CBS STUDIO – HALFTIME SHOW
The studio was buzzing. Faces bright with adrenaline. Screens flashing. Voices overlapping.
"Aaaaahhh—what a match!" Micah Richards shouted, slamming the desk with both palms, eyes wide in disbelief. "This—this is what I'm TALKING about!"
"Barcelona has been the better team," Jamie Carragher chimed in, still catching his breath like he'd played the half himself. "But listen, when you've got Mbappé… PSG's never out of it. Never."
Thierry Henry leaned forward, smiling and shaking his head. "And that Mateo King kid—fastest goal? At seventeen? Nah. I'm telling you… only Barça. Only Barça can produce someone like that."
He motioned with his hands, animated. "He's not just playing—he's pressing, punishing, breaking them. He's not letting PSG breathe. He's injuring them with his movement. Mentally, physically—he's just… wow."
The desk erupted in laughter as Carragher shouted over him, "Someone check his birth certificate!"
Thierry just chuckled, hands raised. "I'm serious! I don't know what we're watching. This—this might be the best match we've seen in the Champions League this season. Maybe in any competition! I can't say who would win again Barcelona looks like they could go for 2 three more but like you said Paris while quieter could just get back like that its honestly anyone's game"
Kate Abdo leaned in, grinning. "Well, gentlemen… in just 45 more minutes, we won't need to guess anymore."
She looked into the camera with a sparkle in her eyes. "Because here we are."
The camera panned across the Parc des Princes.
Floodlights shimmered like spotlights on a Broadway stage. Players walking out once more. Stakes rising. Every bootstep louder than the last.
Peter Drury's voice flowed like poetry through the atmosphere.
"There are nights in football that live forever—not because of the silverware they bring, but the stories they write."
"Tonight… feels like one of them."
"Barcelona—two. Paris—one. Forty-five minutes left. Glory on the line."
"Let's get the game back on the road… because like all good things… this too must end."
Mateo stood at the halfway line, chest rising and falling slowly, trying to regulate his breath. Sweat glistened across his temple as he wiped his brow with the hem of his shirt.
His mind wandered back to the tunnel."You'll have to kill me."He winced internally.
"God… that was so cringe," he thought, biting his lip.
Then he looked across the pitch.
Mbappé. Still staring. Eyes sharp. Fire burning.
Their gazes locked for just a second—and it was enough to jolt Mateo back into focus.
"Alright. No more jokes. I don't have much left in the tank. My legs are burning. But I have to make this count. I have to win this."
He tapped his boots softly against the grass. Stretch. Focus. Lock in.
SOMETHING BREWING…
But while Mateo was psyching himself up, and while the crowd of over 48,000 roared—While the CBS studio crew laughed as a hot bowl of soup spilled across Micah Richards' expensive shirt—While the PSG ultras screamed in French, and Dembélé sat on the bench quietly fuming—While Koeman barked instructions and subs warmed up at the touchline…
Something else was happening.
Something not loud, not flashy.
Something more dangerous.
Because at that very moment…
Lionel Messi was brewing.
Eyes low. Shoulders relaxed. Breaths measured.
But inside?
A storm was rising.
HE STOOD THERE. SILENT. STILL.
The wind swept gently across the Parc des Princes, brushing past the shirts, the banners, the sweat. But it wasn't the breeze that moved Lionel Messi in that moment.
It was something inside.
Something burning.
He didn't speak. He never needed to.
But in that stillness, you could feel it rising.
A feeling he hadn't tasted in a long time.
A fire.
How long had it been since he felt this alive?
Since a match had demanded this much of him… not in goals, or dribbles—but in heart.
His eyes, calm as ever, scanned the pitch ahead.
Mateo. Mbappé.
The world's gaze was locked on them—two teenage storms tearing the fabric of the game.
But quietly, in the midst of it all, the man who had carried this sport on his back for nearly two decades… was awakening.
It wasn't pride.
