"Messi… Messi… Messiii…"
The chant rolled out of the Camp Nou like a living thing, swelling, multiplying, growing louder with every second. From the north stand to the south, from the first row to the very top tier, it became one voice—raw, reverent, unstoppable.
"Messi! Messi! Messi!"
Oh Leo Messi, oh Leo Messi!
From Rosario to Barcelona,
You made this place your home!
The lyrics weren't perfect. They never needed to be. What mattered was the feeling—the devotion stitched into every syllable. Flags waved violently, scarves spun above heads, red and blue bleeding into one another until the stadium looked less like concrete and steel and more like a living mosaic, pulsing with belief.
The clock ticked into the 69th minute.
Bayern had already restarted play, the ball moving at their feet, but it hardly mattered. Not now. Not after that moment. The goal was still coursing through the stands like electricity through veins. Logic, tactics, and time all took a step back. This was worship. This was gratitude. This was the Camp Nou reminding the world who owned this stage.
Every touch Messi had taken in his career seemed to echo in the chant. Every impossible dribble, every quiet finish, every night he had bent reality in this stadium—it all came flooding back at once.
Above the pitch, in the commentary booth, Peter Drury leaned back slightly, a soft smile breaking through his usually composed expression. Beside him, Jim Beglin simply shook his head, eyes fixed on the spectacle unfolding below. Neither man spoke. They didn't need to. Some moments demanded silence, demanded respect.
Below them, the scene was breathtaking.
A sea of color rippled through the stands—red and blue shirts clashing and blending, banners stretched tight, faces lifted, mouths open, eyes shining. Parents hoisted children onto their shoulders. Old men clutched scarves to their chests. Strangers embraced like family. The noise wasn't just loud—it was alive, vibrating through the concrete, through the air, through the players themselves.
It was football at its most beautiful. Not just the game—but everything around it.
And for a moment, the world seemed to pause just to listen.
"Look at them," Peter Drury said softly, almost in disbelief, his voice lowering as if he didn't want to disturb the moment. "Just look at them."
Jim Beglin followed his gaze, eyes sweeping across the Camp Nou. Only minutes earlier, the stadium had been a cauldron of fury—arms flailing, curses hurled toward the referee, whistles screaming injustice. Now it had transformed entirely. Tens of thousands of voices moved as one, chanting in rhythm, not angry anymore—alive, unified, singing the name that had just lifted them back into belief.
Jim let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Well, Peter, I can't exactly blame them. From their point of view, it's been a night of hard calls and harder luck. They've had plenty to vent about." He paused, listening as the chant surged again. "And what a way their captain gave them to do it."
Peter smiled, nodding slowly. "You can say that again. I've still got goosebumps. Look at my arms—standing to attention like soldiers."
Jim chuckled. "At least you're enjoying yourself." His tone shifted slightly, eyes drifting away from the stands. "The same can't be said for Hansi Flick."
Both men lowered their gaze from the spectacle above and looked back down toward the pitch. From their vantage point in the crowded broadcasting section—surrounded by other commentators, journalists scribbling furiously, camera operators adjusting lenses—the Bayern bench came sharply into focus.
Hansi Flick was a picture of barely contained fury.
Moments earlier, Bayern had surrendered possession cheaply, the ball rolling out for a Barcelona throw-in. Flick exploded. Arms flung wide, he barked instructions in rapid German, his voice slicing through the noise as he demanded urgency, shape, control. His face was tight, jaw clenched, eyes blazing as he paced the technical area like a man watching something slip through his fingers.
Peter leaned forward slightly. "From control to uncertainty in the space of minutes," he observed. "And ever since that goal, Bayern haven't quite looked like themselves."
Jim nodded. "No, they haven't. The rhythm's gone. The confidence looks shaken." He hesitated, then added, "Still—sometimes all it takes is a spark. One moment. One player."
Peter's eyes flicked toward the Bayern bench again, sharper now. "And it seems Hansi Flick might agree with you."
Jim followed his line of sight and raised an eyebrow. "Ah. Would you look at that seems we are having our second substitution for the night."
Down on the touchline, movement stirred. A substitution board was being prepared. Flick turned, said a few sharp words, and a familiar young figure began to pull off his training top.
"Jamal Musiala," Peter said, voice lifting with intrigue. "The youngster who lit this tie up in the first leg."
Jim's tone shifted—surprised, analytical. "But hang on… it's Alphonso Davies who's stepping off for him." He exhaled slowly. "That's a huge call. An incredibly risky play by Flick."
And the Camp Nou, sensing something else about to change, began to buzz once more.
...
Hansi Flick crouched slightly as Musiala adjusted his boots, the young German's nerves barely visible beneath the burning focus in his eyes. Flick's voice cut through the low hum of the stadium, calm yet firm, deliberate like a strategist outlining the next move of a chess game.
"Musiala," he began, leaning in so only the player could hear. "You're fresh. Use it. Disrupt the midfield—especially number sixteen, Pedri. Don't let him settle. Make him uncomfortable. Press, prod, push him into mistakes if you have to. Stay aware of Sane—tell him to drift wider, stretch the field. Lewandowski needs to pull back a little, Muller supports. Piqué will need attention—force him to make errors, every small mistake counts. You follow?"
Musiala nodded, absorbing each word like a student memorizing a master's lesson. Flick continued, pacing slightly, hands slicing the air as if tracing lines over an invisible pitch.
"And Hernandez? Tell him to forget what I told him earlier. I want him pressing higher now. Close the ball down when it comes near. Don't hesitate. You can still use your creativity—dribble when the space opens, occasionally drift inside the left half-space, look for opportunities as a creator, but don't lose your defensive responsibility. Remember, it's not just about beating one man—it's about unsettling the entire flow of Barcelona."
