The news of Lewandowski's absence hadn't just been a passing ripple among the fans, nor merely a whisper in the locker rooms of Barcelona or Bayern. It had climbed higher, pressing into the very spaces where football stopped being pure passion and began to mutate into politics, business, and power. Football at the top was rarely innocent—it was sharper, colder, full of money and egos. What the terraces sang with emotion, the boardrooms dissected with calculation.
Above the heaving stands of the Allianz Arena—above the cauldron where Bayern's faithful were already in full voice—the air carried a different weight. Down below, the crowd thundered with loyalty, scarves held high, their anthem booming against the steel and concrete. The wise, the old, murmured consolations: "It changes nothing. We are Bayern." The strong and the loyal screamed the club's name louder, turning absence into defiance. Robert Lewandowski or no Robert Lewandowski, Bayern was still Bayern. And tonight, they promised, the so-called proud and arrogant culés would be reminded of a brutal truth: here, in the Allianz Arena, there was only ever one favorite.
But above that raw devotion, sealed away in the polished glass and leather of the VIP section, the atmosphere was different—hushed yet tense, political rather than passionate. Two men conversed quietly, standing apart from the rest, their words carrying an edge of calculation that didn't match the chants echoing below.
To their right, the official Bayern delegation occupied a row of reserved seats. And there, visible even from a distance, the president was flushed with anger, barking at his board. His voice cut sharper than the crowd's chorus, hands slamming the armrest as he spat out frustrations about the sudden change in lineup. The name "Flick" surfaced again and again in his tirade—Hansi Flick, the coach whose decisions were suddenly under scrutiny. Around him, other executives leaned in, whispering, placating, trying to temper his fury, aware of where they were and who might be watching.
In the middle of the room, standing lofty as if all the chaos and drama beneath them were little more than distant echoes, sat the UEFA delegation—headed by none other than the president himself, Aleksander Čeferin. He occupied the central chair, posture deliberate, face unreadable, his eyes flicking between papers and screens with the calm of a man who understood the weight of appearances. Čeferin hadn't come here merely to enjoy a spectacle of Bayern versus Barcelona. No, now more than ever, he had reason to be present. Rumors of a so-called "Super League" had been swirling through Europe like smoke in a locked room. And Čeferin, with his legal sharpness and politician's instinct, knew that if anyone in this building had answers—or at least hints—it would be the presidents of these two colossal clubs.
If those whispers were true, if football's giants were plotting something to shatter UEFA's grip, tonight could be as much about politics as it was about football. He watched silently, his gaze moving across tabs scattered on the polished mahogany table, tabs carrying sponsor briefs and revenue charts, details of broadcasting rights, partnership notes. Around him, executives from Allianz, Adidas, Audi, even Rakuten, clustered in their own corners. They were speaking in hushed tones, their voices weaving together like threads of ambition and commerce—discussing partnerships, marketing campaigns, and numbers that had nothing to do with the players warming up below.
And yet, in this swirl of power and calculation, two figures stood out.
The first was unmistakable: a large man with a presence that filled the room even before his booming voice did. His suit, though expensive, strained at the seams, the buttons pushing out against a belly that refused to be tamed by tailoring. He leaned forward in his chair, close to his companion, whispering and gesturing with that air of superiority that only came from a man who never doubted his own authority. His tie had loosened slightly, his jacket sat untucked at the back, but he didn't care. He was shamelessly himself, brash and unbothered by appearances. For him, this VIP lounge was not a room of careful etiquette—it was simply another arena where he could impose his will.
Beside him sat the second man, smaller in frame, more reserved, eyes darting about the room with careful awareness. This was Ferran, the club's CEO, a man trained in restraint. His gaze swept once more across the crowd—Čeferin, the sponsors, the Bayern executives, all locked in their own little worlds—and he let out a quiet sigh. He knew the value of discretion, of reading the mood, of waiting for the right time. But then he looked back at his president, and all that wisdom felt pointless.
Because Joan Laporta was not like any other president.