It wasn't ego.
It was love.
Love for the game. For the fight. For the crest.
A memory stirred deep inside him—Anfield. The silence. The heartbreak.
That had changed him.
He hadn't truly felt this since.
He had played on. Scored goals. Lifted cups. But this emotion—this weight in his chest, this thundering in his pulse—was something else.
And now, under the Paris lights, surrounded by noise and fire and youth...
That fire returned.
In a stadium where two young stars were rising…
The sun itself was stirring.
Lionel Messi didn't scream. He didn't posture. He didn't clench his fists.
He simply breathed. Deep. Cold. Steady.
And with that breath came something more terrifying than noise.
Purpose.
The world might have been watching Mateo and Mbappé tonight.
But it would do well to remember—
As long as Messi walks the pitch, the game still belongs to him.
Because when Messi finds that fire…
Paris doesn't just lose.
It burns.
FWEEEEEEE!!
The referee's whistle pierced the air.
The second half began.
Mateo King might have been locked in. Lionel Messi might have found that old familiar flame.
But this was Paris.
This was the Parc des Princes.
This was Kylian Mbappé's home.
And just four minutes into the second half, he reminded the world.
Fueled perhaps by that hallway exchange—three more goals, eh?—or perhaps just by instinct, by pride, by something deeper in his chest that demanded to answer the challenge, Mbappé used that fuel and struck first.
Minute 49.
It was chaos before it was brilliance.
Barcelona lost the ball just past the halfway line—Paredes intercepting an overcooked touch from Pedri. One glance, one touch. The ball was off his boot and flying toward Marco Verratti.
Verratti didn't stop to think. He let it roll across his body, dragging Busquets out of place, then pinged a quick ball forward to Draxler, who flicked it blindly into space—a move born from training ground muscle memory.
But that space wasn't just any space.
It was Mbappé territory.
He exploded into motion.
Pique was two steps too slow. Umtiti was already spinning, lost in transition. Mbappé burst down the left channel like a man with rockets in his heels.
"He's off!" Peter Drury shouted. "He's OFF!"
Dest tried to angle him wide, but Mbappé slowed, then did a shoulder feint, slicing inside, using that rare blend of balance and speed that made him a cheat code in real life.
One touch. Then two. Quick stepover.
He burst between Pique and Umtiti, dragging the ball forward with a snap of his boot.
Then he saw it.
The angle.
Near post.
Ter Stegen was tight. Ready. Knees bent. Gloves low. Reading the cross. Bracing for the cutback.
But Mbappé knew.
This was it.
This shot was his specialty. The near-post rocket. A move he'd practiced a thousand times. As long as he struck it clean, no keeper on earth could stop it.
And he struck it clean.
CRACK.
The sound echoed through the stadium like a firework.
The ball flashed past Ter Stegen's ear before the German even blinked.
The net rippled.
GOAL.
The Parc des Princes exploded.
The crowd became one voice, one eruption, one blinding roar of pure noise.
"GOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLL! KYLIAN MBAPPÉ!" Drury bellowed.
"THAT'S HIS HOUSE! THIS IS HIS NIGHT! HE'S NOT WAITING ANYMORE—HE'S TAKING IT!"
Jim Beglin roared beside him: "Vintage Mbappé! Near post. Power. Precision. And Peter… the audacity! What a goal!"
Arms flew into the air. Scarves were hurled. Beer rained into the sky. Flares flickered red in the ultras section. PSG fans screamed until their lungs collapsed. They had seen it before. But not like this.
Mbappé stood just inside the box.
Still.
No grin. No smile. No slide. No arms out wide.
He stood.
Stone-faced.
Shoulders rising with every breath.
Head high. Jaw set.
The only movement was the flicker of his eyes—to the scoreboard.
He wasn't celebrating.
He was declaring.
I am the best.
The teammates came. Draxler slapped his back. Verratti tugged his arm. Marquinhos jogged up, shouting praise.