"Yes, Gaffer," Musiala shot back, his voice tight with determination.
A sharp shout cut through the conversation. "Hurry up!" The assistant referee's voice echoed from the sidelines, impatient. Flick didn't even glance. He looked at Musiala, his expression firm.
"Have you heard?" he asked.
"Yes!" Musiala shouted, fists clenching as adrenaline surged. He started jogging toward the pitch, determination written in every stride. Flick reached out and patted him on the shoulder. "Good. Good."
Meanwhile, Alphonso Davies approached, his massive frown carved deep across his face, every line speaking of frustration and disbelief. He didn't even glance at Musiala, who, caught up in his own focus and excitement, barely noticed. A quick tap on the shoulder, a nod to acknowledge his teammate, and Musiala kept moving, rushing onto the field—not to interact, not to acknowledge, but to immediately relay Flick's instructions to the rest of the team and execute his role in the plan.
Flick stayed where he was, silent, eyes scanning the pitch. Davies passed by, still brooding, words unspoken, not even a glance toward the coach. Flick's hand came down briefly on the defender's back, a quiet, almost imperceptible acknowledgment. "You did a good job."
Then Flick's attention returned fully to the field. His mind spun, analyzing, projecting, calculating. Every player, every movement, every shift in Barcelona's formation played through his thoughts in rapid succession. He no longer focused on Davies' sullen figure; the pitch was all that mattered now.
But despite resolving himself, the thoughts refused to stop. Flick's mind raced, each possibility, each weakness, and each threat spinning across his vision. I can't blame Davies, he thought first, a frown crossing his face.' He tried. But Barcelona's offensive talents… they're just unreasonable. Messi, Mateo, even Dembélé out on the wing—they move too fast, too unpredictably. Everyone knows how dangerous they are, and that was why removing a single defender could spark chaos in front of tens of thousands of Bayern supporters. The curses, the shouts—they'd be raining down on me right now for sure. But there's no choice. Passivity isn't an option. I've never been a passive coach. Risk is the only way to take it back.'
He shifted his weight, hands tightening at his sides as his thoughts kept on running wild. 'Davies has been subpar this game, unlike the first leg. I know he can't handle Mateo alone. So I assigned him and Hernández to contain the channels, cut off the passes toward the youngster. And honestly… it's working. If a pass is delayed by even half a second, our line can recover.'
Flick's eyes narrowed. 'Neuer is also playing high, cutting through the space for any through ball, forcing Mateo wide. Central runs are still dangerous, yes—but far less so than leaving him unchecked through the heart of our defense. That hat-trick he scored in the first leg… it's burned in my memory. It's been a mental block. But we're adapting. The focus, the adjustments—they're paying off. Yet… too much focus on just one player leaves gaps elsewhere. And Barcelona exploits them. Dembélé is running rampant, tearing through spaces if not for his indecision in the final third this game would have been over already. as for Messi… he's far too free. That goal earlier what was that— ' Flick Made up his mind sharply as expected of a top coach he won't play that same way again.
Flick inhaled sharply, letting the tension in his shoulders loosen fractionally. 'That's right… high line. High intensity. High risk. High reward. 'His lips pressed together as he thought through the implications. The slight mental block from the first-half hat-trick? Gone. Clear. 'Finally. We're going all-out now. Every attack, every press, everything. This is Bayern's way.'
A sudden scream pierced his focus. He turned sharply, eyes snapping toward the other side of the pitch. Koeman, Barcelona's manager, was using the throw-in and substitution opportunity to bark instructions at his players, hands slicing through the air, his voice cutting across the green like a whip. Flick's eyes locked with Koeman's, and they exchanged a single, tense nod—an acknowledgment between two men fully aware of the stakes. Flick couldn't help the fleeting thought that crossed his mind: Lucky bastard.
Then he forced his attention back to the field. His gaze roamed across the Barcelona trio—Messi, Mateo, Dembélé—and the jealousy burned quietly beneath the surface. If I had this attack… Flick's mind ticked through his own lineup: Lewandowski, Sane, Gnabry, Müller, Coman, Musiala—they were a well-oiled machine, relentless, sharp, attacking like clockwork. But even with all that, he couldn't help but marvel at what Barcelona had unleashed.
Messi was… Messi. A living embodiment of football genius. Mateo was something else entirely, a young predator with instincts and speed that made even Flick's seasoned mind reel. And Dembélé—yes, he had his flaws, but Flick could see the vision, the potential. With refined decision-making, his offensive threat would be world-class, terrifying.
Flick's eyes lingered, tracing the movement of the Barcelona trio. First Dembélé, then Messi, and finally Mateo. His mind almost clung to a thought, a dangerous admiration. Even if it's just one… But he discarded it instantly, shaking it off like a shadow. The match demanded all his focus, all his tactical mind.
He straightened, shouting to his players, urgency cutting through the tension. "Only twenty minutes left! Minus extra time! If we're going to win this tie, you need to start showing it now—or it's over!"
...
Back on the pitch, Musiala had just finished sprinting along the sidelines, passing on Hansi Flick's instructions to the Bayern players. Every word carried purpose, every gesture was a signal. The youngster's fresh legs and sharp mind were immediately noticeable as he took his position, scanning the Barcelona formation with intensity far beyond his years.
At the same time, Messi was doing the same for his side. The adrenaline of his previous goal still coursed through his veins, and he could see it—the slight dip in focus, the brief pause in urgency among some of his teammates. He moved quickly, patrolling the pitch, nudging Pedri here, shouting a sharp reminder to Frenkie de Jong there, tapping Jordi Alba on the shoulder with a look that demanded attention.
