"And we are done here at the Camp Nou, ladies and gentlemen!" the commentator's voice boomed over the stadium, each word heavy with both excitement and a tinge of disbelief. "What a match we have witnessed today! Barcelona fought tooth and nail, pouring every ounce of energy, skill, and heart into this game, and yet… Manchester City have come out on top. Two to one, the scoreline reads, but what a beautiful treat of football this has been!"
His co-commentator's voice cut in, higher pitched now with awe, "Absolutely, Clive, you could feel the intensity from the very first whistle. Every dribble, every tackle, every heart-stopping pass—these boys left everything on the pitch. But at the end of the day, it takes eleven to win a game, and City, under Pep Guardiola, have shown exactly why they are so dangerous on the European stage."
The voices lingered, carrying the weight of the spectacle, of a stadium still buzzing, of fans still catching their breath, of commentators trying to capture in mere words what the eyes had just devoured: football in its most electric, relentless, and human form.
Pa!
Pa! Pa!
Pa! Pa! Pa!
The sound started small, almost imperceptible at first, yet it was enough to ripple through the tens of thousands of fans in the Camp Nou. No one could tell who had begun it, but the rhythm caught fire, spreading faster than any chant, faster than any roar. One clap became two, two became five, five became hundreds, until almost every single Barcelona supporter in the stadium was joining in, their hands striking together in unison despite the sting of defeat.
They were pained, yes. Hearts heavy knowing that Manchester City had beaten them on their home turf, that the scoreline read 2-1, that the dream of turning this first leg had slipped through their fingers. And yet… and yet, they clapped. They clapped because they had seen it all. They had seen the fight, the relentless effort, the unyielding drive. They had seen him—Mateo—run, pass, dribble, shoot, challenge, inspire. They had seen him give everything he had, and for that, they refused to stay silent.
The claps grew louder, faster, surging across the stadium, an echoing tide that drowned out even the screams and celebrations of the City fans who were leaping and shouting across the pitch. Doubts about the Champions League, frustrations over the loss, the rage of rivalry—it all fell away in the face of that simple, unifying gesture.
Over eighty thousand eyes, half of them averted, fixed somewhere else. Some followed the claps to the players who bowed or raised their arms, acknowledging the sound. Others traced the rhythm toward the bench, where the coach stood, consoling those who could barely lift their heads. A few skipped Messi entirely, who was quietly sipping water, contemplative on the sidelines. And as the claps travelled across the pitch, moving past the celebratory City players on the field to the far right top section, every gaze finally, inevitably, settled on him.
Mateo Alexander Nicolás King.
Goals: 1 (No Assist)
Big Chances Created: 2
Key Passes: 3
Crosses: 4
Successful Dribbles: 15
Pass Completion: 93.2% (69/74)
Despite already having racked up seven career hat-tricks, this match etched itself differently. Tonight, on WhoScored and FotMob, Mateo finally received what many had long anticipated: a perfect 10.0 rating. Every observer, every algorithm, every analyst who had tracked his previous brilliance had to pause—this was different. Every stat, every run, every piece of ingenuity he displayed culminated in recognition. SofaScore agreed, granting him his third perfect 10/10 rating, confirming what the fans had known all along: Mateo King wasn't just good; tonight, he was untouchable.
and the fans knew it—they felt it deep in their chests, a mix of awe and pride swelling with every passing second. They knew exactly what kind of performance Mateo had delivered tonight: a masterclass of instinct, skill, and unrelenting determination. Their eyes followed him as he stood there, chest slightly puffed, hands resting confidently on his waist, the weight of the stadium's energy reflecting off his posture.
Their hands rose higher, a silent rebellion against the Manchester City fans who were still screaming and jumping in their own celebration. The irritation, the rivalry, the frustration—they funneled it all into applause, into claps that began as a ripple and grew into a wave.