But Mbappé barely moved.
Inside, his thoughts burned.
They think it's Messi's night? They think it's the kid's story? No. This is my turf.
This is my crown.
The camera zoomed in.
His face?
Cold.
Focused.
A lion in his den.
And as the chants of "KYLIAN! KYLIAN!" shook the stands, as PSG fans lost themselves in euphoria, Kylian Mbappé simply turned... and walked back to the halfway line.
No celebration necessary.
He had made his statement.
Let the rest of them respond.
And respond they did
The game hadn't slowed. If anything—it had caught fire.
Paris Increased their lead on aggregate, but now the scoreline read: Paris Saint-Germain 2 – 2 Barcelona. (aggregate 6-3)
The goal from Mbappé in the 49th minute had cracked open a second half that was already boiling. Now, it was lava.
"Make no mistake, Jim," Peter Drury breathed, his voice still tinged with awe, "that goal—that strike—has dragged Paris back from the edge stealing the momentum back let's hope they can keep it. It has changed the mood. Changed the tone. Changed the fight."
Jim Beglin nodded, eyes darting across the pitch as Barcelona tried to reset. "And it's not just the goal—it's the man who scored it. Mbappé didn't even celebrate. He stood there. Stone cold. As if he's still hungry. As if he's only just getting started."
But Barcelona… they weren't here to fold.
They were here to fight.
And at the center of that fight—Mateo King.
Already with two goals to his name, the 17-year-old continued to haunt the PSG backline. Not just with his runs, but with the unexpected.
Minute 52.
Griezmann floated a lofted ball into the box, more hopeful than precise. Mateo, ghosting behind Kimpembe, leapt.
It was ridiculous. The kid was 5 foot 8. Against defenders built like towers. And yet—he rose.
Thud!
His forehead crashed into the ball with sniper-like accuracy, sending it hurtling toward the bottom corner.
"WHAT A HEADER!" Peter Drury shouted. "From a player who, by all accounts, has no right to be doing this in the air!"
Keylor Navas scrambled—diving full stretch—and just managed to tip it around the post.
"That… was outrageous," Jim Beglin murmured. "The vertical leap, the timing, the bravery… how does someone that small rise like that?"
Back on the ground, Mateo grimaced—hands on hips, sweat dripping from his jaw—but the look in his eyes was pure fire.
He was enjoying this.
And he wasn't alone.
Because Pedri—Pedri—was playing like a man possessed.
Still only 18, but dictating the rhythm of a Champions League Round of 16 like it was a backyard game in Tenerife.
In the 55th minute, he received the ball in traffic—sandwiched by Verratti and Paredes.
One touch.
A drag back.
A body feint.
Then, a slick pirouette into space.
"Ohhhh, that's sensational!" Peter Drury gasped. "The composure. The intelligence. It's so easy to get caught up in the glamour of the goals, the flash of the finishers… but tonight, another contender for best on the pitch is right in front of us."
Jim Beglin added with reverence, "Barcelona's Pedri… just 18 years old… and he's bossing the midfield at the Parc des Princes like it's his playground. You almost forget how young he is—until you remember, and your jaw drops all over again."
Back and forth, attack after attack.
Pique headed away a Di María cross. Alba cleared under pressure from Icardi. Umtiti slid in to stop a counter before it began. This was war.
Meanwhile, the substitutions began rolling in.
46′ – Abdou Diallo on ↔ Layvin Kurzawa off.
59′ – Ángel Di María on ↔ Julian Draxler off.
59′ – Danilo Pereira on ↔ Idrissa Gueye off.
"Strengthening the spine," Jim noted as PSG's new legs hit the pitch. "Pochettino knows the game is getting out of hand in the middle. Danilo brings stability. Di María brings the chaos."
Peter added, "The Argentine winger has a history of hurting Barcelona. He'll remember that night in 2017. He'll want to write another chapter."
