Koeman hurried into the home bench area, his steps sharp, rapid, tense. Sweat traced his temple as he scanned the bench, eyes darting straight towards Griezmann who sat at the middle of the seats. Around him, his assistants moved with controlled urgency, grabbing notes, shouting instructions, adjusting earpieces. The stadium's roar seemed to recede in his mind, nothing more than a dull hum, because every second counted now.
"Get ready Remember Stay central!" he barked at Griezmann, voice slicing through the commotion, firm but edged with desperation. "Do not drift! Wait for the ball. Also Make sure there is no way for them to call offside, no shadow of doubt! And for heaven's sake, don't play into the ref's hands!"
Griezmann nodded sharply, eyes narrowing, water dripping down from the bottle held by a kit attendant. He repositioned himself instantly with precision, shifting from foot to foot, muscles coiled like springs. His head barely glanced toward the stands, the sudden crescendo of cheers barely registering. The fans' voices rose, a tidal wave of blue and claret, but Koeman didn't flinch. His focus was the bench giving instructions, the seconds slipping away, the strategy that could make or break this quarter-final.
"Quickly! I need you ready now, understand?" Koeman shouted again, leaning forward, hands slicing the air for emphasis. Griezmann's fingers tightened around the bottle, then dropped it, his head dipping slightly in acknowledgment. Every movement was deliberate, measured. Every nod a promise that he understood.
Then, as Koeman was mid-instruction, one of his assistants appeared beside him, slightly panicked. "Gaffer, you have to see this," the man said, urgency dripping from his tone.
Koeman waved him off without looking, voice clipped. "I'm coming! Just wait—we don't have time for distractions?"
The assistant didn't move. "Gaffer… Mateo. He—he just stood up. He's walking back to the pitch." Anxiety lined every word, every pause.
Koeman's heart skipped. "What?" he barked, voice cracking with disbelief and urgency. His legs pumped, sprinting toward the pitch, assistants scrambling after him, shouting to each other over the roar of the crowd.
The seconds stretched into what felt like minutes, but they didn't need long. Koeman reached the sideline, chest heaving, eyes scanning. And there he was—Mateo. Not on a stretcher, not being guided cautiously, but standing. Alone. In the middle of the pitch. The cheers from the crowd made sense now—the collective gasp, the sudden eruption, the anxious shouting from the sidelines.
Koeman saw the tension on the faces of his assistants, mouths open, hands raised, trying to process what they were seeing. Mateo, arms slightly lifted, was in a light but firm argument with the medical staff, shaking his head, pointing to his leg, insisting, silent determination radiating from every line of his posture.
...
Mateo, now upright, his body trembling slightly from exertion, faced the medical staff with a stubborn edge in his posture. They clustered around him, hands on hips, faces etched with concern and disbelief.
"You are or were in massive pain," one of them insisted, voice firm but laced with worry. "All this could just be a false adrenaline boost, but you shouldn't be on your feet like this, I know what you are going through leaving the match like this but please just get on the stretcher lets head to the medical centre for a better checkup."
Another shook his head, brows furrowed. "Are you sure what we saw before… was it really a meniscus tear? Or an ACL? cause if it was You can't just simply shrug those off with adrenaline."
A third stepped closer, voice quieter, almost solemn. "From the Lachman test it was probably both. Have you forgotten what we felt earlier… I also agree we should head to the centre now but adrenaline should also not be able to make him stand now."
The second staffer's jaw tightened. "Exactly. No amount of adrenaline could have you standing like this if both were seriously compromised."
Mateo's eyes widened. "ACL?" The word escaped his lips before his mind could censor it. A cold shock of fear washed over him. Fuck. ACL.
Moments ago, every step, every breath had been agony, a searing, unrelenting pain that gripped his right leg like fire. Now, though, an almost imperceptible [Ding] sounded in his ears, followed immediately by the crisp, mechanical words: [Host in home stadium healing effect beginning now.]
The pain in his leg vanished as if it had never been. Mateo had staggered slightly, cold shock meeting disbelief. His knee, which had moments ago felt like it had been twisted and shredded, was now moving freely, pain-free. Now hearing the medical staffers talk he realized That could have very well been a fucking ACL, he thought, eyes widening, heart hammering in disbelief.
But there was no time to dwell on it. He quickly shook his head, trying to shove away the storm of thoughts. I can't tell them about the system… but. I need to convince them I can play. I will not miss this match. No matter what.
He opened his mouth, voice strained but firm, "Really… I'm fine. I can—"
Before he could continue, an angry roar cut across the pitch. The sharp, commanding voice of the referee Lahoz boomed, unmistakable and furious.
