As Mateo stood there, arms raised to the heavens, the silence cracked.
His body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of what he'd just done. His fingers pointed like spears toward the cold Paris sky, his boots still rooted in enemy soil. The Parc des Princes was no longer roaring. It was frozen—stunned by the cruelty of the moment.
Then came the noise.
It started not with a scream, but with a gasp. From the front rows, just behind the goal where his volley had detonated like a bombshell, the PSG faithful sat with mouths half-open. Still processing. Still stunned. A few were clutching their heads. Others were staring blankly. Some hadn't even registered the scoreline yet.
But then they saw him.
Him.
That boy—barely seventeen, dressed in the black and gold of Barcelona. That child who dared stand in their temple and raise his arms like a king being crowned. That same boy who had knelt no one… but had made all of Paris fall to one knee.
And it burned them.
Among the crowd stood Théo Laurent, a lifelong Paris ultra. A man who had missed his daughter's wedding rehearsal to attend this game. He wore his scarf like armor and carried chants like scripture. And now—he was being mocked by a teenager.
Théo looked down toward the pitch, his blood boiling, and froze. Mateo's eyes—calm, deep, almost glowing under the lights—were looking directly at him.
Locked.
Hazel eyes into his.
The look didn't say "I scored."
It said: "I did this to you."
Théo erupted. His face contorted, his arms flailed. "Fils de pute !" he screamed, followed by a tirade of obscenities that should've never touched the lips of a father or man. Others around him joined in, fueled by his fury.
And like wildfire in a dry forest, it spread.
All across the stadium, insults poured down like acid rain.
"Retourne dans ton pays, bâtard !"
"Your mama's a whore!"
"Lucky little rat!"
"This isn't your house, you immigrant piece of sh—"
Some went deeper. Some darker. One fan screamed, "Go cry to your mother, oh wait, does she even know your father?!"
The storm thickened. One slur after another rained down on him. They called him everything—filthy, illegitimate, soulless. And Mateo just stood there.
Smiling.
Because for Mateo King, it was all music.
Each slur was just a drumbeat in the anthem of his triumph.
Each insult? A melody he'd heard a thousand times before.
And for all their rage, all their fury—they couldn't unscore the goal. They couldn't undo the moment. The scoreboard burned above them in red and white:
PSG 2 – 5 FC Barcelona (Agg 6-6)
They screamed as if their voices could drag him down.
They couldn't.
In fact, a certain author thought for a moment—"Wow… if he was just a shade darker, this might've turned into the biggest racism case in football since the 2020s."
He chuckled.
"Vinícius would've had two Netflix documentaries and three prime-time specials off of this," he thought, dark humor fueling him.
But Mateo didn't need sympathy.
He needed their hatred.
Because this wasn't about shame. It wasn't about pain. It was about power. This was conquest.
The more they hurled, the more he smiled. And the more he smiled, the more furious they became.
The fans surged forward, boiling with rage. Security rushed to the edge of the barriers, forming a wall of neon yellow and black gloves. Stewards pushing back, hands out, eyes wide. One guard even had to catch a fan mid-leap as he tried to vault over the barrier, screaming something about "retribution."
And still, Mateo stood.
Arms raised. Breathing steady.
Defiant.
Then finally—
They came.
Pedri was the first.
Sprinting like a child who'd just been told the world was his.
"¡Vamos!" he shouted, leaping onto Mateo's back, arms flung around his shoulders, the sound of his laughter exploding into the Paris night.
The rest of them followed like a tidal wave.
Umtiti roared as he charged in, his arms wide. Griezmann tackled both Mateo and Pedri into the grass. Piqué, despite his aging legs, came galloping over like a man reborn. De Jong slid in knees-first. Alba slapped everyone in reach. Busquets lifted his fists to the heavens like a man possessed.
They didn't just celebrate. They collapsed into joy.
Laughter mixed with screams. Limbs tangled in limbs. The black-and-gold Barça kits piled into a mountain of sweaty, wide-eyed warriors who knew—they had done something mad tonight.
One by one, they pulled each other up, still screaming, still pounding their chests. Ter Stegen ran almost halfway up the pitch before pausing, caught between celebration and duty—until he reached Mateo and offered a hand—
Only for Messi to slide in and gently tug the keeper back.
Marc looked confused.
"Wait, we're not laughing?"
