A soft puffing sound escaped Mateo's lips as he exhaled, regulating his breathing after returning from the half-time locker room. His chest heaved, every inhale and exhale deliberate, measured. His eyes swept over the pitch, instantly locking on Lewandowski, poised to restart for Bayern. The Polish striker's gaze flicked up and down, calculating the positioning of the Barcelona back line, bracing for the high press he knew was coming.
Mateo's "Cruyff brain" tingled. Every nerve was alive, every instinct screaming. He analyzed the spacing between the defenders, the subtle shifts of weight, the slight lean forward as one readied to pivot, the other poised on the balls of his feet. The referee hovered a few meters away, whistle at the ready, while the Camp Nou crowd erupted around him. A tidal wave of sound and color shook the stands, chants colliding with banners in the wind, the very air vibrating with energy.
"And we're back, ladies and gentlemen," Peter Drury's voice resonated over the noise, rich and commanding. "The second half begins with everything on the line. Bayern with their high press, Barcelona with their hybrid transition play, and here comes the kickoff!"
Jim Beglin added, calm but deliberate, "This is the kind of moment where pressure tells, Peter. Every hesitation, every misplaced pass will be punished."
The whistle sliced through Camp Nou like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. Lewandowski nudged the ball forward, and immediately Mateo erupted into motion. His legs pumped furiously, cleats digging into the turf with every explosive stride. He darted across the field, relentless, a shadow glued to the ball, refusing to allow even a single moment of comfort for the Bayern players. Sweat stung his eyes, but he barely noticed; every fiber of his being was focused, alive, electric.
Bayern's midfielders reacted instinctively, but Mateo was everywhere. Kimmich flicked the ball to Alaba, who in turn slid it to Müller. The ball danced wide to Sané, who spun and feinted, trying to escape the young striker's hunt. Mateo didn't break stride, closing gaps, intercepting passing lanes with uncanny timing. His teammates, sensing the press, surged forward, their voices cutting through the deafening roar of the fans: "Press him! Move! Cover! Pass!"
Mateo lunged, weaving between Bayern's midfield, tracking the ball as if magnetized. Hernández, receiving a sharp pass from Coman, twisted and pivoted, trying desperately to shake him off, but Mateo mirrored every movement, eyes locked, instincts sharp. Each step forced the Bayern man closer to panic. His footwork faltered. "Shit!" Hernández hissed under his breath, fingers brushing against Mateo's jersey in a desperate tug.
The referee's whistle rang again, harsh and precise. "Foul! Yellow card," the official barked, the words slicing through the chaos. Hernández froze, stunned, the caution a punishment for losing his composure under the relentless press.
Mateo sprang to his feet immediately, fists pumping, energy spilling from every pore. "¡Vamos! ¡Vamos!" he shouted, voice cracking with exhilaration, his arms waving high as if to lift the entire stadium with him. The Camp Nou erupted, a tidal wave of sound. Fans screamed, some standing, some pounding their chests, banners snapping and flapping violently in the wind. The collective heartbeat of Barcelona pounded through the stands, a symphony of anticipation and raw emotion.
Even amid the roar, the intensity of the pitch remained palpable. The Bayern players scrambled, panic etched on their faces as they realized the young striker had turned the entire half into a relentless chase. Hernández stumbled, glanced around wildly, trying to find a lifeline. "Calm! Calm!" he muttered under his breath, but the panic was obvious, each movement clumsier than the last.
And still, Mateo ran. Pressing, chasing, never ceasing, a living embodiment of energy and audacity. His teammates had joined the chase fully now, closing off spaces, yelling instructions, driving the press with unyielding fervour giving Bayern a taste of their own medicine. The referee, already in position, kept a keen eye on the escalating intensity, fingers raised intermittently, warning players to maintain control.
Goretzka hurried with his pass, Pavard muttered instructions, trying to calm the tension in the backline. Müller barked, eyes scanning for openings, aware that Mateo's presence alone was forcing mistakes, slowing down their rhythm. Mateo didn't pause. His energy was contagious; Barcelona's other forwards began pressing in unison, closing spaces, cutting passing lanes, and shouting to each other. "Press him! Move! Don't give him time!" The referee's whistle had stopped play just for a moment, but the tension carried on.
But Mateo didn't care. He thrived in the chaos. Each scream from the crowd, each beat of the drums, each roar of encouragement only fuelled him further. He was a tidal wave, a storm on the field, and as the referee barked another warning, he waved at the fans, hyping them higher, letting the emotion of the moment carry him. Camp Nou was alive, shaking, vibrating with anticipation, with fear and hope entwined in a chaotic heartbeat, and Mateo King was at the very center of it all.