"Get off the pitch! This is interrupting the game! Move now!"
Mateo waved frantically toward him, shouting over the chaos, "I'm fine! I can continue! Let me play!"
Lahoz's face was red with irritation, eyes blazing. He stomped forward, fists clenched. "I don't care! Go outside now!"
...
Peter Drury's voice carried across the stadium, rich and measured: "I can hardly believe it, Jim… it seems the football gods themselves are smiling down on us tonight."
Jim Beglin chuckled, awe-laced in his tone. "You can say that again, Peter. It seems we won't be deprived of witnessing one of football's brightest young talents this evening."
Drury continued, steadying his narration over the crowd's rumble: "Yes you are hearing and seeing it right, ladies and gentlemen, Mateo King is being led to the sidelines, where it seems he would remain briefly before being allowed back onto the pitch. And meanwhile, the referee has yet to make his decision regarding that previous incident inside the box."
...
Mateo muttered under his breath as he shuffled toward the sidelines, each step measured, almost defiant. ''But I just told him I'm fine…''
One of the medical staff, calm but insistent, placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Even if you are fine, it's standard procedure to remain at the sidelines for a moment."
"Yeah," Mateo muttered again, his tone edged with frustration, "but he didn't have to be so rude."
The words barely left his lips when a sharp, booming voice rang from the edge of the pitch. Every head turned toward the sound, tension snapping like a bowstring. Koeman, dashing toward them with a couple of his assistants in tow, face taut with concern and urgency, demanded answers before even fully reaching them.
"What happened? Is everything okay? What's going on?" he shouted, urgency layered with authority, voice cutting through the noise of the crowd.
Mateo straightened slightly, forcing a steady gaze, voice even but firm. "Gaffer, I'm fine. It was just a scare, but I'm good. I can play."
Koeman's eyes softened for a fraction of a second as he studied Mateo's face—pleading yet fiery, determined yet calm in its own way. Mateo's gaze locked with his, silent but potent: I'm fine. Let me play.
His expression hardened as he followed Mateo's eyes down to the knee, then shifted his attention to the medical staff. "What happened?"
The staffer who had insisted Mateo leave the pitch stepped forward, voice careful but serious. "We suspect a possible meniscus tear… or, in the worst case, an ACL tear."
An assistant behind Koeman whispered, disbelief lacing the words: "ACL? Is it that serious?"
The coach's jaw clenched for a moment, a flicker of concern crossing his face, but he calmed down he might not be a medical expert for someone like him who had coached long enough—decades of experience since the '90s—to know the highs and lows of football injuries. ACL tears were rare but not unheard of; while they were some players could walk out after minor tears, they were not without caution. The zero pain Mateo displayed, the controlled, almost impossible composure on his face, told Koeman this wasn't an ACL. Yet he had to be sure. He would not gamble with a young talent's career just to chase a single match even if that match could impact his job.
He exhaled slowly, voice steadying as he addressed the staff. "Then find out. That's your job. We should have a couple of minutes here while they take the penalty. Check if he can play."
Mateo's face lit up with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Gaffer."
Koeman's gaze hardened, voice cutting but calm. "Don't thank me. If there's anything wrong, I take you off instantly. No discussion."
...
Meanwhile, chaos continued to reign on the pitch. Lahoz's frustration was mounting. Mateo and the medical staff had been sent to the sidelines, yet the VAR team was arguing furiously in his earpiece.
"There is clear contact inside the box," one voice insisted, firm and unyielding. "Law 12 applies here. The attacker gets a touch and is then taken down. That's a careless challenge which impedes his movement—by definition, that can be a penalty."
Another voice pushed back immediately, just as sharp. "But the goalkeeper reaches the ball at the same time and secures possession. Under the same Law 12, contact alone isn't enough. There's no excessive force, no reckless action. The collision is a consequence of normal play. For me, that's not a foul—play should continue."
Lahoz's voice cracked with irritation. "Hurry up! The game's been suspended far too long!"
A tense silence filled the earpiece, then one of the VAR officials finally said, "We're leaving the decision to the on-field referee's judgment, as permitted under VAR guidelines. It's within his discretion to determine if the challenge warrants a penalty."
Lahoz muttered under his breath, his patience thinning: "No issue…" He clenched his fists briefly, thinking silently: Useless.
His gaze shifted toward the on-field monitor, then to his watch. Over four minutes had passed. The game was suspended. Time had slipped through their fingers, yet one truth remained—Mateo appeared fine. The boy was upright, moving steadily. Was there really a need to waste more time deliberating?