Messi didn't say anything—he just smirked and patted him on the back.
They had work to finish.
Meanwhile, from the PSG half—
"HEY!"
The shout cut through the noise.
Mbappé.
Raging. Arms wide. Fury in his eyes.
"Allez, vite ! Let's go! The game's not over!"
He waved to the referee.
"Start the game, ref! What is this—a movie shoot?"
The referee, who had been watching the pile of Barça players like a man seeing the ending to a beautiful story, blinked. He glanced at his watch. Seconds. Just seconds remained.
He sighed.
Back to reality.
He jogged over, raising a hand to the Barcelona players. "Alright, enough! Let's go. Resume play!"
They started dispersing. Grins still on their faces. Eyes wet. Hands on knees. But they knew—they weren't done yet.
As Mateo turned and started walking back toward the center circle, he felt a slight tug on his sleeve.
Messi.
Not shouting. Not gesturing. Just… there. Calm as the sea before a storm.
The captain looked at him—not with pride or excitement, but with something gentler. Something older. Softer. Like a father looking at a son.
Mateo blinked. "What? Something wrong?"
Messi gave a faint smile. Then said only:
"No. I'm just glad I made the right choice."
And then he turned and walked away.
Mateo tilted his head.
"Wait… what?"
But there wasn't time to unpack it. He was still breathing hard. His pulse drumming against the inside of his skull. His legs were sizzling, like someone had lit a fire under his kneecaps. He felt like he might explode.
Calm down, Mateo, he told himself.
He slapped his own cheeks lightly.
Game's not over yet.
And he wasn't the only one who knew that.
Across the field, Mbappé's blood boiled.
He wasn't just pacing—he was snarling.
Screaming at Danilo. At Di María. Even at Navas.
"EVEN IF SECONDS WE HAVE TIME!"
His fists were clenched. His eyes glowed with rage and belief.
"Barça's wasting time! Ref! Come on!"
And then—
That same thought.
"The game isn't over yet."
Same words.
Two hearts.
Two meanings.
For Mateo: a breath, a calm, the promise of defense.
For Mbappé: a fuse, a fire, the roar of vengeance.
Mbappe stood at the center circle, the noise behind him a storm—yet all he heard was the sound of his own breath. Then he started clapping, hard. The kind of clapping that wasn't for applause, but war. His voice tore through the noise.
"Okay! Okay! Let's go! Attack! Attack!"
He slapped his thighs, bouncing on his heels, eyes burning like headlights. The ball rolled toward him. He let it pass, shifted position, and screamed again:
"One more chance! We go again!"
Referee Witsel blew his whistle. The final seconds had begun.
Mbappé moved like lightning. Dropping deep, he barked instructions, pointed to Di María, gestured to Paredes, spun into space. The ball came to his feet. He let it go and sprinted into the gap.
A pass found him on the edge. He turned, pulled back his foot—
Boom.
A body slid in. Legs crashing. Ball flying.
The challenge came brutal and blind, both players thudding into the pitch like bricks tossed onto concrete. Mbappé didn't even see who it was—he just hit the turf.
Then came the sound that broke everything.
Peeeeeep.
The whistle.
Again.
And again.
Witsel raised his hand.
Game over.
Mbappé stayed still. His eyes closed. Chest rising and falling. Then, slowly—he let himself fall fully back. Arms out, face toward the sky.
Flat on the grass of the Parc des Princes.
His heart was pounding.
His throat was dry.
And his thoughts echoed—
"Not again…"
The stadium erupted. Chaos—pure, unfiltered chaos. Anger, joy, heartbreak, redemption—all exploded in one furious second of truth.
Peter Drury's voice, calm and cosmic, dropped like a spell into the ears of millions:
"Barcelona… Barcelona have done it.
Against all odds.
They have removed last year's finalists.
A team led by the World Cup winner.
A team with the one they call the future.
And yet—
Barcelona have found their present."
"In 2017, the world asked, 'How did they do that?'
The answer: Neymar.
In 2021, they'll ask again—
The answer: Mateo King."
"Six goals.
Three of them from a boy playing his very first Champions League knockout game.
A debut hat-trick on the greatest stage of all.
This… this is not just Barcelona.
This is more than a club.
This is resurrection.
This is what it means to be reborn in football.
From shame to stardust.
From embarrassment to ecstasy.
Football, you're welcome.
The stars have returned."