"Come on! Keep the intensity! Twenty minutes left! Champions League semi-finals aren't gotten there with laxity!" Messi barked, the authority in his voice impossible to ignore. Every glance, every motion reminded the team that the clock was still ticking and no mistake could be afforded. Mateo, standing nearby, adjusted his stance, nodding at Messi, muscles ready to surge forward at a moment's notice.
And it wasn't only Messi who was feeling the heat of the moment. Lewandowski, lurking near the edge of Barcelona's box, was coiled like a spring. He had spent over twenty minutes grinding his way through Barcelona's resolute defensive line. Every shot he had attempted—some straight at Ter Stegen, some flying just wide—had been denied, but the Polish striker's focus never wavered. Inwardly, he muttered to himself, pacing the area, calculating every touch, every space, every possibility. The fire in his chest demanded a comeback; a single goal could change the tie.
The referee's whistle cut through the air, a sharp, commanding note that demanded attention. Both Messi and Lewandowski's heads snapped up.
"Game on!" Messi muttered under his breath, already moving into position, adrenaline surging.
The 72nd minute ticked on, and Peter Drury's voice lifted over the stadium's roar, cutting through the tension like a scalpel.
"People might call Flick a madman, Jim," Drury said, excitement in his tone, "but you cannot deny the immediate impact the young kid Musiala has had on the game. The 18-year-old is everywhere at once—reading the play, adjusting, orchestrating!"
Jim Beglin chuckled, shaking his head in admiration. "Absolutely, Peter. Bayern are suddenly buzzing. Musiala's intelligence, his pace, his creativity—it's all being felt by Barcelona. And look at him now, darting forward, feet moving faster than most could think!"
Musiala's eyes darted around, scanning the field like a seasoned general. Every pass, every motion, every run of a teammate was being catalogued in his mind. The coach's words echoed faintly in his memory: Disrupt Pedri. Force him into mistakes. Keep the midfield under pressure. Help Sané and Müller link up. Play inside occasionally, but stay unpredictable.
Pedri, sensing a chance, lunged at Musiala, trying to snatch the ball. A faint smile flickered across Musiala's face as he sidestepped, body low and controlled, shifting weight seamlessly to glide past the Spanish midfielder. Pedri stumbled slightly but immediately regained composure, frustration etched on his face as Musiala accelerated forward.
A quick one-two with de Jong sent him slicing through the midfield. De Jong's first touch was impeccable, laying the ball off just enough for Musiala to push through the pressing lines. Kimmich shadowed him, closing in for cover, while Müller's positioning created a constant pivot of danger for Barcelona's defenders. The Bayern players moved as one, threading intricate passes, their understanding evident in every angle, every fake, every subtle flick.
Barcelona's defense responded with precision. Messi drifted back to cover, Alba sprinted wide to cut lanes, Piqué and Lenglet held a tight line, each body a barrier, each step measured. Yet Bayern's orchestrated attack kept pressing, forcing shifts, opening channels, testing nerves.
Sané received the ball near the left wing. Under pressure, he danced around Dest, the ball glued to his feet. With a sharp glance, he sent a cross soaring toward the far post. Time seemed to slow. Lewandowski rose above Piqué, timing his jump perfectly, neck straining, eyes locked on the ball. The power, the height, the precision—a perfect header.
Ter Stegen reacted like a panther. He leapt, arms extended, body fully airborne. The crowd's collective breath seemed to hang suspended in the air. He punched the ball with all his strength, sending it just wide of the goal, deflecting danger, forcing a corner.
Peter Drury's voice rang out, vibrant with awe. "Ooooh! What a save from Ter Stegen! The German goalkeeper choosing not to be outdone by his compatriot on the other side. Incredible reflexes, but even he could not keep it from going out for a corner!"
Jim Beglin's voice joined, tinged with admiration and excitement. "Absolutely, Peter! Ter Stegen's showing why he is world-class. Bayern's attack is relentless, but the Barcelona goalkeeper refuses to be beaten. The tension, the skill, the timing—it's all coming together in a beautiful, chaotic symphony of Champions League football!"
The corner swung in with power and precision from Kimmich. The ball flew high, arcing toward the near post, a swarm of bodies rising beneath it. Dest leapt, rising with desperation, a shout escaping his lips as he met the ball with a sharp header, sending it careening out of the danger zone—but not far enough to settle the tension. The ball fell awkwardly to the feet of a Bayern attacker, Müller, who tried to control it, feet skimming the turf, eyes darting for an option, but the Barcelona defenders pressed with teeth-gritted determination. Piqué barked instructions, Lenglet shouted warnings, and every grunt, every shove, every sliding tackle created a chorus of chaos.
"Keep it out! Clear it! Mark him!" Piqué's voice thundered above the roar of the crowd, mixing with the fans' chants and the heavy breathing of the players.
The ball ricocheted off Dest's boot, spinning toward the midfield line. Pedri, eyes sharp, sprinted to intercept. He slid, almost tripping, but recovered in a fluid motion, grasping the ball like it was an extension of his own body. He didn't hesitate—not a second wasted. "Messi! Here!" he shouted, thrusting the ball forward in a perfectly measured pass, his cleats carving grooves into the turf as he accelerated to support the attack.
Messi received it in stride, instantly dropping a through ball with surgical precision, threading it into the channel just ahead. His voice rang out, commanding, "Mateo! Go! Now!"
Mateo King had anticipated the moment. He exploded from the right wing, legs pumping, eyes locked on the target, heartbeat hammering with every step. Bayern defenders scrambled. Pavard sprinted back, shouting for cover, Hernández racing alongside to close the gap, but the precision of the pass and Mateo's timing were perfect.