Through subtle reasoning and quiet conviction, Lahoz made his decision. He jogged forward, whistle lifted high. The sharp sound cut through the chaos like a knife, immediately grabbing the attention of every player.
Neuer was still at the side, arguing with his teammates, insisting, "I got the ball first! He ran into me!" Hands gesturing frantically, chest heaving.
Meanwhile, Messi was poised by the Bayern penalty box, ball tucked under his arm, ready to take the upcoming penalty ready to equalize the game for his team.
Lahoz raised his hand, fingers slicing the air with authority, signaling clearly: No penalty. Play continues.
Instantly, the stadium erupted—not in unison, but in a wild, visceral cacophony. Fans' shouts clashed with curses, murmurs, and derisive slurs, a violent tide of sound that filled every corner of Camp Nou. It was deafening, unrelenting.
And worse, Lahoz now faced the immediate chaos head-on: screaming players, barking coaches, gesturing teammates, and the pressure of every single eye in the stadium pressing down. The referee's decision, simple as it was on paper, had ignited a storm far beyond the field.
"How—how—how is that not a foul? Are you blind?!"
The shout cut through the din of the stadium, jagged and furious. In an instant, the Barcelona players surged toward Lahoz, a wave of frustration and raw emotion spilling onto the pitch. At the forefront, Piqué's face was red with anger, eyes blazing, every muscle taut as he led the charge. De Jong, arms flailing, pushed past Bayern players trying to hold him back, his own voice hoarse from shouting. Busquets followed closely, chest heaving, waving his arms in protest, his usually calm demeanor stripped away by outrage.
Chaos enveloped the penalty area. Lahoz's whistle screamed through the tumult, sharp and commanding. "Back! Back to your positions! Resume the game!"
But the Barca players were relentless. Bayern, sensing the storm, stepped in with a mix of smiles and control, hands on shoulders, trying to shepherd the Catalans back. Müller reached Piqué, hand lightly brushing him, voice smooth but firm: "Let it go… let's resume the match."
Piqué's hands shot away as he snapped, "Let me go! Of course, you want the match to resume! Tell me—how much have you guys paid that fraud?"
The words were English—the only language he and Müller could share, their shared tongue slicing through the cacophony. Lahoz, fluent and watching every gesture, froze for the briefest instant, his jaw tightening at the choice of words, shock flashing across his face.
Lahoz's gaze swung toward Busquets, stern and unyielding. "It is not a foul. The play continues."
But the words pique said barely landed on Lahoz's ear. Piqué, eyes locked on Müller, continued to seethe, his chest heaving. Lahoz's expression darkened, the calm he had tried to maintain slipping away. His hand dipped into his pocket with a deliberate motion. He started toward Piqué, each step measured, exuding authority and a simmering anger that cut through the pitch like steel.
Piqué noticed the approach and paused mid-step, turning to face Lahoz. His voice rose automatically: "What—what?"
Lahoz wasted no time. From his pocket, the yellow card flashed, a bright accusation against the chaos itself. "Dissent by word!" he barked, the words sharp, final.
"That's a fucking joke, ref!" Piqué screamed, incredulity dripping from every syllable.
He opened his mouth to argue further, but Lahoz's voice thundered: "Continue, and it will be Offensive, Insulting, or Abusive language toward the referee!"
The surrounding Barca players moved quickly, dragging Piqué back as he struggled, chest heaving, still shouting, "But it's wrong! It's wrong!"
"I know, I know," Busquets urged, his tone firm but calm, laying a hand on Piqué's shoulder. "Go… just leave it."
Reluctantly, Piqué's resistance faltered. He allowed himself to be guided back toward his defensive position, muttering under his breath but obeying—grudgingly, but wisely.
Messi and a few others moved toward Lahoz, intent on voicing their concerns, ready to defend their teammate, but the referee had reached the limit of his patience. His whistle shrieked once more, slicing through the noise like a blade.
"Start the game! Do not hold up the match!" Lahoz's shout reverberated across the stadium, final, authoritative, unassailable.
In football, the fans could scream injustice until their throats gave out, players could storm and argue, and even coaches on the sidelines could stage their own furious exchanges—but until the ninety minutes were up, the referee was nothing short of god on the pitch.
The Barcelona players withdrew, retreating to their positions with controlled restraint, unwilling to risk another yellow card or worse. Their frustration simmered beneath the surface, but it was contained, held back for the sake of the match. Across from them, the Bayern players gleamed with anticipation, their smiles wide, relishing the chaos that had briefly unsettled their opponents, eager to restart.