All across the globe, Barça fans screamed.
In Catalonia, in Lagos, in Manila, in Buenos Aires.
Pubs spilled beer and bodies onto streets.
Bars became temples.
Living rooms became stadiums.
They weren't listening to Peter Drury.
They were living it.
But the one who scored the winner—he was feeling everything.
"LET'S GOOOOOOO!"
Mateo's roar was primal. Pure.
He was on the ground now—flat on his back, arms wide, a grin carved across his face.
He had just tackled Mbappé.
He couldn't feel his legs.
Every cell in his body burned.
But he laughed.
He laughed like a man possessed. Like someone who didn't care what came next. Someone who had given the gods everything and had been blessed in return.
And as he lay there, breathless—
Mbappé lay just meters away. Quiet. Eyes hollow. Chest still.
And this—this was the duality of life.
One laughed.
One wept.
One tasted the sky.
One bit the dirt.
But both were alike.
Ambition. Talent. Drive. Will. Obsession.
Two warriors in the same war.
This was not the end. This was chapter one.
But tonight—
Mateo King had won the first battle.
Still grinning, surrounded by celebrating teammates and the weeping shadows of PSG players being comforted by Pochettino—
He whispered it to himself.
"I did it."
The camera cut to the CBS Sports crew on the sideline—and before a single word was said, Thierry Henry had already exploded out of his seat.
"What did I tell you?! WHAT did I tell you?!" he shouted, pointing at the others like a football prophet in his moment of divine vindication.
The others burst out laughing.
"I TOLD you. I TOLD you!" he went on, pacing like a coach at full-time. "I said Barcelona could do this. You didn't believe me, but I saw it—I knew it!"
Still chuckling, Jamie Carragher rolled his eyes and fired back, "Alright Thierry, calm down. D'you want to read my palm too, eh? Maybe check my horoscope while you're at it?"
Everyone laughed harder.
"Make all the jokes you want!" Thierry shrugged dramatically, lifting both arms. "But I was right. The signs were there. The stars aligned. The script was written. You just have to watch this sport on a higher level like me."
"Oooh, here we go," Kate Abdo grinned.
Micah Richards, already laughing, added, "Well, to be fair, I also picked Barça—just throwing that out there."
"Oh yes," Kate chimed in, teasing, "the great omen of 'follow Thierry.' Very original, Micah."
"Harsh!" Micah laughed.
"Ehn, no ganging up on him tonight!" Thierry said, waving his finger in mock protest. "He guessed right. You guys didn't. You could have followed me. Don't hate me 'cause I see the game in 4K!"
Micah playfully stood up and walked closer to Thierry.
"Alright then, since you're glowing, let me come rub some of that luck off you," he said, miming rubbing Thierry's jacket. "Let me catch the aura!"
"Yes, yes, take it all!" Thierry laughed, playfully brushing imaginary magic dust off his shoulder.
Jamie clapped once and pointed at the camera. "Okay, okay, can we actually do our jobs now?" he said, grinning. "5-2! What a night. What a performance. I mean... that was football, that was."
"One of the most thrilling matches I've ever watched," Kate added with a bright smile. "Every minute, it felt like something could explode. Tension, goals, drama... it had everything."
Just as Micah was about to weigh in, his eyes flicked to something behind the camera.
He smiled wide. That grin.
"Well," he said, tone lowering like he was about to spill a secret, "how about we ask one of the stars of the show himself?"
"What?" Kate turned her head.
They all followed his gaze—and there, at the edge of the pitch, was Mateo King, sitting on the grass, receiving treatment on his leg while chatting with Messi. Both of them wore wide, tired smiles. War veterans. The kings of the night.
"Micah..." Kate narrowed her eyes, warningly. "You wouldn't."
"Oh, I think he would," Jamie smirked as Micah cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Mateo! Mateo!! Heyyy!!" he bellowed, trying his best to blend Spanish and English. "Oye! El Maestroooo!"
"Micah! Stop!" Kate laughed, pushing his shoulder. "Mateo hasn't given a single interview since joining Barça—don't do that. It's rude!"
Micah was mid-call, hand raised. But then, suddenly, Mateo's head turned.
He looked up. His eyes met Micah's.
And he smiled.
Micah beamed back, waving him over—"Come! Just a minute!"
Mateo held the smile, gave a soft nod… but then turned back to Messi, continuing their conversation.