Peter Drury's voice erupted over the roar: "He's gone! Mateo King is gone! Look at that burst, the acceleration—he's in behind! Oh, the sheer pace of this young man!"
Jim Beglin shouted in tandem, unable to contain his excitement: "Absolute terror for Bayern right now! The defense is chasing shadows, and Neuer—he's off his line! He's racing back like a man possessed!"
Mateo's mind was razor-sharp as he neared the box, the opening clear. He calculated the trajectory, saw Neuer committing early, and unleashed a vicious, spinning shot. The ball flew with pace and swerve, a bullet of brilliance aimed at the far corner.
Neuer dove, stretching every sinew, hands slicing through the air, just grazing the ball. The roar of the Camp Nou paused for a heartbeat—the tension almost unbearable—before the ball clanged off the left post with a metallic thwack.
A collective groan erupted from the Barcelona fans, a low, almost guttural sound that reverberated across the stadium. The commentary booth exploded with energy:
"Unbelievable!" Peter Drury shouted, voice quivering with the moment. "Mateo King, Neuer beaten, and it's the post! So unlucky—what a strike, what awareness, what precision!"
Jim Beglin's voice was equally frantic. "You couldn't have placed it any better! Neuer committed, the keeper already down—Mateo had him, and that post! Heartbreak for Barcelona!"
But Mateo was not deterred. He saw the ball spinning along the line, still alive, still within reach. He launched himself forward, determination etched into every muscle, eyes blazing. Pavard, sensing danger, surged forward, shouting, grunting, extending every ounce of effort. Even Dembélé sprinted to support, the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Neuer, still recovering from his dive, half-stood, half-pushed himself along the ground, body covering the ball, desperate to prevent another attempt.
Mateo closed the distance in a flash. He leapt, muscles coiled, body fully extended, narrowly missing a collision with Neuer, almost repeating the chaos of moments before. The stadium held its collective breath, every heartbeat synced to this single, electric instant.
Not even a few minutes later, in the 76th minute, Barcelona were on the move again. This time, the attack came from the left wing. Ousmane Dembélé, eyes blazing, took on Pavard in a one-on-one duel. The Frenchman's pace was explosive, his dribbling sharp and unpredictable, and Pavard struggled to keep up, legs flailing, shouting at himself as he tried to recover. Dembélé juked, spun, and with a sudden burst, tore past him, the turf vibrating under his cleats as he drove into Bayern's final third.
Mateo King, having drifted back to the central channel, watched the break with eagle eyes. He didn't overrun, staying perfectly behind the ball, anticipating the next pass. The Bayern defenders scrambled back, Kimmich sprinting in, arms pumping, calling to his teammates, while Hernández tracked the play, and Pavard desperately tried to recover, huffing as Dembélé's acceleration left him in his wake.
The Camp Nou trembled as the crowd rose to their feet, sensing the danger. Shouts rang out from both benches: "Calm! Calm! Don't overcommit!" Koeman barked, while on the opposite side, Flick was urging his men to close down the space.
As Dembélé reached the edge of the box, he suddenly slowed, inexplicably calm, scanning for options. With a deft glance, he spotted Mateo still running centrally, slightly staggered by the sudden change of play. Dembélé tapped a precise pass toward him, a whisper of a ball that carried all the weight of timing and precision. Mateo lunged forward, almost losing his footing as the pitch seemed to tilt beneath him.
But Kimmich, ever vigilant, read the play perfectly. He lunged, intercepting the pass with a stretched leg, eyes sharp as he turned immediately to feed Neuer. The German goalkeeper controlled it smoothly, almost as if the chaos around him was in slow motion, before passing quickly to Hernández.
The Bayern defender surged forward, racing toward the other half, ball glued to his boot. Mateo, realizing the danger had passed, gave a quick thumbs-up to Dembélé, a silent acknowledgment of the interplay, before jogging back to reset with his teammates, eyes still burning with the intensity of the attack.
The ball moved fluidly through Bayern's hands now. Hernández drove forward with confidence, orchestrating a measured series of passes—short touches, clever shifts in weight, Kimmich supporting from behind, Müller drifting into space on the right. Lewandowski, sensing the opportunity, attempted an audacious outside-foot shot from distance. The ball flew just wide, whistling past the post with only the smallest margin.
Müller rushed to his teammate's side, clapping his shoulder with a grin. "Oooh, so close!" he shouted, his voice filled with excitement and the tiniest hint of relief.
Lewandowski, never one to overreact, simply looked at Müller, a calm resolve in his eyes, and replied, "It's fine. I understand it now."
After hearing those ominous words as if to test whether he truly understood their weight, the same opportunity now presented itself again—this time in the deft, dangerous hands of Flick's gamble, his prodigy, Musiala.
De Jong held the ball with measured poise, eyes scanning, body taut with anticipation. He spotted Mateo, who had launched himself on a staggeringly daring run, slicing through the space behind the defensive line. De Jong's through ball was aimed perfectly, but Alaba was quicker, intercepting with an almost preternatural sense of timing. Without hesitation, Alaba's leg connected with the ball, sending it spinning in a wide, diagonal trajectory toward the left flank where Coman had just sprinted into position.
Sane and Coman were constantly switching, a seamless duet, forcing Barcelona's defenders to adjust, pivot, and anticipate, yet the German duo kept the ball moving with dizzying fluidity. Coman received it, controlled it, and attempted a few quick touches to shake off the ever-persistent Barcelona coverage—but the defenders stayed glued. He made the smart choice: a fast, precise pass to Musiala, roaming just behind him, free from immediate pressure.