Ferran knew this better than anyone. Laporta didn't bend to moods, he bulldozed through them. He was brash, loud, and utterly unwilling to be boxed in by protocol. He had the arrogance of a man who believed he was destined to command, and often, frustratingly, he was right. Laporta could be shameless, dismissive, even reckless—but he also had a rare charm, the kind that disarmed allies and disoriented rivals. He smiled as easily as he barked, and when he spoke, people listened—not because they wanted to, but because he made them.
Ferran rubbed his temple, a familiar frustration tugging at him. Yet as he watched Laporta now, as he thought about the mess Barcelona had sunk into—the debts, the drama, the incoming ridicule—he admitted a reluctant truth: maybe, just maybe, the club needed a man like this. A bull-headed president who could storm through fires without blinking, someone who could stare down UEFA and La Liga itself if it came to that.
But even so… Ferran wished, deeply, that this conversation—of all conversations—was happening anywhere but here, in this room, under these eyes.
"Hey, Ferran… Ferran, I'm talking to you."
The voice cut through the low hum of corporate chatter, firm and impatient. Ferran tilted his head upward slowly, already knowing who it was. There, towering above him in both presence and tone, was Joan Laporta. His president's face carried that unmistakable gleam of determination — that mixture of charm and stubborn fire that made him impossible to ignore. Ferran exhaled quietly, his shoulders dipping ever so slightly. There was no stopping Laporta once he set his mind to something. Best to let him speak, let him have his moment, and find a way to steer things back before the wrong ears started listening. Especially here, of all places, where one careless word could light a wildfire.
"Yes, sir. I'm listening." Ferran's voice was measured, deliberately calm, a man trying to keep the surface still while storms swirled underneath.
Laporta leaned closer, lowering his voice but never softening the intensity. "The news — is it true?"
Ferran's instincts betrayed him before his words did. Even as the question reached his ears, his head turned ever so slightly, his eyes darting across the room. He searched for signs — anyone who might have overheard, anyone who might be watching. Executives clustered in little huddles, whispers blending with the clink of glasses. Some were talking sponsorship numbers, others about television rights. Most, thankfully, seemed too absorbed in their own corners to notice. Still, the risk was there. Always.
That hesitation was enough to anger Laporta. His tone cracked sharp, a whip against marble. "Ferran!"
The name hit harder than expected, slicing through Ferran's chest. He flinched, shocked by the rawness of the voice, and for a moment he sat frozen. Then, drawing in a steadying breath, he sighed once more. He had already lost count of how many times today he had sighed under the weight of his president's recklessness. Still, he steeled himself. There was no running from it.
"Yes," Ferran admitted, his words low but clear. "His agent has been reaching out, speaking more and more about Lewandowski's dissatisfaction with Bayern. Especially after the club's silence during the Ballon d'Or ceremony or better still lack off it last season… he feels disrespected."
Laporta leaned back, muttering under his breath, chewing on the information. His eyes narrowed, then gleamed again with that familiar appetite. "So… is it possible to lure him over, then?"
The words landed like thunder in Ferran's ears. He sat upright instantly, every nerve in his body on alert. Here, in this room filled with Bayern directors, senior executives, sponsors — even Čeferin himself not too far away — this was madness. The sheer audacity of discussing Lewandowski here, of all places. A sigh slipped from Ferran once again, heavier now, tinged with resignation. The president really can never change, he thought bitterly.
Yet as that thought crossed him, Ferran's gaze hardened. He opened his eyes wider, sharper, the fatigue giving way to something else: a cold clarity. Watching his president, bold and brash, scheming even in the lion's den, Ferran realized there was something far more dangerous brewing than the risk of offending Bayern tonight. His mind tugged at the page of another concern, heavier, darker, one that gnawed at him more than Laporta's sudden obsession with Lewandowski.
He leaned forward, his voice carrying a weight it rarely did, words pressing forward without filter, as if borrowed straight from his president's own boldness.
"President… this sudden interest in Lewan — what about our efforts with Mateo?"
Ferran leaned back in his seat, but his mind was anything but calm. The whole club felt like it was vibrating in a frenzy now—Barcelona were days away from yet another seismic European night, and while the immediate focus was Bayern Munich, he couldn't help but feel that half of the storm behind the scenes was tied not to the pitch, but to a teenager: Mateo King. A boy who had somehow split the corridors of the club into factions.
