watching a club he adored get drowned under red shirts and ruthless pressing.
Back then, football felt like something happening far away, around him but never through him. He felt like background noise in the world's greatest sport, a spectator to a storm he could never imagine surviving.
But now?
'Now I'm different.'
He looked up, eyes sharpening as if a switch had been flipped.
'I can change the outcome.'
The fire in the locker room wasn't just around him—it was rising inside him. Slowly. Deeply. Unshakeably.
Pedri squeezed the towel wrapped around his forearms so tightly his knuckles whitened. His breath came steadier, stronger. His chest filled.
He wasn't the quiet kid from Las Palmas anymore. He wasn't watching the giants from far away.
He was one of them now.
And he was ready.
…
"Wowza! What a first half that was!"
The CBS studio lights bathed everything in that sharp Champions League glow—cold blues, crisp whites, the giant screen behind them replaying the last sequence before halftime. And at the center of it all sat the perfectly mismatched duo: Micah Richards grinning like he owned the building, and Thierry Henry sitting with that relaxed, regal posture that made even silence look expensive.
Micah clapped his hands dramatically.
"Well, ladies and gentlemen, since the lovely Kate Abdo isn't around tonight, and our regular clown Jamie Carragher is still battling yesterday's brutal loss—"
Henry burst into a laugh, shaking his head.
Micah grinned wider, victorious.
"—today, I, your lovely, tall, handsome—"
Henry raised a hand, already smirking.
"Okay, alright, go on. Don't be humble."
"—talented, all-time defender—"
Now Henry straightened.
"Okay, Micah, don't get too carried away now."
Micah leaned back, spreading his arms theatrically.
"—your host, Micah Richards! Assisted by the legendary Thierry Henry, will host you all tonight."
Henry looked at the camera, gave that tiny side-smile that always meant he was about to cut Micah in half with charm.
"Assisted? Wow. You're really taking it all tonight, aren't you?"
Micah gasped, hand to chest.
"Well, someone has to!"
They both chuckled before Micah slapped the table lightly.
"Right! First off—Thierry, what do you think? Because that first half—wowza—my head is still spinning."
Henry exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing with that trademark seriousness.
"What more can I think? It was a total lockdown."
Micah pointed immediately, leaning forward.
"You also thought that, eh?"
Henry gave him a long, flat look.
"What's not to think? That's exactly what happened."
He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped.
"Bayern had that first half on lock. They were commanding. They were imposing. They dictated every rhythm, every second ball, every duel."
Behind them, the replay showed Bayern pressing high, swarming the box.
Henry continued, voice smooth but sharp:
"If not for the massive red and blue everywhere in this stadium, honestly, Micah? I would think we were at the Allianz Arena."
Micah nodded aggressively.
"I agree with you. They were the better team first half."
But then he lifted a brow, cheeky grin forming.
"Buuut… some would say it's also because of some refereeing calls we saw."
Henry turned his head slowly, almost suspicious.
"What calls? What are you talking about?"
Micah threw his arms up.
"Come on, Thierry! You know exactly what calls I'm talking about! It's all they're talking about online."
Henry just shook his head, expression unimpressed.
"No. I don't know."
Micah blinked. "Thierry—"
Henry leaned back and sighed.
"If you're talking about what happened with the ref calls… yes, there were some soft decisions. He pushed here, he fell down after a slight touch, all of that…"
His face sharpened, tone flattening.
"But that's all retarded."
Micah slapped the table, eyes wide.
"Wow! Seems like Thierry is getting heated up tonight. Guess no pay for this week!"
The crew off-camera burst into quiet laughter, but Henry didn't even crack a smile. He leaned in, eyes sharp.
"No, no—I'm serious." He pointed toward the screen behind them where the replay was looping. "You cannot come here, at this stage, in your own home, and play the victim. Forget the calls. I saw the calls. Yes, some shouldn't have been given, some shouldn't have been blown for fouls… but that's football. That's it."
Micah raised his brows dramatically, giving the camera his "here he goes" face.
Henry continued, voice steady but firm:
"And let's not try to take anything away from Bayern Munich. They obviously don't need any help from the referee They didn't come here to sightsee. They came here to play their game."
The screen shifted again—Bayern's high press, their aggressive line, their midfield suffocating Barça.
Henry gestured at it with a precise flick of the hand.
"Look at them. High line, perfectly coordinated. Pushing forward as a unit. Overloading the midfield. Squeezing every yard of space between the lines. They overwhelm the defenders, they pressure the buildup, they deny every comfortable touch. That's Bayern. That's their identity under flick and it's at full view tonight."
Micah nodded, adding in his own flavor.
"And they make you panic, Thierry. You can see it—Barça are taking an extra touch, turning late, backing up instead of turning out. They're letting Bayern dictate everything."
"Exactly." Henry raised a finger. "Bayern are playing their football. Barcelona are not."
He leaned back, but his voice grew colder.
"We all watched the first leg. Barcelona have a player with blinding speed—a player who completely changes how Bayern defend. Use it. Stretch them. Get the ball away from your box. Beat the press. Play your game. Don't get sucked into Bayern's momentum."
Micah whistled softly.
"That's proper analysis, that. And you're right, they're not looking for the channels, they're not exploiting the half-spaces, they're just reacting."
Henry didn't let the moment breathe.