Jamie burst out laughing. "OOOOHH! You just got GHOSTED, mate! That's cold!"
"That's painful," Kate laughed too. "Told you—Barcelona are guarding that one like a national treasure."
Micah threw his arms up. "Hey, hey, you can't fault a guy for trying! Just doing my job!"
Then Thierry shook his head, amused. "Aren't you lot tired of being wrong today?"
They turned.
Mateo King was walking toward them.
Still in post-match kit, his leg lightly wrapped, exhaustion hiding behind his eyes—but the fire was still there. The kind that doesn't burn out.
Micah froze, eyes widening. "He's coming. Oh my God. He's coming!"
Thierry tapped him. "Be cool. Don't embarrass us, man."
Mateo finally reached them.
"Buenas noches a todos," he said with a soft smile, voice polite but warm. (Good evening to you all.)
"Buenas noches, campeón," Thierry replied immediately, voice smooth and genuine. (Good evening, champion.)
"Gran partido, muy orgulloso de ti." (Great game. Very proud of you.)
"Gracias. Siempre ha sido uno de mis jugadores favoritos." (Thank you. It's an honour meeting you You've always been one of my favorite players.)
The other three stood still, watching. It was like seeing a nephew greet his favorite uncle.
Every young player gravitated toward Thierry Henry.
It was a pattern now. And no one complained.
Micah, Jamie, and Kate stayed quiet, just observing. Three pros. Three adults. Eyes locked on a 17-year-old kid who, on the biggest night of his life, had come to speak with them.
Kate Abdo stepped forward with a warm smile.
"Mateo, what a brilliant game you had tonight. Three goals, seven successful dribbles, two key passes, 100% shot accuracy… no assists, sure, but I think you did enough," she chuckled. "A late winner, breaking four Champions League records all on your debut… How do you feel?"
Mateo took a small breath, his lips parting slightly to respond—
But Micah Richards quickly jumped in.
"Wait, wait, wait Kate, give the kid a chance. Respect him properly first—he probably doesn't speak English!"
Jamie Carragher immediately buried his face in his hands, shaking his head in mock despair.
"Lord, not again..."
Micah ignored him, gesturing to Mateo and fumbling in broken Spanish:
**"Mateo… uh… el juego… fue muy bueno… cómo te sientes… después de romper… los récords…?"
The entire crew started laughing as Mateo chuckled.
"It's all fine, Micah," he said, his voice smooth and clear. "I understood what Kate said. I speak English. My dad's from England."
Jamie and Thierry burst out laughing, and Henry clapped his hands.
"You never learn, do you, Micah?" Thierry grinned.
Micah held his hands up with a sheepish smile. "Hey, just tryna be respectful!"
Mateo turned to Kate, still smiling.
"As for your question, Kate… what can I say?"
He began to answer, then suddenly let out a soft giggle.
Then a full laugh.
It was contagious—warm and unfiltered.
The others started laughing too, pulled in by his joy.
"Sorry, sorry!" Mateo said between laughs. "I just… I can't believe it."
Thierry nodded with pride in his eyes.
"No, believe it, kid. You earned it. This is your night. Laugh if you want, shout if you want—be you."
Mateo didn't hesitate. He threw his head back and shouted loudly into the night sky:
"AHHHHHHH!"
Henry flinched and rubbed his ear with a grin.
"Damn—I didn't mean it literally!"
Everyone cracked up again, even the camera crew behind them.
Micah wiped a tear of laughter from his eye.
"Wait… wait a second… how do you even know who we are? We didn't introduce ourselves yet!"
Mateo grinned wide.
"Are you kidding? You guys are my favourite show. I watch you all the time. Since you started, actually. Me and the guys —we don't miss a single one."
The crew lit up, delighted. Micah's eyes twinkled as he leaned in slightly.
"Wait… 'the guys'? So does that mean you know who watches us too?"
Mateo laughed knowingly.
"Ah, I was talking about me and my La Masia teammates," he teased.
Micah's smile dropped a little.
But Mateo leaned closer with a wink.
"But don't worry—Messi definitely knows you guys. It's the only reason I'm here. He told me you were safe."
He paused.
Then glanced slyly at Jamie Carragher.
"Well… most of you."
Jamie gasped.
"What?! What did I do?!"
Kate chuckled.
"What haven't you done?"