Musiala, born in 2003, didn't waste a single heartbeat. He scanned the pitch like a predator, noting the pressing defenders closing in from all angles, and released the ball instantly. His vision found Lewandowski, who had pulled himself away from his usual box position and now stood at the edge of the penalty area, body taut, hands slightly raised in silent plea for the ball.
The delivery was impeccable. Musiala's pass reached Lewandowski with surgical precision. And here, at this crucial crossroad, Lewandowski's moment mirrored Messi's earlier brilliance—but unlike the chaotic elegance of Messi's finish, the shot from Lewandowski was a declaration. A hot, deliberate strike that screamed who the fuck he was.
The ball left his boot like a missile, a surge of pure, clinical destruction. Pique lunged to block it, leg extended, hope in his eyes—but it was futile. The ball tore past him, past Ter Stegen, who had been recovering from earlier blunders, and only managed to glance at the strike helplessly as it smashed into the back of the net.
The Camp Nou crowd reacted instantly: gasps, shouts, a wave of disbelief washing through the stands. The scoreboard now read 1-2, aggregate 4-4, Barca pulling ahead on away goals. It was the 80th minute, and the night was alive with tension.
...
Lewandowski jogged lightly toward the small cluster of Bayern supporters, a calm smile on his face, no over-the-top celebrations, no theatrics—just pure acknowledgment. The fans roared, arms waving, voices strained, but he simply stood there, letting the moment breathe, before his teammates, starting with Muller, swarmed around him. Celebration erupted from the Bayern players, but Lewandowski's gaze remained steady, composed, almost regal.
Peter Drury's voice broke the charged silence in the commentary box, rich and electric:
"The game just got interesting… the game just got interesting! This is it! This is what the big nights mean! This is what the Champions League represents! Big day, big game, your big players stepping up, the fire burning bright! and now thanks to that bayern needs just one more goal to punch their ticket into the semi finals"
Jim Beglin chimed in, equally exhilarated:
"Muller brought the pure angelic destruction… Messi-esque brilliance! And what a disruptor Lewandowski has been—relentless, clinical, unstoppable. This is exactly what we wanted what the footballing world needed: the big players stepping up and delivering at the perfect moment."
Peter's voice softened slightly, still tinged with awe:
"Well, Jim, if this is what we wanted… then surely there's one more goal still to come, isn't there?"
"You mean—" Beglin began.
"Yes, exactly what I mean!" Drury interjected, voice rising with excitement.
"It's just insane, isn't it?" Beglin added. "Imagine a 17-year-old kid being discussed in these terms… who could have imagined? But that's the pedigree the boy is building. Respect must be paid. With what Lewandowski just did, Barcelona needs him now more than ever. Ten more minutes to go… and what a night this has become."
After Bayern players had their brief celebration, the game resumed, and what a game it was shaping up to be. The Camp Nou seemed electrified, every heartbeat from the fans synced to the action on the pitch. Barcelona, refusing to be rattled, immediately pushed forward. Messi, ever alert, drifted toward the right, checking his shoulders as he received the ball from Pedri. His first touch was delicate, teasing Alaba before slipping a pass toward Ousmane Dembélé.
Pavard and Hernández closed quickly, shouting at each other to block passing lanes. Dembélé danced past Pavard with a feint and a step-over, his pace forcing Hernández to bend backward, trying to cut the angle. Jordi Alba sprinted up the left, eyes flicking toward the penalty box. Mateo King, dropping slightly to link play, called for the ball with a high-pitched shout, "Here! Over here!"
The crowd roared as Frenkie de Jong darted into space, intercepting a stray pass from Kimmich. He flicked it to Dest on the right, who controlled it beautifully, his pace forcing Alaba into a desperate challenge. The ball spun loose, and Messi swooped in, weaving past Sané, leaving the German Winger in his wake.
Peter Drury's voice rose above the cacophony, "And there he goes again! Messi, weaving like a painter with the canvas of green at his feet! What artistry on this stage!"
Jim Beglin added, "Absolutely, Peter. And look at Dest, what a recovery to keep that ball in play. Barcelona are relentless tonight!"
Bayern's response was immediate. Neuer, alert, hurled the ball out to Müller on the right. Müller, spotting Lewandowski in the middle, flicked a pass that Kimmich immediately supported, moving the ball forward with urgency. Lewandowski's touch was sublime, bringing it down and releasing a short pass to Sané, who drove wide, beating Messi to the sideline and crossing low into the box. Ter Stegen, unflinching, darted forward to intercept, punching the ball away with a grunt that echoed across the stadium.
Koeman, on the sidelines, was shouting instructions, waving both arms, urging the defense to reset. Flick, equally intense, barked at Musiala, "Close him down! Don't let him breathe, Pedri get in!" Musiala, eyes wide with focus, darted into the space, cutting off passing lanes.
Minutes slipped by like lightning. At the 83rd minute, Barcelona won a freekick on the edge of the box. Messi, taking position, surveyed the wall set by Alaba and Hernández. The stadium collectively held its breath. He struck it with the outside of his foot—curling, teasing, forcing Neuer to stretch every sinew, his fingertips grazing it, pushing it over the bar. "Oooh! What a save! Neuer defying physics once again!" shouted Peter, the crowd erupting in appreciation.
84th minute: Bayern countered quickly. Musiala, fresh legs, ran at Alba on the right, cutting inside, laying off a short pass to Müller. De Jong tracked Müller closely, sliding in a tactical challenge to win it back, forcing a corner. Jim's voice was almost breathless, "What intensity! Every touch here matters—Barcelona defending like their lives depend on it!"