Meanwhile, Ronald Koeman stood quietly by the touchline.
No changes.
Not yet.
The Dutchman had seen enough to believe in his boys.
"Koeman trusts his men," Drury said. "Perhaps sensing that too many changes might interrupt their rhythm. After all, why change when you're holding momentum—despite the scoreline?"
Indeed, Barcelona were still playing with fire. But PSG were stoking their own blaze.
Minute 61.
Mbappé again.
A sudden ball over the top. Verratti spotted the run and launched it. Mbappé tore through the backline like a ghost through fog.
Lenglet chased, already beat.
Pique staggered to intercept—Mbappé slipped past him with a flash of heel and touch.
Inside the box.
Ter Stegen charged out.
Mbappé pushed the ball wide and—
Crash!
The bodies collided. Mbappé went tumbling.
PIIIIIIIIIIIIII!
The referee's whistle flew to his mouth—then stopped halfway.
No call.
He waved play on.
Peter Drury sucked in a breath. "That… was close."
Replays played.
It was shoulder to shoulder—minimal contact. Ter Stegen had just pulled away.
Still, Mbappé sat on the turf, blinking up at the heavens.
He almost had another.
"Another step. Another half-second," Jim muttered. "And PSG might have had a penalty."
But now, the game moved again. Neither side could blink.
The Parc was alive with tension. The fans never stopped. From flares to flags, from drums to death-stares—this was raw. Football in its most primal form.
And yet—Barcelona looked calm.
Mateo dropped deep, linked with Pedri. A flick. A lay-off. Alba overlapped. Messi strolled central, scanning, manipulating space like a chess grandmaster looking five moves ahead.
Back on the commentary:
"Tactically," Jim began, "this is fascinating, Peter. Koeman is using De Jong almost as a wide center back, letting Alba fly forward. Meanwhile, Messi floats. Total freedom. It's chaos—but it's controlled chaos."
Peter added, "And what of Mateo King? PSG can't seem to pin him down. Sometimes he's on the wing, sometimes he's a 9, sometimes he's tracking Verratti into midfield. He's become a menace. Impossible to mark."
And then—minute 64.
The moment that followed wouldn't just be a play.
It would be magic.
Lionel Messi was walking.
Yes—walking.
While others sprinted, collided, shouted instructions… Messi strolled. Quietly. Purposefully. As if detached from the chaos unfolding around him.
And yet—he was scanning.
Not aimlessly. Not lazily. Every stride he took was layered in calculation. Every glance soaked in intent. His head swiveled left, right, back again. Watching everything. Reading the terrain. The players. The breath between passes. The gaps between thoughts.
Koeman had barked for a more aggressive press. Called for shape. For structure.
But Messi?
He drifted.
Further and further back.
Almost as if he didn't hear the orders at all. Or didn't care.
He wasn't where a number 10 should be.
He was somewhere else—where the ball was going to be.
And PSG… they had the ball.
Icardi darted forward—Di María spotted him.
The pass was elegant. Crisp. Deadly.
Icardi let it roll across his body, pulled the trigger—*
—but Lenglet threw his entire frame like a human shield. It smacked off his leg. Recovered. Then, calmly, under pressure, Lenglet threaded a pass through the middle. A bold pass. Risky. But clean.
Straight to Messi.
And now—he moved.
Not in a sprint. No burst. Just a slow roll of the shoulders. A touch of the ball. Then another. Small. Gentle. But deliberate.
He was finding rhythm.
Paredes tried to close him down—Messi turned his back to him, rolled the ball under his studs, pirouetted like a ballet dancer, and released it sideways to Pedri.
Barça strung together three more passes.
Then four.
Then five.
Then—Mateo King, slicing through space on the left, received it. Dragged defenders toward him.
He spotted him.
Messi.
The pass came.
And the world changed.
It was like watching a spark find dry grass.
Messi didn't stop to trap it. He didn't hesitate. The ball arrived at his feet—and he was activated.