But it wasn't just defiance. Far beyond the competitive fire, the fans wanted Mateo—the boy who had orchestrated chaos on the pitch, who had danced past defenders and bent the ball with precision—to know, truly know, that they had seen him. That every step, every feint, every sprint, every impossible touch had been witnessed, admired, cherished.
And as the claps rose louder, filling every corner of Camp Nou, swelling from tens of thousands of voices into a chorus of gratitude and adoration, it became more than applause—it was love. It was respect. It was a declaration that tonight, Mateo Alexander Nicolás King had not just played; he had moved an entire stadium.
...
"Hey, kid."
Mateo, still standing in the center of the pitch, felt the familiar ache of exhaustion and disappointment clinging to his limbs, but the call cut through it like a spark. He turned, catching sight of Kyle Walker approaching, a smile playing across the seasoned defender's face. The intensity of the match still hung in the air—sweat, grass stains, the faint smell of turf and adrenaline—but Walker's calm, almost warm presence contrasted everything that had just unfolded.
As Mateo faced him, Walker took a breath and said the one thing he had been dying to ask since the first whistle blew: "Are you really… 17?"
He laughed as he asked it, a rich, knowing laugh that carried years of experience, the kind of laugh that only comes after seeing everything football can throw at you. Mateo, still wrestling with the sting of the 1–2 loss but feeling the gravity of the moment, let out a laugh of his own—light, reluctant at first, but growing as he shook his head. "As far as I know," he said, voice steady but edged with the tension of the battle still fresh in his muscles.
Walker's smile widened. "You were incredible out there. The best I've ever faced, to be honest." His words, simple yet heavy with respect, made Mateo pause a heartbeat longer than usual. Walker then stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on Mateo's shoulder. "Don't let it get to you. There's still a second leg, right?"
He raised his hands in a casual shrug, the kind that signaled both confidence and a hint of playful warning. "Of course, we would still win," he added with a small smile. "But nevertheless…"
Mateo couldn't hold back anymore; laughter burst from him, rich and unrestrained, cutting through the fatigue and frustration like a knife through fog. "We'll see," he said, still chuckling. Both players shook hands, then gave a firm, sportsmanlike pat on each other's shoulders, the kind of gesture that carried mutual understanding, respect, and the silent acknowledgment of the battlefield they had just shared.
Walker, now thirty, had lived and breathed this sport for years—years filled with insults shouted from stands, heated exchanges on the pitch, dives, fouls, confrontations, nail-biting penalties, heartbreaks, and controversial calls. Through it all, he had learned to protect his mind with a single, iron-clad philosophy: what happens on the pitch stays on the pitch. The little back-and-forth, the pushes, the verbal jabs from earlier in the game had already dissolved into nothingness the moment the referee's whistle signaled fulltime. In fact, he felt a touch embarrassed that he had allowed Mateo to get under his skin at all.
Watching Mateo walk away, shoulders high despite the defeat, Walker simply shook his head with a small, rueful smile. He turned, moving toward the side where the Manchester City fans had gathered, joining his teammates in celebration. The cheers, chants, and laughter of the away supporters swirled around him as he stepped into the familiar comfort of his own crowd, leaving the battle's tension behind him while pushing away the memory of the young prodigy who had pushed him to his limits as he celebrated his win.
Meanwhile, Mateo, having walked away from the lingering chaos of the pitch, didn't linger either. The official approached him, handing over the Man of the Match award, a small golden plaque glinting under the floodlights. Mateo accepted it with a faint nod, his mind already elsewhere. He approached Koeman quietly, voice low, still tinged with the exhaustion and adrenaline from the game. "Coach… I don't feel like talking to the media today," he said, his tone polite but firm.