The Camp Nou was alight, the roar of the fans washing over the pitch like a living tide. Mateo King's fists pumped, chest heaving from the chase. Every stride, every press, every lunging tackle had pushed Bayern back a little, forced them out of their comfort zone. And now, after drawing the foul and seeing the passionate Stance from their wonderkid, the stadium responded with a deafening cheer, a wave of noise that surged from the stands to the pitch.
Peter Drury's voice cut through the din, steady and commanding: "Mateo King forces a foul! just a minute into the game, Bayern in danger as the young striker keeps the pressure high! since the opening Relentless, he won't give up, and the Camp Nou is responding with every heartbeat!"
Jim Beglin laughed softly, admiration in his voice: "Absolutely, Peter! Look at him! He chased them down didnt even pause one bit nor , never letting up. And Bayern are feeling it. This is exactly the kind of intensity that can change the flow of a match. This might not look like much but Mateo just put the team is on edge, This early putting them on pressure he just gave Barcelona all the morale after that slow first half from their side and the fans are loving it , let's just hope that Bayern wake up thanks to this and we can all get an even more exciting second half."
Even on the pitch, the Bayern players quickly adjusted, moving into positions Flick screaming instructions they moved like a well-oiled machine with slight flicking nervously between Mateo and their teammates.
Peter Drury's voice surged again, measured but full of admiration: "The crowd is loving it! Mateo King may not have scored yet, but look at the effect—Bayern are being tested at every turn. That's the mark of a striker with fire, a player who refuses to give an inch."
Jim Beglin added, warm with awe: "Exactly, Peter. The young striker hyped up the stadium, and in doing so, he's already made Bayern feel the intensity of this match. And now… Messi is stepping up to take the free kick."
All eyes shifted instinctively to the Argentine maestro. Calm, collected, Messi strode forward, the ball tucked under his arm. Every step measured, every movement deliberate, he lowered the ball onto the white mark the referee had drawn. The stadium seemed to hold its breath, each heartbeat syncing with anticipation, every fan, every player frozen in the charged stillness that precedes a moment of potential brilliance.
...
"Forty-three yards out," Peter Drury's voice carried across the airwaves, rich and precise, his tone threaded with anticipation. "Far, far from his comfort zone. Do you think he'll actually go for it?"
Jim Beglin's voice countered, calm yet analytical. "Look at the bodies just outside the box. Piqué is the obvious target for a cross, but Mateo King is lurking too. According to the stats, he's won over seventy percent of all aerial duels since breaking into the first team. That's significant. Let's see how this unfolds."
Drury chuckled softly, the warmth in his voice carrying a hint of awe. "They might all just play the background role. Messi… he might do the impossible again and shoot from there. Peter, I've learned never to doubt that man."
On the pitch, the chaos was palpable. The Bayern defenders shouted at each other, their voices cutting across the roar of the stadium. "Go there! You're blocking me!" Pavard barked at a teammate. Manuel Neuer's voice rang out over the din, commanding. "Mateo is open! Pavard, stay with him! Watch the far post!"
Barcelona's players moved in tandem, a living, breathing organism. Piqué was being handled tightly by Boateng and Hernández, both shoving, nudging, forcing him back step by step. "Free me, man! What is this?" Piqué shouted, glancing at the referee for a call. The whistle did not come. He muttered under his breath, incredulous, "Really… nothing?" The referee's nonchalance added another layer to the bedlam.
All around, the penalty area was a hive of movement. Bayern players scrambled to mark, to block, to cover every inch of danger. Barcelona forwards darted between them, weaving, shoving, creating pockets of space, each step calculated yet instinctive. Mateo moved like a whirlwind, darting left and right, reading Messi's intent, ready for any opportunity.
Then the referee's whistle cut through the tension, a sharp, commanding note that seemed to freeze every heartbeat in the stadium. For a brief moment, the roar of tens of thousands vanished into a stunned silence. The lively energy of the crowd hung suspended, as if holding its collective breath.
Mateo shifted, his legs coiling, muscles taut. He moved in the box like a predator, each step deliberate yet unpredictable, darting between defenders, trying to find the perfect angle. His eyes never left Messi, who was already sprinting toward the ball, ball tucked carefully under his arm, the stride of a man about to attempt something audacious.
Peter Drury's voice rose again, tension and excitement threaded through every syllable. "It seems… he's going for an indirect kick. The movement, the positioning—it's all building to something extraordinary."
Jim Beglin's voice was barely able to contain his excitement. "Mateo King is everywhere! Look at the chaos he's creating. Bayern's defense is scrambling, the goalkeeper barking orders… this is pure high-stakes football, Peter. Didn't know I would see Barca this dangerous so early on, you just know whatever happened in the locker room has really fired these men up."