He thought of the endless calls, the whispered debates, the board meetings that stretched long past midnight. The fight wasn't just about football—it was about direction, about image, about the future. A whole faction was built on Mateo's contract renewal, a faction strong enough that even they had replaced the sporting director to secure it. Ferran knew he wasn't the number one cause of the chaos at the club, but Mateo was close. Very close.
And yet—despite all that turmoil—at this very moment, the club president was speaking about Robert Lewandowski.
Ferran's eyes slid toward Laporta. He wanted answers. Some sort of reassurance. Instead, he saw Laporta's expression, patient and measured, the president's presence filling the quiet like smoke in a locked room. Their eyes met. Laporta's gaze lingered for a second, then, almost wearily, he sighed.
"You know," Laporta said at last, voice low but steady, "according to almost all reports, we are close to signing a contract with Mateo."
Ferran gave a slow nod, his jaw tightening. He wanted to believe it. He really did.
But then Laporta leaned forward, his face settling into a frankness that cut through the room.
"But we both know the truth," he continued. "Mateo's agent walked out on the talks. And as far as I know…" Laporta's voice grew colder, heavier. "…the agent is not responding to us."
Ferran stayed silent, his mind chewing on the weight of it.
Laporta did not let the silence linger. He straightened, and there was suddenly a different energy in him—something commanding, something impossible to look away from.
"Deco keeps insisting that things are in order," he went on, his words laced with both steel and honey. "But as president of this club, I cannot put all my eggs in one basket. Mateo is the priority, yes. But we cannot remain passive. We must move, we must plan, and we must fight on multiple fronts."
He had always been charismatic, but tonight there was something larger than life about him—something beyond charisma, beyond charm. He seemed to stretch taller than his actual frame, not because of weight or size, but because of presence, a force of will that seemed to swell out of him and fill every corner of Ferran's chest.
Laporta's voice dropped into a whisper, but the whisper burned hotter than any shout.
"Remember this, Ferran. We might be going through trying times. We might have to do unscrupulous things. We might lie, we might bend rules, we might gamble our reputations. But we must not fail. We are Barcelona. And Barcelona must remain at the summit of football."
It was a mad speech, half-whispered in a strange position, but it throbbed with conviction. And despite the oddness of the moment, Ferran felt his respect for Laporta grow and grow. The flame of admiration burned higher. Yes, he thought, smiling faintly to himself. Yes, he is the right man for this club. He is the only one who can carry us through.
While Ferran and Laporta, the CEO and the president, wrestled with pressing matters in less-than-ideal circumstances, the world outside was shifting into full theatre.
The banners were already unfurled, massive waves of color covering the stands. The songs of both sets of fans rolled like thunder, each chant more intoxicating, more desperate than the last. Screams ripped through the night, whistles pierced the air, and the referees stepped onto the pitch.
...
The atmosphere was tense, boiling, alive. The players emerged from the tunnel, hand in hand with academy kids, each step echoing with the gravity of legacy. They stood in their lines, still, reverent, as the opening chords of the UEFA anthem rang out across the Allianz Arena. The anthem swelled, regal and defiant, even as the away and home fans continued their own songs, Barcelona and Bayern's voices colliding like armies from the terraces.
The clock struck 8:59:20 pm. Forty seconds before kickoff.
Then came the voices—the silk and steel of Tony Jones and Guy Mowbray, taking over every English-speaking outlet in the world.
"Here we are," Tony began, his voice smooth but electric. "The quarter-finals of the Champions League. Bayern Munich versus Barcelona. The echoes of history are loud here tonight—who can forget the last time these two met at this stage? That brutal 8–2 demolition. But tonight, Barcelona come not for survival, but for revenge."
Guy's voice joined, sharper, grounding the theatre in fact. "And it's not just this match, Tony. Don't forget—Chelsea versus Porto is kicking off at the same time. But let's be clear: this is the heavyweight contest. This is the one the world tuned in for."
The camera panned to the team sheets, and Guy continued, steady and precise.
"Manuel Neuer captains Bayern, with Pavard, Boateng, Hernández, and Davies in defense. Kimmich and Alaba anchor the midfield, with Sané, Müller, and Coman providing the thrust behind Eric Maxim Choupo-Moting, who leads the line in the absence of Robert Lewandowski."