Koeman froze for a moment, the request complicated. By protocol, the Man of the Match was essentially required to appear in post-match interviews—a deal cemented long ago between UEFA and the broadcasters. And with a performance like Mateo's tonight, every commentator, every journalist, every camera lens in Europe would be itching to capture him. Yet, as Koeman looked at the young boy, still breathing heavily, eyes sharp and alert even in the aftermath, he understood. It wasn't defiance—it was honesty. And for that performance, that monumental display of talent, Koeman felt he could indulge him. Letting Mateo skip the interviews would, at worst, earn a mild slap on the wrist from UEFA: a note of non-compliance, maybe a fine of one to five thousand euros. To the club, it was a trivial amount, nothing compared to keeping their star comfortable, focused, and respected.
Hearing Koeman give his quiet approval, Mateo didn't waste a second. The deafening cheers of Camp Nou still rolled over the stands, but to him, they were distant echoes, a fading pulse beneath his own rhythm. He moved quickly, slipping under the barrier and into the tunnel.
The tunnel seemed unusually empty, eerily silent except for the soft reverberation of his own footsteps. Every echo of his cleats against the hard floor sounded amplified, resonating with him in this rare, solitary moment. He walked unhindered, the back of his jersey—number 36—catching a flash of the stadium lights as if it, too, carried the weight of the night. Pride, fatigue, frustration, and the sting of loss all mingled in him, but for the first time in hours, he felt the quiet solitude of his own space.
The cheers had faded. The stadium roared without him. But here, alone in the tunnel, Mateo finally felt the raw truth of what he had just done: he had fought, he had dazzled, and he had been unforgettable—even if no one else could follow his steps down this empty corridor.
...
"Is Mateo King injured?"
"Why didn't Mateo attend—is there something going on?"
"This is the second time in a row a La Liga team is losing to an English team—do you believe the league is getting uncompetitive on the European stage, and what do you think could be done to make the league better and more competitive against its European counterparts?"
"During the final minutes of the game, Mateo bumped into Foden and the referee's whistle sounded—do you agree with the decision that it was a foul?"
"Why didn't Agüero start or see any minutes—is the news that you refuse to extend his contract true?"
"What adjustments will you make for the second leg in Manchester?"
"Did Manchester City's pressing disrupt your midfield rhythm?"
"Will Mateo King play this same role in the return leg, or will he return to his central role—and is this a permanent adjustment?"
"How confident are you of progressing to the final after this result?"
The questions overlapped, collided, stacked on top of one another, voices rising in pitch and urgency as if the answers themselves might escape if not seized immediately.
As soon as Koeman, Messi, Pep, Foden, and Kevin De Bruyne entered the press conference room, the journalists—already packed tightly together—didn't even wait for them to reach their seats. Cameras clicked violently, flashes burst in rapid succession, microphones were thrust forward, and chairs scraped loudly against the floor as reporters half-stood, half-leaned over one another. The room turned chaotic in an instant, a wall of noise crashing forward, questions being shouted from every direction, some repeated, some entirely new, all delivered with impatience and hunger.
The air felt tight, suffocating. It was no longer a press conference—it was a siege.
Before any of them could sit, an official at the front abruptly stood up, raising both hands. His voice cut sharply through the noise as he chastised the room, reminding everyone to calm down, to sit back in their seats, to respect the order. He warned them they would be called upon one by one and demanded silence, his tone firm and authoritative as the room slowly began to settle.
The room finally began to settle, the earlier chaos dissolving into a tense, attentive quiet. Chairs stopped scraping, cameras lowered slightly, and the overlapping voices faded until only a low hum of anticipation remained. From the front, the official surveyed the room once more, clearly satisfied that order had been restored.
"Thank you," he said firmly, his voice carrying authority without needing to rise. He then lifted a hand and pointed decisively toward one section of the room. "You."
A journalist near the aisle reacted instantly, a brief, confident smile flashing across his face as he stood up straight.
"Guillem Balagué, Mundo Deportivo," he introduced himself crisply, making sure both name and outlet were clearly heard before continuing. "Mateo King, who won the Man of the Match award, is not around. During the game he seemed to be fine—was there any complication that we are unaware of?"