Micah was still stunned.
"Wait… Messi knows me?"
Jamie recovered, jumping back into the conversation.
"Mateo, you mentioned your dad's from England, yeah?"
Mateo nodded with an easy grin.
"Yeah. Manchester, to be precise."
Jamie smiled—just a little too wide.
Kate immediately narrowed her eyes.
"Jamie…"
But it was too late.
Jamie leaned in.
"So… will you be donning the Three Lions jersey then?"
Thierry groaned.
"Come on, man."
Kate threw her hands up.
"And there he goes."
Mateo blinked.
"Ehn? What?"
He was genuinely caught off guard.
Jamie pressed.
"You don't want to represent your father's nation? It's England, you know. You'd play with Rice, Saka, Kane, Sancho—the best of the best."
"Alright, Jamie, that's enough," Kate interjected with a shake of her head.
Mateo composed himself, smiling politely.
"Well, like you said—England already has Kane. He's a world-class striker. I respect my father's land deeply… but my heart is in one place. The place I was born, raised, and built. Spain. The Spanish national team has always been my first choice."
As he said it, his eyes flickered with subtle confusion.
Was that a trap question?
In his mind, that had never even been up for debate. No one at Barcelona had prepped him for that—it was obvious to them. But somehow, here he was, defending something that had never needed defending before.
"Is this why the club didn't want me doing interviews?" Mateo thought, bemused.
"And from Jamie Carragher of all people? Not even a real journalist!"
Kate rolled her eyes and patted Mateo's shoulder.
"Don't mind him, Mateo. He's just chasing his next viral headline."
Everyone laughed again as she straightened up.
"Let a real journalist take over, hmm?" she said with a wink.
"So—your debut. How were you feeling going into this match? Nervous? Or something else?"
Mateo smiled, hands tucked loosely into his jacket pockets as the crew gave him their full attention. His face glowed under the stadium lights, that youthful energy radiating through his exhaustion.
"To be honest…" he began, his voice light, a bit hoarse from all the shouting. "Yesterday night in the hotel, I was stone-faced. I didn't feel nervous at all. I kept telling myself—'You're ready. You've trained for this. You've visualised every second of it.'"
He chuckled, glancing off as if remembering it.
"I even slept like a baby. No stress, no panic. I thought, 'Yeah, I got this.' Then this morning came…"
Mateo laughed again, deeper this time, a laughter from a place of disbelief.
"Man, I couldn't even breathe properly. My hands were shaking—I tried tying my boots and I couldn't get the knot right."
"I know that feeling," Thierry Henry jumped in, chuckling knowingly.
"You think you're the calmest man in the world the night before. But the next morning, it's like… your body betrays you. The moment they say 'You're up'—your brain forgets how to juggle a ball."
"Oooh, don't tell me about it," Micah Richards added dramatically.
Thierry turned to him with a smirk.
"What? Being on the bench is nerve-wracking too, ehn?"
Everyone burst out laughing.
"Hey hey!" Micah raised his hands. "You don't know what I went through sitting next to prime Kompany every week, bro!"
The whole set cracked up, the chemistry palpable.
Jamie Carragher, who had been leaning casually near the edge of the broadcast platform, chuckled as well. He folded his arms, eyebrow raised.
"So… you were nervous, ehn?" he asked with a teasing grin.
Mateo, still laughing, turned to him as his laughter slowly faded. He nodded honestly.
"Yeah, I was pretty nervous."
Micah nodded in approval.
"Well, then—three goals, a late winner, and straight into history. Seems like you got over it just fine."
"Yeah," Jamie said, his tone playful but laced with something more pointed. "That's pretty incredible, ain't it? But how do you feel about doing all of that… and still not getting Man of the Match?"
The air changed just slightly.
The others turned toward him with confused expressions.
"What are you talking about?" Henry asked, blinking.
Jamie smirked.
"Just came in. The official UEFA man of the match went to Messi. Not the kid."
He turned his head slowly to look at Mateo.
"So, how does that make you feel? Knowing you just made history… and still didn't win it?"
Micah winced and placed a hand on Jamie's shoulder.
"Come on mate, that's—"
But Mateo's voice cut through with a surprising burst of joy.
"Wait—really? Messi won it?"
His eyes lit up.
He wasn't disappointed. Not even close.