A beat of silence, the crowd roaring in the background, before Tony's voice cut in again.
"And here's Barcelona's response: Ter Stegen in goal, Piqué, and Lenglet across the back, Dest and Alba as wing-backs, Busquets screening, de Jong and Pedri in midfield. And then the magic: Messi free to roam, Griezmann tucked underneath, and the boy, the wonderkid, Mateo King—leading the line, the focal nine."
Guy's voice carried weight as he added, "Lewandowski's injury, just minutes before the match, would cripple almost any side. But Bayern will not see it as an excuse. If anything, it will harden them. This game has lost none of its edge."
Tony exhaled, the tension carrying into his words. "The nerves are taut. You can feel it in the air. Forty seconds to go and you could cut the pressure with a knife."
And then Guy said it, his tone shifting as the camera showed the players at the center circle.
"Look there—Choupo-Moting lining up to take the ball after Bayern won the toss. And just beside him, in the Barcelona half…"
The shot lingered on a young figure, bouncing on his heels, shadowboxing the air, energy surging through him like sparks.
Tony's voice cracked into excitement. "Well, one thing we can say for certain—Barcelona's wonderkid is all fired up. Mateo King is bouncing, restless, ready to go."
Guy followed quickly. "And why wouldn't he be? A hat-trick and a last-minute winner on his Champions League debut, dragging Barcelona through the Round of 16. He's the name on every lip in Spain, in Europe, across the world."
Tony let the pause hang, let the weight of it settle, before dropping the line like a spark into dynamite.
"Tonight, he doesn't just play Bayern Munich. After that little speech he had last time and his aspirations Tonight, Mateo King plays destiny."
.....
"Let's fucking gooooo!"
Mateo screamed in his head, his fists tightening at his sides, every nerve in his body buzzing like an overcharged wire. He stood on the pitch, his eyes locked on Choupo-Moting at the other end.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" he muttered inside, his thoughts stumbling over themselves as his chest heaved. He could feel the instability running through him—like he was on a rollercoaster he had no control over. Just minutes ago, he had been nervous to the point of nausea, then dizzy and lightheaded as the weight of the night pressed on him. Then Messi's quiet, fatherly words had steadied him, switched his nerves into something sharper—vigilance, focus.
But now, standing under the roar of the stadium, it was something else entirely.
Mateo's heart pounded—bam, bam, bam—so violently he thought it might burst out of his chest. His gaze darted around, over the trembling stands, over the banners and scarves, over the endless blur of blue and red. The fans were on fire, screaming until their throats ripped raw, their chants rattling the concrete.
And in the middle of it, Mateo's thoughts sharpened into a single string of fire: Yeah… football really is everything.
His blood was pure electricity now, coursing so fast he could barely breathe. He wasn't thinking about mistakes. He wasn't worried about failure. He wasn't nervous anymore. The fear had burned itself away.
All that was left was hunger.
Hunger for the ball. Hunger to run, to tear through the opposition, to carve his name into this night with his boots.
Mateo King was READY.
And the referee didn't betray that feeling. His whistle pierced the storm—sharp, shrill, final.
And the game began.
...
Mateo kept scanning, eyes darting left and right, his body alive with energy but his movements deceptively restrained. Every muscle in him screamed to unleash, to sprint at the ball, to harass defenders, to explode the way instinct demanded. But instinct wasn't his weapon tonight—control was. He knew if he burned himself too quickly, he would only be playing against himself. That was the boy he used to be. This, now, was different. Messi's words still echoed in his mind: wait, read, strike when it matters.
So he held himself back, shifting in shadows of the midfield. His breathing was steady, but his eyes—those gave him away. They were locked on the ball like a predator studying prey. He traced every pass, following it as it zipped between Bayern red: Sané tucking inside, Müller dropping deep, Kimmich receiving and recycling. Mateo's neck turned each time, his whole body drifting subtly with the rhythm, a puppet tied to the leather sphere.
But while he was watching, someone else was watching him.
From across the line, a pair of dark brown eyes had hardly blinked since kickoff. Alphonso Davies. His focus was absolute, sharpened by a single, blunt order from Hansi Flick:
"Stop Mateo King."