As the question landed, all eyes shifted immediately toward Koeman.
The Barcelona coach allowed himself a small, knowing smile. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it betrayed the fact that he had been expecting this exact question from the moment Mateo failed to appear. Internally, he had already rehearsed his response. Outwardly, he remained calm, composed, the picture of a seasoned professional who had sat through hundreds of press conferences just like this.
Koeman leaned slightly forward toward the microphone, fingers interlaced, posture relaxed but deliberate. He didn't rush his response. He let a short pause sit in the air first—the kind of pause that signaled control, not hesitation—before speaking.
"Mateo is fine," he said calmly, his voice steady and clear. "There is no injury, no problem that anyone needs to worry about."
A few pens scratched faster.
Koeman gave a faint, knowing smile and continued, carefully pacing each sentence.
"He played an intense match," he said. "A very demanding match, mentally and physically. At his age, with the responsibility he carried tonight, it's normal to manage these moments correctly."
"We have a second leg to prepare for," he finished, tone firm but composed. "That is where our focus is. Mateo will be available, ready, and fully involved, like always."
He tilted his head slightly, as if acknowledging the weight of expectation surrounding the name without directly naming it.
Someone in the room shifted, clearly hoping for more.
Koeman didn't give it.
He leaned back in his chair then, hands unclasping, expression neutral again—the kind of answer that sounded complete, sensible, and final, leaving no loose thread to pull.
As he finished, Balagué opened his mouth, clearly intending to follow up, perhaps sensing there was more beneath the surface. But before he could speak again, the official stepped in, cutting the moment cleanly.
"You," the official said, already pointing elsewhere.
Balagué exhaled through his nose, the smile gone now, and reluctantly sat back down as another journalist rose to their feet.
"Cristina Cubero – Sport," she introduced herself before getting straight to the point, just like the first. "Your team conceded two away goals—was that a tactical issue or individual errors?"
It was the second question in a row directed squarely at the Barcelona side, once again ignoring the winners of the match. Yet whether it was Pep, who didn't seem his usual animated self right now, or Kevin De Bruyne, sitting still with a blank, unreadable expression, or Foden, equally calm and composed, none of them appeared to care too much—especially since this was Spain, and in this very press room Spanish news outlets were more
After Koeman answered the next question, measured and controlled as ever, the official once again lifted his hand and pointed deeper into the room. This time it was toward the middle rows.
A man with a balding head, glasses resting low on his nose, slowly rose to his feet.
"Sid Lowe — The Guardian," he said clearly.
As expected, the moment the first British outlet was called, the attention finally shifted. For the first time since the press conference began, Manchester City were properly addressed, and the question was aimed straight at Pep Guardiola.
Sid didn't waste time. He went straight for the history, straight for the wound and the memory intertwined.
"Since you left Barcelona in 2012," he began, "this is the first time you've won here, at the Camp Nou. How does it feel, coming back to face your former club and clinching a win like this?"
All eyes turned to Pep.
He had been unusually still since the final whistle. No touchline sprint, no fists pumping, no emotional outburst onto the pitch. Even now, seated behind the desk, Pep looked distant—almost hollow. His hands were folded loosely in front of him, shoulders slightly slumped, gaze unfocused as if he were still somewhere else entirely, replaying moments no one else could see.
Then, slowly, he cracked a smile.
It wasn't the wide, animated grin people were used to. It was small, restrained, almost fragile. He glanced briefly toward the cameras and said softly, almost casually,
"Well… I'm happy, I guess."
Before he could even finish expanding on the thought, Sid—still standing—leaned forward slightly and spoke again, unable to help himself.
"Really?" Sid said. "Because you don't seem that happy that you've won."
There was a faint ripple in the room. A few journalists exchanged glances. This wasn't how these things usually went.
Pep smiled again, but this time it lingered awkwardly. When he spoke, his voice came out low, stripped of its usual energy. It wasn't loud, it wasn't sharp—it was quiet, restrained, and somehow heavier.