85th minute: Barcelona regained possession. Pedri, orchestrating the midfield, threaded a pass between Kimmich and Pavard to Messi. Messi, with a sharp turn, held off Sané, pinging a ball to Mateo King making a diagonal run. The striker's pace left Hernández scrambling, almost colliding with Pavard, before he recovered and shepherded Mateo out of danger. The crowd groaned and cheered in a mixture of tension and awe.
87th minute: Bayern's corner. Alaba and Kimmich positioned perfectly, Müller timing his run. Lewandowski leapt, head connecting cleanly—but Ter Stegen, impossibly, was there. Lenglet and Piqué cleared the second ball, but it fell to Musiala, who pressed forward instantly, driving through midfield. Sergio Busquets lunged in, intercepting at the last second, sliding the ball to Alba who quickly released it upfield.
Another corner followed immediately, 87th minute again. This time Pavard sent it into the box. Messi, anticipating, danced around Lewandowski, trying to feed Dembélé, but Boateng and Hernández closed every space. The ball was cleared again by Lenglet, Dest, and Busquets, showing though rare the resilience and sheer tactical awareness of the Barcelona backline.
In the 88th minute, Messi found himself alone on the right, one-on-one with Jérôme Boateng. For a split second, the memory hung between them—that night, that humiliation, that eternal disgrace Messi had once carved into him.
But Boateng didn't bite this time. He stayed low, feet planted, center of gravity balanced, refusing to lunge, refusing to be pulled apart again. He shepherded Messi toward the touchline, eyes locked, breathing measured.
Messi read it instantly. No dribble. No duel. Just clarity.
He opened his body and whipped a vicious cross into the box.
Mateo attacked it like it owed him something—launching himself between Hernández and Pavard, neck snapping forward as he met the ball with a thundering header.
Neuer reacted on pure instinct. A blur of gloves, a full-stretch dive, fingertips clawing the ball away at the last possible heartbeat.
Camp Nou gasped as one.
"Another outrageous save," Jim Beglin breathed.
"But they're knocking," Peter Drury replied softly. "And the door is starting to crack."
89th minute: A freekick for Bayern. Sané curled it toward the top corner. Ter Stegen leapt, stretching every muscle, punching it over. The stadium rose in a simultaneous gasp and cheer—the tension so thick it could be sliced. Peter whispered into the mic, "High drama, Jim… every second a story, every second a battle!"
Jim responded, voice tight with excitement, "Peter, look at the players! They are not giving an inch. Messi, Dembélé, Mateo—Barcelona refuse to yield. Lewandowski, Müller, Musiala, Sané—Bayern are throwing everything at them!"
Both coaches, Koeman and Flick, were yelling, pointing, adjusting, pacing like caged predators. No substitutions were left; every player on the pitch was pushed to the brink. The sweat, the grunts, the shouts, the ferocious energy—every blade of grass seemed alive under their feet.
And now, with seven minutes added, both sides were at each other's throats. Every pass contested, every tackle a test of strength and will. Every cross whipped in, every interception shouted about, every sprint a heartbeat measured in adrenaline. Fans screamed, voices hoarse but unwavering, their chants merging with the raw chaos on the pitch.
It felt like the stadium itself was holding its breath. Could anyone break this deadlock before the final whistle? Every second counted. Every touch mattered. And with seven minutes of added time left, the tension reached its absolute peak, every player primed, every fan on the edge of their seat.
...
The 90th minute ticked on, and the intensity on the Camp Nou pitch had reached a fever pitch. Barcelona and Bayern were locked in a battle of sheer will, every player pushed to the absolute limit. Messi, eyes blazing, received the ball from Pedri near midfield, immediately scanning the field. Dembélé darted forward on the left wing, dragging Pavard with him. "Hold your lines!" Koeman screamed from the sidelines, arms pumping, voice hoarse from exertion.
Neuer, alert as ever, gestured to his defenders—Hernández and Alaba positioned themselves tightly while Musiala drifted inside, pressuring the midfield. Lewandowski, pacing like a predator, whispered instructions to Müller, trying to organize a lethal break.
Messi slipped a perfectly timed pass to Mateo King, who had dropped slightly to receive it. Mateo's first touch was measured, almost teasing Hernández. Alaba lunged in, desperate to cut the angle, but Mateo spun away, calling out to de Jong and Dest to push up, keeping the structure intact. The crowd roared, sensing every millisecond of this high-stakes chess match.
Peter Drury's voice rang over the stadium, "What composure! Messi threading yet another needle, King reading it like a seasoned veteran despite his youth! This is Champions League football at its peak!"
Jim Beglin added, breathless, "And look at Dembele! That pace, that vision, dragging Pavard and forcing Bayern to open gaps. Barcelona are relentless—every ball, every touch matters!"
By the 92nd minute, aggression had started to seep into the match. Alaba tugged slightly on Pedri's shirt as he tried to advance; Dest responded with a sharp push to Müller, eliciting a sharp whistle from Lahoz. Boateng, frustrated by Mateo's bursts into space, slid in recklessly—his studs catching Mateo just enough to earn a yellow card. Mateo stumbled, grimacing but immediately signaling he was fine, his focus razor-sharp despite the contact.
Piqué, ever the protector of his box, fouled Müller as the German tried to turn in midfield the duo clashing more than usual. Lahoz's voice boomed, warning him loudly as Piqué backed off, hands raised in surrender, shouting back at his own teammates to reset their shape.
Corners began to dominate the play from 94th minute onwards. Bayern won one—Alaba whipped it toward Lewandowski, who rose above Lenglet. Ter Stegen leapt, punching the ball clear. Dest chased the clearance, booting it forward to Messi, who in a blink had the ball at his feet, immediately sliding it wide to Alba. Alba's cross whipped toward Mateo, but Hernández and Pavard were there, heads up, clearing it to the halfway line.