Mateo stood alone at the sidelines, finally cleared by the medical staff after a brief checkup. Koeman and his assistants had rushed off to protest to the assistant referee, their voices sharp, furious—but none of that reached Mateo now. His focus was elsewhere.
He watched Neuer, towering and composed, place the ball on the pitch to restart play. The sight stirred a mixture of emotions in him—frustration at the call, disbelief at the chaos that had unfolded—but above it all was anticipation, raw and electric. The match was continuing, and soon, he would be back on that field, where every heartbeat, every sprint, every touch mattered.
Mateo clenched his fists slightly, jaw tight. He pushed the lingering anger and disbelief to the back of his mind. The game is more important. He stood there just waiting for his boots to be back on the pitch.
...
"Ohhh, how has he missed that!"
Peter Drury's voice rose in disbelief as the chance slipped away. "You felt it, didn't you? The stadium rose as one. After that exquisite pass from Pedri, everyone inside the Camp Nou was already celebrating."
Jim Beglin came in calmly, measured but appreciative. "They were, Peter. That ball from Pedri was perfectly weighted, absolutely begging to be finished. Dembélé did a lot right—found the space, struck it early—but credit where it's due."
Drury picked it up instantly. "Because the man in the Bayern goal has been immense."
"He really has," Jim agreed. "That's an outstanding save from Neuer. He's set himself early, stays big, reads the body shape… and that's why he's been on fire tonight. Since the second half began, he's kept Bayern alive."
Drury let the noise of the stadium breathe before continuing. "And what's remarkable, Jim, is the response. After the penalty controversy, after the protests, after all that emotion… you wondered how Barcelona would react."
Jim answered without hesitation. "Exactly. Moments like that can fracture a team mentally. But instead, it's done the opposite. They've come out sharper, more aggressive, more determined."
Drury then threaded the inevitable question. "Let me ask you this—your view on that decision? Because at this level, with everything at stake…"
Jim handled it smoothly, diplomatically. "Honestly if you want my opinion the only thing I can say is I don't know. In matches of this magnitude, referees are under immense pressure. Decisions are made in fractions of a second, and what feels obvious from one angle can look very different from another. Controversy is almost unavoidable."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Of course, For Barcelona supporters, their feelings are clear—especially considering the offside call in the first half. But whether that penalty decision was definitively wrong? That's one that will be debated long after the final whistle."
Drury nodded verbally. "And what's beyond debate is this—Barcelona are flying now."
Jim finished the thought. "They are, Peter. Ever since that moment, they've been on a tear."
Back on the pitch
Manuel Neuer's voice ripped across the Bayern defense, sharp and urgent. "Boateng! Hernández! Get back! You let him go too easily!" His hands flailed as he barked at his back line, sweat dripping, veins tight on his forehead. "We don't have much time! Every second counts!" The German goalkeeper's eyes blazed with intensity, every syllable carrying the weight of the away goals rule, the aggregate score, and the mounting pressure of a quarter-final clash.
He booted the ball forward in frustration, a long, driving clearance, and the Bayern players stirred awake, snapping into focus after Dembele's near-break from moments before. But despite this surge of renewed vigor, Barcelona's momentum was a force no defense could halt. The home side was ruthless, disciplined, yet wild in their pressing, like a storm churning with intent.
Then came the 67th minute—a moment etched into the rhythm of the game. Pedri slid in, his boot perfectly timed, stealing the ball cleanly from a the unsuspecting Kimmich. He popped back to his feet instantly, scanning the field as the Bayern players converged on him. Davies charged, aggressive and low, trying to shepherd Pedri toward the corner. Pavard and Hernández closed down angles, shouting at each other, voices cracking in panic, "Cover the space! Don't let him pass!"
But Pedri danced through the chaos, nimble and electric. He accelerated, the ball glued to his feet, weaving past challenges like a painter's brushstroke across canvas. The commentators' voices rose in awe:
Peter Drury: "Pedri, what brilliance! This young man—every touch is a statement of genius!"
Jim Beglin: "Absolutely, Peter! Look at the vision, the pace, the intelligence. He's pulling Bayern apart like it's a game of chess he has been brilliant all game!"
Pedri's eyes flicked up, scanning the far side where Mateo was timing his run to perfection. A heartbeat later, Pedri's delicate lofted pass sliced through the chaos of Bayern's closing defenders—a thread of vision only a genius could create. Mateo's gaze snapped to the ball; he read the offside line like a blueprint, his stride pulling back slightly to bait the trap before launching forward in a blur of pure acceleration. Davies sprinted alongside him, swearing, arms pumping, trying to shepherd him toward the corner, but Mateo was untouchable, every step a defiance of physics.