"Oh," he said, pausing for a fraction of a second, "more than you believe."
The smile faded almost immediately after. His eyes dropped, then lifted again as he repeated it, slower this time, more deliberate, as if convincing himself as much as anyone else.
"More than you believe."
Sid opened his mouth again, speaking before the official could step in.
"Well… you aren't showing it?"
Pep shook his head gently, almost absentmindedly, a small, repetitive motion. He let out a breath that sounded more like a release than a laugh.
"I'm so happy," he said quietly.
"I'm so happy," he repeated it.
Before Sid could squeeze another question in, the official reacted instantly, arm shooting out as he pointed across the room.
"You."
Sid sat back with visible frustration as a man seated near the back rose slowly to his feet. He adjusted his jacket, cleared his throat, and introduced himself with deliberate clarity.
"Manuel Esteban — Marca."
A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes shifted directly toward the Barcelona table. He didn't rush. He let the room settle, let the attention lock in, before speaking.
"During the game," he began, voice smooth but pointed, "there were several clips and moments which seemed to depict Mateo King appearing to antagonize Kyle Walker. This isn't the first time we've seen something like this. In the previous Champions League match, he openly disrespected a referee, which led to an investigation by the UEFA board. And just a few months ago, there were reports of issues involving him having some issues with his national team captain."
He spread his hands slightly, as if offering the question rather than accusing.
"So what exactly is going on with his personality? And what steps will the club take to address this moving forward?"
The moment he finished, murmurs rippled through the press room. Chairs creaked. Journalists leaned toward one another, whispers bouncing off the walls like static.
Koeman's face tightened. A clear frown formed as he leaned toward the microphone.
"This?" he said sharply, eyebrow raised.
Inside his head, the thought surfaced unfiltered—Marca, eh?—but outwardly he stayed composed. He shifted closer to the mic, shoulders squaring as he began to speak.
"I don't see how this is—" he started, voice firm, already steering toward relevance. "We are here to talk about the match. About football. We won't—"
"Mateo"
The voice cut cleanly through his sentence.
Koeman stopped mid-word. He turned his head slowly.
Beside him, Lionel Messi had finally leaned forward.
The room reacted instantly. Heads snapped in his direction. Cameras adjusted. Pens hovered, suddenly uncertain.
Messi's expression was calm, but there was steel underneath it. He spoke evenly, without raising his voice, yet every word carried weight.
"I've shared a locker room with Mateo," he said. "I've trained with him, traveled with him, spoken to him when no cameras were around. I know not just what kind of player he is—but what kind of man he is."
He glanced briefly toward the reporters before continuing.
"He's playful, yes. He's competitive. But he's respectful. He listens. He works. He cares about his teammates. And I can say this with certainty—if Mateo ever finds himself in a situation like you are describing with another player, knowing him the way I do, I would be more inclined to believe that the problem did not start with him."
A low murmur stirred again, quickly dying as Messi kept speaking.
"As for what happened with Kyle Walker," he added, "it could be anything. We don't know the words exchanged. I spoke to Manchester City players during the match as well. Was I antagonizing anyone?"
Manuel shifted on his feet, sensing control slipping. He jumped in quickly.
"What about his comments about the referee—"
"So you believe," Messi cut in immediately, voice still calm but now sharper, "that UEFA would investigate a referee because of one comment from a player—and not because of the actions that actually happened? Actions that we all saw?"
The question landed heavy.
Silence followed. Real silence.
Koeman, seated just in front and slightly beside Messi, turned to look at him. He caught the frown on Messi's face, the protective edge in his eyes. Then Koeman looked back toward the reporters, understanding fully how the tables had just been turned.
A small smile crept onto his face.
He leaned back into the microphone you could just hear the pride in his voice as he said, breaking the quiet.
"Any more questions?"
A/N
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