Mateo's eyes locked onto the ball, every fiber of his body alert. He drifted slightly back, careful to stay onside, reading the faint hesitation in the Bayern defensive line. Pavard and Hernández with Davies were inching forward, trying to spring the offside trap, but Mateo felt the space opening—a fraction of a second, enough to exploit. He shifted his weight, then exploded forward, every stride low, controlled, and impossibly fast. His cleats dug into the turf, blades of grass bending beneath the force of his push, as if the pitch itself propelled him.
The field blurred around him—colors of Bayern red and Barcelona blue flickering as he weaved, adjusting to the subtle shifts of the defenders. Every step was measured yet explosive, his body coiling and uncoiling like a spring as he read the space, felt the timing, and anticipated their next move. Pavard's eyes widened, panic flickering across his face, his mouth opening as he barked, "Back! Get back now!" Hernández mirrored him, sprinting to cover, arms pumping furiously, shouting instructions to his teammates, each word sharp and urgent. He threw a hand up toward the assistant referee, hoping for the familiar flash of the offside flag—but it never came.
Mateo felt the Bayern defenders chasing, their shadowy figures a constant reminder of the danger behind him, but his legs burned with adrenaline, precise and unrelenting. Every heartbeat synchronized with his movement, every breath a calculated intake and release as he surged forward, breaking past the line they had tried to set. The intensity was suffocating, the roar of the Camp Nou a thunderclap in his ears, but he kept his focus on the ball, on the space ahead, on the opportunity.
Peter Drury's voice cut sharply through the chaos, alive with excitement: "He's free! Mateo King's broken the line! Look at that pace, Jim—he's gone, slicing through the Bayern defense like a blade!"
Jim Beglin added, his tone a mix of awe and disbelief. "Unbelievable, Peter. The German defense bouncing back, trying to catch him, but he's in full flight! And Neuer's coming up… he's not going to give him any space."
Mateo shifted slightly, weaving between defenders, every muscle coiled, every step precise. The ball dropped just ahead, teasing him with the perfect opportunity. He stretched out his tippy toe, brushing it forward to maintain his run, but Neuer was already there, arms wide, blocking the angle. In a heartbeat, their momentum collided. Mateo's knee twisted awkwardly as his shoulder rammed into Neuer's chest, the impact sending shockwaves up his leg. The young striker crumpled to the turf, the sharp twist of his knee radiating pain with every breath, his body folding beneath him. The stadium erupted, a cacophony of screams and gasps.
Messi, Pedri, and Piqué and the other Barca players nearby surged toward him, their faces a mixture of concern, disbelief, and anger. Koeman's fists pumped on the sideline, his voice cracking as he shouted instructions and encouragement through a storm of emotion.
"Penalty! That's a penalty, Peter! He's taken down inside the box—look at that knee! There's contact, he's brought down, it's a clear foul! This is exactly what you call a challenge, and the referee cannot ignore it!" Jim Beglin's voice rang out, cutting through the roar of the stadium, urgent and insistent.
Drury's voice rose above the din of the stadium: "The crowd is on fire, Jim! Every fan on their feet, every heartbeat synced to this moment. But hold on—something's wrong. Mateo isn't getting up. Something doesn't feel right!"
The energy on the pitch shifted instantly. Barcelona's players circled him, shouting his name, shaking him gently, but his face twisted with pain, clutching his knee as sweat and grass mixed on his forehead. The roar of the crowd shifted to anxious murmurs, the passion of the game now tempered by worry.
The players crowded the referee, a tidal wave of emotions crashing forward. Barcelona screamed, hands pointing, voices rising in fury. Bayern players shouted just as loudly, arguing their case with equal conviction. Neuer stormed forward, his chest heaving, eyes wide. "I had the ball! He ran into me! Clear!" he shouted, pointing emphatically at Mateo, who was still clutching his leg on the turf.
The referee, calm yet firm, ignored the shouting chorus. He moved forward slowly, weaving through the throng of players, and stopped beside Mateo. "Hey, kid," he asked, his voice carrying over the din, "are you okay? Can you play?"
Messi and Pedri hovered close, concern etched into their faces, but Piqué's reaction was immediate and visceral. "How the hell is he okay?" he roared, his voice rough, raw, almost tearing through the air. "You saw them nearly take his leg off!" His language spilled out unchecked, fueled by pure protective rage.
The referee's gaze snapped toward him, warning sharp and unyielding. "Next time, I won't be so kind," he barked, his hand raised in caution, and then he gestured toward the bench, signaling for a potential substitution. Mateo's moment on the pitch hung in the balance.