The 95th minute saw Barcelona earn a freekick just outside Bayern's box after Müller fouled de Jong, frustrated by his relentless pressing. Messi stood over it, surveying Neuer's wall. He curled it toward the far post—but Kimmich leapt, clearing it with a desperate header. The fans groaned, yet erupted again as the ball ricocheted to Dest, who immediately sent it forward to Dembélé. The Frenchman cut inside, Pavard chasing furiously, before being nudged by Alaba. Lahoz blew sharply, motioning a warning to both.
By the 96th minute, players were visibly way more aggressive. Bayern's attempts at possession were met with calculated fouls from Busquets and de Jong; Bayern retaliated with hard tackles from Müller and Musiala. Every challenge drew shouts, grunts, and the constant whistle of Lahoz trying to keep the chaos in check. Messi and Lewandowski traded sly glances, ready to pounce on any lapse in concentration as Mateo looked around like a shark waiting for any chance he sees blood in the water.
The 96th minute also brought yet another series of corners, each charged with desperation. Lewandowski threatened with another outside shot, only for Ter Stegen to stretch impossibly and push it wide. Messi, quick as ever, countered with a darting run down the right, finding Mateo breaking into space. Neuer sprinted back, glancing at the referee, muscles coiled like springs, but the ball had already left Messi's feet, curling toward Dembele. Pavard lunged, Pedri intercepted, and the ball ricocheted toward the midfield, only to be snatched up again by Kimmich, who immediately found Müller.
Peter Drury's voice escalated over the noise: "Every second counts now! Seven minutes of added time and every player on this pitch giving absolutely everything!"
Jim Beglin added, tense, "The physicality, the mental strain—it's all boiling over. Fouls, interceptions, desperate tackles, and the counterattacks—they are leaving nothing in reserve!"
By the 97th minute, 19th second, the entire stadium had risen to its feet. Both coaches, Koeman and Flick, were pacing furiously, shouting orders that blended into the roar of fans and the shouts of players. Every player's face showed exhaustion and determination. Hands raised, voices strained, lungs burning—they refused to give an inch.
And now, Peter's voice cut above all: "And it might just be the last chance of the game! Bayern have the ball, pushing forward—every second now could decide the tie!"
The ball was in the air, spinning like a comet over the packed Camp Nou, the stadium frozen in a collective heartbeat. Every Barcelona player had crowded the box, shoulders brushing, arms jostling, eyes darting nervously, trying to anticipate the trajectory. Sane had made the decision in a split second—there was no space to finesse it through, no teammate in a clear position. He swung his leg and crossed the ball into the chaos, a hope-driven strike sent soaring toward the waiting melee.
Peter Drury's voice tore through the silence:
"He's crossed it in… he's crossed it in!"
Jim Beglin was almost off his seat:
"Oh my! Flick is on his knees! Koeman nearly topples over! The tension, Peter! You can feel it everywhere in the stadium!"
Every fan was perched on the edge of their seats, some gripping their scarves, some hiding their faces in disbelief. Mateo's uncle Oriol, sitting in the VIP section, had just been smacked lightly by his grandmother for blocking the screen—he froze mid-flinch, eyes wide, heart in his throat.
The ball descended into the maelstrom. Inside the box, bodies collided like a storm. Pushing, shoving, elbows jostling. Ter Stegen prowled, trying to anticipate, to claim the ball, but Kimmich slid in, intercepting the goalkeeper's path, obstructing him in a moment of sheer audacity.
The ball ricocheted wildly — off Piqué, then Müller — pinging in sharp, nervous angles before skidding toward the right flank. Piqué lunged after it, boots scraping, momentum gone, and in desperation his hand shot out. It didn't find air. It found Müller's shoulder, then his shirt.
For a split second Piqué leaned on him — then the grip tightened. Müller tried to spin free, but the pull dragged him off his stride, yanking his upper body backward as his legs tangled beneath him. The weight came down hard, Piqué's arm hooked across him as Müller crashed to the turf, arms flung wide, staring up in disbelief.
Then the ball broke loose.
Piqué reacted on instinct. He swung through it, clearing it hard upfield, the impact thudding through his boot. He spun away immediately, fists clenched, breath exploding from his chest.
"Yes… yes… yes…"
The whistle came.
Sharp. Clean. Final.
For Piqué, for several Barcelona players around him, it meant only one thing.
It's over.
His shoulders dropped. His head tilted back. Around him, hands began to rise, knees bent in relief, legs heavy after ninety-plus minutes of war. He started waiting, waiting for The Camp Nou to surged to its feet, sound swelling, belief turning into release. Some were already screaming. Some were laughing. Some were crying.
Piqué took two steps away from the scene, heart pounding—not in fear anymore, but in triumph.
Then he noticed it.
No one was running toward the tunnel.
No one was pointing to the centre circle.
Instead—Barcelona shirts were moving toward the referee.
Fast. Panicked.
Piqué turned.
The referee stood unmoved, arm still raised. And then—slowly, deliberately—his hand shifted, finger extending.
Not forward.
Down.
Toward the penalty spot.
The realization hit Piqué like a blow to the chest.
"What…?" he breathed, disbelief crawling up his spine.
The celebration that had been forming collapsed instantly, sucked out of the stadium. Cheers twisted into screams. Hope snapped into outrage. Hands flew to heads. Mouths fell open.
Piqué stood frozen, staring at the spot, his mind replaying the whistle over and over.
That was the final whistle… wasn't it?
It hadn't been. As he quickly stood up running towards the ref with an unhealthy amount of aggression.