"That's amazing!" he beamed, visibly excited. "Two goals and two assists? Of course he deserves it! Two of my own goals came from his passes. I mean, come on—it's Messi. It's only natural he gets it."
He tilted his head back slightly in admiration, like a kid still not quite believing what world he now lived in.
"Wait… that means it's his 57th Champions League Man of the Match award, right? That's incredible!"
He clapped his hands together with pure fanboy glee.
Jamie's attempt at controversy dissolved instantly. He forgot one thing.
Mateo King wasn't just Barcelona's star boy.
He was also a Messi superfan.
Kate grinned at the sincerity beaming from his face.
"So you're a Messi fanboy, ehn?"
Mateo looked at her, wide-eyed and grinning.
"You don't even know the half of it."
The interview rolled on, warm and glowing with laughter. Giggles broke the tension, even Jamie Carragher, the most "professional provocateur" among them, had eased up—his earlier intensity replaced by soft chuckles and shared banter. They joked, reminisced, poked fun at one another, and basked in the glow of one of the most historic Champions League nights ever witnessed.
Tonight, Barcelona hadn't just qualified.
They had roared back from humiliation.
They had defied reason.
They had returned.
And Mateo King…
Well, he'd arrived.
As the segment began winding down, Mateo took a small step back, bowing slightly to the crew with a grin as he adjusted his wrap.
"Thank you, really. I gotta head back. The team—"
"Of course," Kate said warmly, reaching out to pat his shoulder. "You've earned it."
They began offering him goodbyes, laughter still bubbling, but Jamie—who had been standing there just off-pace from the rest of the crew—had been biding his time.
He wasn't done.
Not yet.
He could feel the clip trending already. All of it. The soft Messi praise, the calm composure under pressure, the Messi fanboy tag—it was good. But Jamie didn't do good. He did viral. Controversy. Soundbites that circled the globe. He wanted something that made headlines.
And then he smiled.
He had it.
"Mateo—wait!" Jamie called out.
Mateo paused mid-turn.
Kate immediately tensed.
"Jamie… for the love of God."
"What?" Jamie said, hand raised innocently. "It's just a question. I'm curious. It's harmless."
Mateo tilted his head slightly, the smile on his face fading just a bit—not in anger, but in the way someone prepares for something real.
"Your last celebration…" Jamie began, carefully watching his expression. "That was something. It felt… personal. Like a statement. What was that about?"
Micah winced.
"Come on, man, let the kid go."
Thierry Henry stepped forward slightly, his brow furrowed.
"Seriously, that's enough, he just played the game of his life."
But Jamie kept his eyes on Mateo, waiting.
Then… a pause.
Not a loud one—but the kind of pause that makes a whole stadium feel like it's holding its breath.
Through the buzzing background noise of the stadium, came a low voice. Clear. Calm. Cut from steel.
"Warning."
The crew froze.
The fans behind the cameras kept roaring, but that single word pierced like a dagger.
Jamie's eyes narrowed.
"…Pardon?"
Mateo looked directly into the broadcast camera now. All traces of playfulness vanished. His face was stone. His voice—low, but resounding.
"That celebration... was a warning."
He took a step forward.
The air suddenly shifted. Thierry straightened. Micah stood silent. Even Jamie blinked.
Mateo's hazel eyes were razor sharp, no laughter in them now. His face clenched tight with emotion, with intensity. This wasn't post-match adrenaline.
This was prophecy.
"Tonight we didn't win just a game. We didn't just make a comeback. No—this was a statement. To every club left in this tournament…"
"We're not here for the lights."
"We're not here to prove a point."
"We're here for the title."
He raised a finger slowly toward the lens, like he was speaking directly into every dressing room left in the Champions League.
"This badge… this crest… it's more than a club. And it's done being disrespected."
"So remember this night. Remember the name. Remember the number on the scoreboard—"
"Because Barcelona is coming..."
"And I'm engraving that truth into your bones."
A beat of silence.
Then he whispered, but the words shook the room.
"A por la 6."
Mic drop.
And just like that, Mateo King turned and walked off camera.
Dead silence.
The camera didn't move for a second. It didn't dare.
Back at the sideline, Jamie Carragher stood perfectly still, blinking slowly as a smirk crept up the corner of his mouth.
"Got you," he whispered.
But even he… was stunned.
Because that wasn't a prodigy talking.
That was a world class player staking his claim, a king taking his throne.
A/N
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