Peter Drury's voice returned, heavy with concern. "Oooh, it looks like it's bad… not the scenario Barcelona fans wanted to hear right now. They might get a possible penalty—but at what cost? Losing Mateo King could be devastating."
Jim Beglin's tone softened, the analytical edge replaced by human concern. "It's more than that Peter. At this moment, all tactical debates, all scoring opportunities—none of that matters. I'm sure everyone here is just hoping that their kid is okay. That's all that counts, that's all that matters."
Messi's eyes scanned the pitch with the calm precision of a seasoned maestro, even as his heart raced with concern. He crouched slightly, gesturing toward Mateo. "Pedri, stand by his side, support him. Mateo, breathe slowly, focus on your breathing. Don't tense your leg—don't squeeze the medical staff are on their way." His voice carried authority born of years of experience, a steady hand in the storm of panic that threatened to engulf them.
Mateo's body was wracked with agony. His right knee throbbed violently, a deep, piercing pain that radiated up his thigh and down into his calf. Each subtle movement sent jolts of fire through his leg. He tried to comply with Messi's instructions, inhaling sharply, exhaling, attempting to relax his muscles, but the intensity was overwhelming. Every nerve screamed. Every heartbeat felt like a drum hammering against the inside of his skull.
Pedri kept a hand gently on Mateo's shoulder, trying to steady him, murmuring softly, "Easy… easy, Mateo. You're okay. Just breathe." But the young striker's focus was swallowed by the agony radiating from his knee, the sheer pressure of the pain leaving him nearly deaf to their words.
"Stay still, Mateo! Look at me!" one of the Barcelona medical team members called out as they surged forward. Hands moved quickly, palpating, stabilizing, assessing. "Which part hurts? The knee?"
He clenched his jaw and forced the words past the pain. "M-my… knee," he rasped, the syllables strained, every letter a testament to sheer willpower. It took all his focus, every ounce of mental strength, to form that simple statement, to let the staff know where the agony burned brightest. His hands gripped the turf, digging into the pitch, anchoring himself as if the earth beneath could steady the storm in his leg.
Messi leaned closer, his gaze sharp yet calm. "He said his right knee," he informed the staff, his voice carrying the quiet confidence of someone who had faced countless on-pitch crises.
The medical crew didn't hesitate. They began their work, speaking rapidly among themselves while maneuvering the small space around Mateo. "Stretch him out carefully! Stretcher's ready! Hydration, check his vitals, stabilize the knee!" Every motion was precise, methodical, but carried the urgency and empathy required when a young talent was on the ground.
Pedri and Messi moved aside as the professionals worked, still keeping close enough to follow every movement, their eyes locked on Mateo.
The referee approached, clipboard in hand, voice firm: "If he cannot continue, he must leave the pitch immediately." Barcelona's players erupted in low shouts, curses, and gestures of frustration. Piqué's jaw clenched he wanted to lash at the ref for that but held himself back, his fists tight as he glared at him.
Peter Drury's voice, resonant and heavy with emotion, cut across the stadium: "A sad, sad moment here at Camp Nou. Mateo King, so young, so full of promise… brought low by the cruelty of the sport itself. Injuries—so wrong, so merciless. They rob us this night of the talent, the potential, the joy of the game so sad and he looked so ready this half, let's just hope it isn't as serious as it seems and we can get him back on the pitch very soon."
Jim Beglin added quietly but poignantly, "Absolutely, Peter. The Barcelona squad looks shell-shocked, the fans stunned. Even a single injury like this changes the momentum, the heartbeat of the match. Tonight, the heartbreak is all the more poignant."
The medical staff worked quickly, securing Mateo's leg and preparing the stretcher. Griezmann was already jogging lightly along the sidelines, stretching and warming up. Drury's voice trembled slightly with disbelief. "I can't believe this could be the end of the night for Mateo King. A young talent, potentially taken out at the height of a defining moment."
Then a subtle shift on the pitch. Something unexpected. Something that caught every eye. Drury's voice rose, tinged with awe and disbelief: "Hold on… Peter, something's happening on the pitch… ladies and gentlemen, I cannot believe this. And I don't think either can you."
The suspense hung in the air, electric, the stadium holding its breath. Every fan, every player, every heartbeat seemed to pause, waiting for what would come next.
A/N
Hello i want to try something i haven't done in a while, if we can get 60 power stones in the next 12 hours i would post another chapter (depending on how this turns out i would consider starting it again ).
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
patreon.com/David_Adetola
Thank You your support is greatly appreciated thank you all
I've also created a Discord channel to make communication easier, where I'll post updates, cover/character pictures for all my books, and more. Here's the link:
https://discord.gg/DsHC8g2A (New discord link )