Peter Drury's voice trembled with anticipation.
"Oh no…"
Jim Beglin leaned forward. "He's going."
And go he did.
From the halfway line, Messi began his solo pilgrimage. Slaloming past Paredes like water slipping through fingers. Gueye lunged—missed. Verratti stabbed—Messi pulled the ball behind his heel and switched direction.
The crowd began to rise.
Like a ripple turning into a wave.
He ghosted past Danilo, then feinted left—dragged it right. Florenzi tried to keep up, but Messi's hips were already turning the other way. The Argentine danced, dragging gravity along with him.
"Messi!" Drury screamed. "He's taken on four already!"
Even PSG fans rose to their feet. Not in support—but in instinct. In awe.
He twisted past another.
Five.
Then six.
It was no longer football. It was a symphony written with boots.
Now—he was at the edge of the box.
Kimpembe charged.
Messi dropped his shoulder. Faked a pass.
Then darted into the tightest of spaces—between two defenders.
He was in.
Keylor Navas came rushing.
Too late.
Messi didn't even look.
He chipped.
Not with power. Not with panic. Just… grace.
A soft flick of the foot.
He didn't watch the ball.
He didn't have to.
Because he already knew.
Into the sky above the Parc des Princes.
Suspended.
Time itself bent.
The ball began to drop.
Heading for the net.
No sound.
Not from the PSG fans.
Not from the Barcelona end.
Not from the commentators.
No chants.
No jeers.
Just silence.
Even the breath in lungs across Europe—held.
And then…
NET.
A rustle.
Like paper kissed by the wind.
A goal.
A miracle.
A masterpiece.
Peter Drury's voice returned—but it wasn't booming.
It wasn't wild.
It was quiet.
Like witnessing a divine act.
"Lionel Messi has... struck his mark. In Paris."
And then—
Explosion.
The Parc erupted.
A shockwave of emotion. Flags flying. Mouths wide. Screams echoing into the blackened Paris sky.
But only from one corner—
The away end.
Barça fans—huddled, cramped, drowned out for most of the night—burst with a fury that shook the stands.
"MESSI!!!"
"MESSI!!!"
They chanted his name like it was gospel.
And then—*
The players charged toward him.
Frenzied. Wild. Reverent.
And the first to reach him—Mateo King.
He didn't just embrace him.
He grabbed him.
Eyes alight. Voice cracked. Hands shaking with fire.
"That's it! That's what legends do! You are the best, You're not from this world, Leo!"
Messi said nothing.
Just nodded.
Calm. As if what he did was nothing unusual.
But the stadium knew.
The cameras knew.
The world watching from every corner of the globe knew.
Lionel Messi had lit the night in Paris… again.
Barcelona had their third.
And the fire?
It had just begun.
The air around the Parc des Princes had thickened—tension, sweat, hope, noise. It was no longer a football stadium; it was a forge. Every second a hammer. Every tackle a spark.
On the touchline, Mauricio Pochettino was shouting himself hoarse, waving his arms with frustration, his suit jacket soaked through at the back. His face was twisted with both desperation and defiance.
"Back line! Tighter! Rafinha—closer! Dagba—cover the channel!"
Moments earlier, he had thrown in his final cards:
🟢 Colin Dagba on ↔ Alessandro Florenzi off
🟢 Rafinha on ↔ Marco Verratti off
Fresh legs. Faster reactions. A last gasp of energy.
Across from him, Ronald Koeman was just as animated, hands cupped around his mouth, screaming instructions in Dutch and Spanish, stomping along the edge of his technical area.
"Keep pushing! Don't stop! One more run! Two more goals!"
There was fire in his eyes—belief. His team had claws out, teeth bared.
Barcelona had turned rabid.
Even Kylian Mbappé was now tracking back—sprinting full tilt into his own half. The golden boy of Paris was in the trenches. This wasn't a glamour tie anymore. This was war.