Peter Drury's voice cracked with disbelief:
"Penalty… penalty! Bayern have done it! Sane's audacious ball… it has panned out! Ninety-seventh minute… the referee has awarded Bayern Munich a penalty!"
Jim Beglin could barely contain himself:
"Oh, what is happening?! Piqué… he's received a red card! After storming the referee! A total turn of events, Peter! Barcelona were just seconds away from the semi-finals, and now… now the entire stadium is in chaos! Piqué storms off the pitch, Lewandowski steps up, and the penalty is about to be taken!"
The ball rested on the spot, a world away from the distant roar of the crowd, but somehow the tension made it feel heavier than the planet itself. Every Bayern player circled, murmuring, eyes locked on the Polish striker. Every Barcelona player watched helplessly, their dreams hanging by a thread.
Peter's voice barely rose above a gasp:
"This… this is it… the defining moment of the night… everything rests on Lewandowski now!"
Jim's commentary barely contained his awe:
"Ninety-seven minutes, Peter… ninety-seven minutes! Who could have imagined this chaos? The semi-finals… Barcelona crumbling in front of their fans… it's unreal!"
...
Lewandowski placed the ball carefully on the spot, pressing it down with the sole of his boot, as if anchoring the fate of the tie into the grass itself. He took a step back. Then another. Measured. Precise. The way he had done it a hundred times before.
Around him, the Camp Nou seemed to shrink, the noise fading into a distant hum. Seventy thousand people were on their feet, yet in his mind there was only silence.
This is it, he thought.
One strike. One moment. We turn it all around.
He lifted his eyes.
Ter Stegen stood on his line, still. Too still. No bouncing. No theatrics. No grin. Just a rigid frame between the posts, jaw set, eyes burning with a cold, defiant fire. He didn't blink. Didn't move. He looked like a man daring destiny to choose a side.
The referee's whistle cut through the air.
Everything snapped back into place.
Lewandowski surged forward, heartbeat hammering against his ribs, lungs burning. He struck the ball cleanly, driving it with conviction—power married to precision, the kind of penalty meant to end stories.
Ter Stegen exploded.
Not a guess. Not a hope. A decision.
He launched himself across the goalmouth, arms flaring wide, gloves slicing through the air. His fingertips met the ball with a violent slap, redirecting it away from the net, away from history.
For half a second, the world didn't react.
But that moment of hesitation was all Barcelona needed. Dest scrambled forward, boots slick with sweat, eyes wide with urgency. He booted the loose ball away from the danger zone, keeping it alive, sending it toward midfield in a desperate, lightning-quick motion.
Pedri was already moving, a storm incarnate, legs pumping, heart hammering. Every muscle screamed, every nerve tingled. Around him, the stadium became a blur of faces, flags, and chants—noise colliding with energy, a tidal wave of hope and fear. He took the ball in stride, flicked a glance forward, and saw Mateo timing his run perfectly.
Time slowed. Mateo sprinted across the right side, every step measured, every breath a calculation. Pedri released a perfectly weighted pass through the closing Bayern defenders. "Go! Go! Go!" the crowd seemed to scream through the air itself. Mateo's eyes flickered, reading Neuer's high line, gauging the defenders' stride, Mateo at that moment didn't think about the goal, the crowd, or the history waiting to be written — only the space between Neuer's step forward and the far post, and how fast it was closing. and he struck. One touch to steady, one sweep of his boot—and the ball arced magnificently toward the net, spinning with deadly precision.
Neuer lunged, arms outstretched, muscles taut, fingertips grazing the ball—but it was too late. The leather kissed the inside of the post and spun across the goal line.
Camp Nou erupted. The roar was volcanic, deafening, from the stands to the farthest corners of the stadium. Mateo tore off his jersey mid-run, chest heaving, adrenaline surging. He sprinted toward the corner flag, leaping into the arms of fans who pressed against the barriers, chanting, singing, some nearly crying in sheer ecstasy. His teammates piled onto him, voices raw, unfiltered, screaming: "YES! YES! YES!"
Pedri was next to him, still panting, pointing toward the fans, grinning. Messi clapped Mateo on the back, laughing, shouting over the noise. Dembélé's hands were on Mateo's shoulders, shaking him, while Busquets and de Jong just yelled and jumped, wide-eyed, swept up in the chaos. Even Piqué who watched from the tunnels his eyes wet from guilt, could barely contain himself as the tears fell but a huge smile stretching across his face.
Bayern players froze, stunned, mouths open in disbelief. Müller gestured, shouting at Lewandowski, "We had him!" But Lewandowski could only stare, chest heaving, feeling the sting of defeat and awe all at once.
The commentators were breathless.
"Jim… Jim…" Peter Drury shouted over the roar, his voice hoarse with emotion, "the hairs on my arms have flown off—they've left my body! Am I even alive?"
"Yes, you are, Peter! Yes, we all are!" Jim Beglin replied, voice cracking, almost as if he too couldn't believe what had happened. "This is real! This isn't fake! What you've just witnessed is real! What a kid—what a goal! Surely it's over! Barcelona have punched their way into the semi-finals! The first time back since 2019! The Catalan giants are in the semi-finals, and everyone should be afraid! This has been Peter Drury and Jim Beglin, and I just want to say…"
Mateo's fists pumped the air, eyes glistening, voice hoarse from screaming. This was more than a goal—it was a statement, a defiance, a moment frozen in time. Camp Nou became a living heartbeat, and in that heartbeat, Mateo King was immortal.
A/N
Hello everyone, I'm back — and I've got another deal for today.
I just checked, and we're currently at 158 Power Stones.
If we can reach 240 Power Stones within the next 12 hours (that's 20 more than last time's requirement), I'll post a bonus chapter.
Let's see if we can make it happen 💪📖
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 )