"Honestly, that goal… it's too soft. If one or two things happen differently, we would be seeing 2, 3 now. But again—that's football. Bayern didn't take their other chances, and that's that."
Micah leaned back in his chair.
"Let's see if they get punished for that."
Henry pressed his lips together, then spoke with a low certainty.
"Honestly? From what I'm seeing… if Barça don't get it together and bring the passion they brought in the first leg, then it's over. Especially this second half."
He paused, eyes narrowing with conviction.
"Something tells me it's about to get harder for Barcelona."
Micah nodded slowly, almost theatrically.
"You also think he's coming on this half?"
Henry didn't hesitate.
"Oh no, I don't think it. I know it." He tapped his chest. "I know him. Missing the first leg over a silly injury? Sitting through that first half? From what I know of him, he will be tearing himself apart inside wanting to get on that pitch."
Another pause. The tension climbed.
"And the coach… he'll put him on. For Barca if they don't turn up and with him on, it'll be the end of the game, that's the kind of impact a player like he has."
...
While the players of Barcelona and Bayern Munich were deep in their dressing rooms—last tactical tweaks, final shouts of urgency, shirts tugged, boots retied with shaking hands—the stadium above them was shaking with its own energy.
Down on the pitch, assistants were clearing cones, referees were stretching, cameras spinning into position. Up high, far above the roars and the restless murmurs, inside the glass-walled cathedral of voices, the commentary booths came alive.
And in the Sky Sports booth, one pairing towered above the others.
Two silhouettes.
Two voices known across continents.
The iconic duo:
Peter Drury
and
Jim Beglin
Sky Sports hadn't hesitated. After the colossal viewership of the first leg, they'd ripped Drury and Beglin straight from their assigned Liverpool–Real Madrid fixture and flown them here. And they hadn't been disappointed—this second leg was not only the most watched of the second leg, but it had blown away the numbers for the other game scheduled at the same time, easily overshadowing Chelsea vs Porto.
A soft click sounded, and then—
"And we are back…"
Peter Drury's unmistakable voice poured into the microphones, rich and alive, like a storyteller sharpening his sword.
"Back inside a stadium that has lived a first half of tension, turbulence, and a gripping uncertainty. The second half waits just behind the curtain… and Barcelona and Bayern Munich stand on the brink of a defining European night."
Jim Beglin followed, warm and smooth, the perfect counterbalance.
"Yes, Peter, the players won't need reminding of the stakes. You can feel the tension from up here. This place is ready to burst."
Drury chuckled gently, pleased with his partner's read.
"As ever, Jim, your eye is razor sharp. And while we prepare for the restart, let's quickly take a glance elsewhere… because down in Portugal, things are not nearly as dramatic."
Jim: "No, not at all. Chelsea are already two–nil up at the home of Porto, both goals coming from the captain—two cool penalties from Jorginho. He's bossing that tie."
Drury: "A firm grip, you'd say. One foot already in the next round."
A little shuffle of papers, a signal in their earpieces.
Jim perked up.
"And we're hearing now… yes—we're hearing reports that both teams are stepping out for the second half. And there's already talk of changes."
Drury leaned forward, his tone growing dramatic.
"Well, changes were expected… and Bayern Munich, unsurprisingly, are the first to show their hand tonight."
Jim began reading from the team sheet, his voice firm and analytical:
"Manuel Neuer remains in goal, no surprise there. The back line stays as it was—Boateng, Hernández, Davies, and Pavard. In midfield, a powerful pairing again: Joshua Kimmich and David Alaba."
Drury: "All intelligence and industry."
Jim continued:
"And ahead of them: Thomas Müller pulling the strings, Leroy Sané and Kingsley Coman on the wings. And leading the line—standing alone but carrying an entire city's hopes…"
A beat. Drury filled the silence like thunder.
"Robert Lewandowski.
Back from a mishap that kept him out of the first leg. Replacing Choupo-Moting tonight. The goal machine returns."
Jim: "And Peter… he'll know exactly what's required. On aggregate it's three–three, but because of the away goals rule, Barcelona would still be the ones going through. Lewandowski has been brought on for one purpose only."
Drury: "To try and end this."
"And Barcelona," Jim said with mild surprise, "surprisingly have not made changes. Ronald Koeman keeps faith in the starting eleven. Ter Stegen remains in goal. Ahead of him: Piqué and Lenglet at centre-back, with Dest and Alba on either side."
Drury added softly:
"A defence that will need to grow a spine of steel tonight."
"Midfield trio unchanged," Jim continued. "Busquets, de Jong, and the ever-brilliant eighteen-year-old Pedri, who has run and carried and pressed all night long."
Drury's smile was audible.
"A young man playing with the heart of an elder statesman."
"And up front," Jim announced, "Lionel Andrés Messi—"
Drury immediately cut in:
"Who, we can confirm, is still quite good at football."
Jim laughed. "Just a little. Beside him Ousmane Dembélé, and through the middle—leading the charge—Mateo King."
Drury shifted his tone now, threading anticipation into every syllable.
"A young striker chasing something remarkable… a goal in this round of the Champions League would make him just 3 goals behind Erling Haaland and knowing him one alone might not be all. Tonight, he stands again on the precipice of history. And Koeman, it seems, believes in his fire."
A long breath.
The stadium rumbled beneath them.
"And so," Peter Drury concluded,
"Barcelona stand unchanged. Bayern Munich sharpen their blade. The second half… is moments away."
A/N
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