On the pitch, you could feel it—the momentum shift. The bloodlust. The belief.
They all knew.
They all felt it.
Two more. Just two more goals.
That's what echoed in every Barça head.
From Sergio Busquets, still barking instructions like a general on the battlefield.
To Pedri, floating through midfield, pressing high like a man possessed.
To Messi, who now seemed to be skipping through defenders with an anger—an urgency.
A burst of possession. Quick one-twos. Pedri to Messi, Messi to Alba, then back to Messi—
He turned on the spot, danced past Danilo, skipped over a half-hearted tackle from Paredes, then dropped the shoulder past Rafinha—three men, gone in five seconds.
The Parc erupted.
But before he could strike—Mbappé of all people, Mbappé, flew in with a tackle, sliding low and clean, cutting off the shot like a defender born.
The PSG fans roared in approval.
Peter Drury's voice soared with disbelief.
"Would you believe it, Jim?! That's Kylian Mbappé—not scoring, but saving! What a night. What a shift."
Jim Beglin followed up, breathless.
"Everyone's digging in, Peter. Every soul on this pitch knows what this means. It's more than just pride now—it's legacy."
But down on the left wing, Mateo King was quiet.
He stood alone for a moment, hunched, sucking air like someone drowning in exhaustion. His head tilted up toward the stadium clock:
85:02
He blinked sweat out of his eyes.
His legs felt like molten iron. He had barely jogged for the last two minutes. A loose ball rolled toward him near the touchline earlier, and he didn't even chase it.
He couldn't.
Peter Drury again, quietly this time.
"And there's the picture of the night, Jim. Mateo King—perhaps showing signs of being seventeen after all. He's barely moving."
Jim nodded in agreement.
"He's played like a hurricane, Peter, but the tank's empty. He's run himself into the ground. Koeman still has Ousmane Dembélé on the bench… surely now, a change?"
But no change came.
And Mateo?
He stayed.
Then—something flickered.
A PSG clearance misfired. The ball bounced awkwardly, then dropped toward him. Not clean. Not kind. But reachable.
He moved forward.
One touch.
A feint to the left.
Second touch.
A little flick over Dagba's toe.
And then—a roulette.
Mateo spun between two players, somehow weaving through with a glimmer of old magic. The fans gasped. The commentators lifted in tone again.
But Mateo was limping. His breath came in short, harsh spurts. He could feel every heartbeat in his skull. His body was crying out.
Still… he moved forward.
Just a few yards outside the box—barely at the edge of the D—he slowed down.
He knew he couldn't make a full run. Couldn't break into the box.
So he made a choice.
"Just hit it."
"No space, no time, no legs—just hit it."
He pulled back his left foot—
But then—
"Not on my watch!"
A defender lunged in—boot high, not with brutality, but timing. The ball clipped ever so slightly off his laces—
Mateo collapsed.
Not from the tackle.
But from the weight.
From the fatigue. From the war he'd fought since minute one.
He hit the grass hard, palms down.
And then—
PIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!
The referee's whistle.
"Ooo—Mateo is down," Jim Beglin noted, his voice laced with surprise as the whistle rang out.
"Soft one," he added, watching the replays. "There was a touch, yes… but enough to bring him down like that?"
The camera shifted angles, showing the slightest brush of the PSG defender's boot against Mateo's calf.
Peter Drury chimed in, more contemplative than outraged.
"Well… that's the debate, isn't it? From one angle it looks nothing. From another—it's just outside the box, a dangerous zone… and with Lionel Messi standing over it, who can blame Paris for contesting?"
And contest they did.
Marquinhos stormed toward the referee, arms flailing.
Kimpembe screamed "Jamais! Jamais!"
Even Mbappé, usually calm, was shouting, his voice raw from the 80 minutes of war.
The referee stood firm, both palms out, backing away slowly as PSG shirts surrounded him like a swarm.