With a flick of his heel, Mateo back-heeled the ball with surgical precision. It spun past the trailing defenders and landed perfectly at Pedri's feet at the edge of the box. Pedri, calm yet electric, saw Alaba lunging, yelling, "You're not passing here!!" He twisted lightly, a sidestep that seemed almost choreographed, and the ball slid sideways. The defender spun, eyes wide, realizing only too late that another Barcelona player was already hurtling toward the danger zone—Lionel Messi.
Messi moved like a phantom, surreal and untouchable. Outside the box, in the quarter-finals, with the aggregate hanging by a thread, he met the ball with a single, precise touch. Time dilated. He chipped it—a gentle, audacious flick that carried the elegance of a painter's stroke but the lethal intent of a predator. The ball arced beautifully, high and fast, spinning toward the top corner, teasing the air as if mocking anyone who dared stop it.
Neuer's eyes went wide, pupils dilated. Every nerve screamed. He sprinted backward, stretching his frame, muscles tight like coiled springs, trying to chase the impossible trajectory. The crowd leaned forward in unison, hearts thudding in every chest. He jumped, arms reaching desperately, fingers grazing the ball with a tantalizing brush, but it wasn't enough. Gravity and genius conspired together, and he landed flat on his back, helpless, watching as the net bulged, the goal sealed.
Camp Nou detonated. The stadium became a living, breathing entity—roars cascading from stands, pubs, and homes, vibrating the very air. Messi pivoted instinctively, ready to sprint to the corner for his signature celebration, but before he could take a single step, a weight crashed onto his back. Mateo had launched himself, throwing himself fully, arms wrapped around his captain, screaming, "Oooh I love you! I love you! What was that? What the fuck how did you even think of that!" Mateo screamed as he and his idol fell to the ground
The chaos didn't stop. Pedri also came sprinting in, jumping on top of the pair, fists pumping, shouting wild encouragement. Piqué and Busquets collided into the pile, laughing, shouting, their faces alight with exhilaration. Even Griezmann sprinted from the bench, throwing himself into the mass of Barcelona bodies, arms flailing in unrestrained joy. Mateo's laughter cut through the noise, raw and ecstatic, echoing every injustice from earlier calls, every second of pressure finally exploding into pure, chaotic euphoria as the Barcelona players celebrated right in front of the Bayern box.
The Camp Nou, the bench, the streets outside—everywhere, every heartbeat of every fan screamed in unison. Barcelona had delivered a moment that would not just be remembered, it would be felt, deep in the chest, rattling the soul, a celebration of skill, passion, and sheer defiance.
The Barcelona players piled on—Pedri, Piqué, Busquets, even Griezmann sprinting from the bench. Faces glowed, wide smiles, joy unrestrained. This wasn't just a goal; it was vindication, a release after the chaos and unfair calls that had plagued the match.
Across the city, in homes and pubs, fans were losing their minds. Mateo's family, celebrating with a massive tight hug squeezing Olivia who would have been regretting staying to watch if she also wasn't in euphoric disbelief, as they were practically lifting each other off the ground. The Camp Nou bench mirrored the frenzy. Koeman's hands punched the air, eyes glittering with unbridled relief and pride.
Above it all, the commentary booth was a storm of astonishment and awe.
Peter Drury: "Oh my God… oh my God… what was that! Unbelievable… simply disrespectful to Neuer, who has been an absolute wall tonight!"
Jim Beglin: "Disrespectful? Yes, Peter, but that's Lionel Messi! Who else could conjure a moment like that under such pressure? One touch, outside the box, in a quarter-final! The brilliance… it's indescribable. Bayern are reeling!"
Drury: "Absolutely, Jim. On aggregate, it's now 4-3. 3-2 to Barcelona from the first leg, and Bayern… they would need not one, but two goals now just to think of turning this around."
Beglin: "And that's only if this Barcelona side ever lets up! But at this pace, at this fire… I honestly don't see them stopping!"
The stadium, the players, the bench, even the commentators—all were caught in the whirlwind of a single, unstoppable moment. The match, already a battlefield of nerves, skill, and passion, had just been tipped further into legend. As always Barcelona Vs Bayern Munich was going to deliver a feast.
A/N
Damn, you absolutely crushed the requirements. I'm honestly shocked — in just one fucking day! 😂 Well, this is the chapter I promised. Enjoy! Also for the next 24 hrs Messi's goal is posted free on Patreon you can go check it out
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