"Back! I said BACK!" the official barked, his whistle clenched tight between his teeth.
Amidst the chaos, Mateo King lay on the turf, still catching his breath. Then—suddenly—he saw it.
A hand.
Extended.
Calm, steady.
It was Messi.
"You good?" the Argentine asked, his voice low, patient.
Mateo reached up, gripping his captain's hand as he stood with a grunt.
"Yeah," he muttered with a tired smile. "Just… a little gassed."
Messi nodded, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
"That's okay. You've done enough. Let me handle this."
Mateo's eyes widened.
There was something in the way he said it. Not arrogance. Not even confidence.
Conviction.
He blinked, then turned to look.
He had almost forgotten.
The foul. The position.
They had a free kick.
25 yards out. Left of center. Messi's zone.
On the sidelines, Pochettino was in full panic mode.
"Line up! LINE! Back five! Mbappé—on the line! Under! I said under!"
His voice cracked.
Even he knew.
Even he, the opponent, the tactician, understood what could happen now. From this range, it was death.
Not a maybe. Not a hope.
A promise.
From Messi's point of view, everything slowed.
The world condensed into one perfect moment.
He looked at the wall—five PSG players, jumping legs, whispering to each other.
He looked at Keylor Navas, who had already made miraculous saves tonight. The Costa Rican danced on his line, trying to read the mind of a man who had rewritten football.
He looked beyond them all—at his own teammates.
Piqué, nodding slowly, deep in the box.
De Jong, crouched low just outside the area, waiting to pounce on any rebound.
And there—
Mateo.
Still dragging. Still tired. But locked in a battle with a PSG defender, arms interlaced, unwilling to fade.
Messi's mouth curled into the faintest grin.
He inhaled.
And thought.
"This is what they came for. Moments like this.
Not for me to prove I'm the best—just to remind them I've never stopped.
I've never needed the noise, the crown, or the throne.
Just the ball, the space, the silence.
For the love of the game.
For the ones who believed in me from the beginning., For Barca
For her.
One more time—let it speak for me."
The referee stepped back—
And blew his whistle.
Messi took four steps.
Measured. Silent. Like a painter approaching canvas.
Then came the strike—
not power, not violence—precision.
The ball curled like poetry in motion,
spinning through air dense with tension.
It whispered past the wall,
brushing the crown of Dagba's head—close, but not enough.
Navas flew.
Every muscle stretched.
Every instinct screaming.
His fingertips grazed the air—and then the ball.
But fate had already made its choice.
Ting.
It kissed the inside of the post—soft, perfect.
And then—
Net.
Detonation.
"GOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL!!!"
Jim Beglin's voice nearly split the commentary mic.
"LIONEL MESSI—AGAIN! FROM THE GODS ABOVE!"
But Peter Drury didn't speak immediately.
He waited.
He let the moment breathe.
The crowd, the madness, the beauty.
And then—like a poet seeing colors no one else could—he delivered:
"When they speak of greatness, they speak of eras. Of legacies. Of torches passed. But Lionel Messi… he was never part of a generation. He was the generation.
And tonight—perhaps for the first time in a long while—he became the background of the conversation. Two new undeniable talents took the reins.
Until now.
Until this.
Lionel Messi reminds us all—he never left.
He is the story.
He is the script.
He is the stage.
And now—it's 4–2.
Two goals to Lionel Messi.
And only one left.
Can Barcelona do it? Can they complete the impossible?"
The camera panned to Messi.
He didn't slide on his knees. He didn't raise his hands to the heavens.
Instead, he jogged straight into the net, picked up the ball—and shouted to his teammates:
"¡Vamos!"
"¡Vamos! LET'S GO!"
As he ran back, ball tucked tight to his chest, he raised both hands—
And kissed them.
Then he pointed to the sky.
To her.
His grandma.
Barcelona had four.
The Parc des Princes had gone silent.
And there was still time.
A/N
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