It wasn't normal. Davies knew it. He'd been drilled on Messi before, Mbappe before, even Neymar. But this time—this time was different. The coach had devoted entire tactical sessions to the 17-year-old kid standing in Barcelona blue. Diagrams, clips, instructions—King this, King that. The obsession said everything. Bayern Munich, European royalty, were worried. Not about a legend. Not about a Ballon d'Or winner. About a teenager. That alone told Davies how real the threat was.
And it only hardened his resolve. That's why I'm not letting you out of my sight.
His body leaned ever so slightly toward Mateo's zone, his positioning unnatural for a left-back. Tonight, Flick had released him centrally, giving him more freedom—but with chains attached. The chain was invisible, but its anchor was Mateo. Every step King took, Davies mirrored.
And yet… there was something else. Fascination. He could see it in how King moved—nothing reckless, nothing naïve. Davies had been 17 once too, and he remembered what it felt like: all speed, all instinct, no patience. Mateo wasn't that. This boy was different. He watched how Mateo didn't just look at the ball—he studied its trajectory, he cut angles without moving too much, he held his ground until the pass he wanted arrived. Intelligent. Too intelligent.
It only heightened the vigilance in Davies' eyes. The reports weren't lies. They had spoken of King's finishing, his dribbling, the violence of his shot. But in private, the staff had whispered about something far deadlier:
His speed.
For a team like Bayern, who lived and died by their aggressive high line, that was a nightmare. That was why Flick had marked Davies as his personal warden even playing him before davies was fully 100% fit back. King was a blade waiting to be unsheathed; Davies was the hand meant to keep it in its scabbard.
And so the two of them moved—King drifting with quiet calculation, Davies shadowing with hawk-like focus—while the rest of the pitch became a slow duel of patience.
Because strangely, the match betrayed all expectation.
...
Instead of two giants trading heavy blows, what unfolded in the opening quarter-hour was a muted sparring session. A careful chess match. Both sides circling, both sides calculating. The Allianz Arena roared around them, red flares burning from the Südkurve, the chants of "Super Bayern!" echoing through the steel and concrete, but on the grass, the game was cautious.
Tony's voice cut through:
"Two of Europe's great powers, but… they're measuring one another. Feeling one another out."
Guy hummed in agreement.
"Yeah, you can sense the respect. Bayern not overcommitting. Barcelona just recycling possession. Neither wants to be the first to blink."
The ball lived in the midfield. Sergio Busquets tapped and rolled it under pressure before laying off to Frenkie de Jong. Pedri, shoulders swiveling like a radar dish, turned past Müller before returning it safely. Messi, starved of space, dropped deep, collected from Lenglet, then—uncharacteristically—sent it straight back.
On the other side, Bayern played their own probing rhythm. Kimmich, the metronome, spread it left to Sané, who tried to dart inside before being met by Dest. Müller dropped in, flicking the ball to Goretzka, only to see it recycled back again. It was like two heavyweights pawing with jabs, waiting for the opening.
Sixteen minutes ticked by. No real shot. No decisive moment. Just possession, probing, patience.
Until it suddenly changed.
...
The rhythm of the game, once just a chaotic swirl of red and blue shirts, shifted into something sharper—dangerous. Bayern pressed with a fury that felt like a wall collapsing on top of Barcelona. Every touch was contested, every pass hunted down like prey. By the 16:35 minute, the ball broke loose in midfield, tumbling toward Pedri's boots.
He killed it with a velvet touch, but before he could breathe, two Bayern players were snapping at his heels—Kimmich lunging from one side, Goretzka crashing in from the other. Pedri's heartbeat spiked. For a second, he tried to hold, to twist away, but the pressure was suffocating, boots crashing, arms grabbing. He hissed through his teeth—
"Shit—"
There was no time. He stabbed the ball sideways toward Frenkie de Jong, even as his own momentum carried him off balance.
And yet, even as he passed, his eyes darted forward—and what he saw made his pulse thump louder. Bayern's high line was carved open like a canyon, their defenders perched almost arrogantly near the halfway mark. The space behind them gaped wide, like a trap begging to be sprung. It was an invitation, but one wrapped in danger. Because holding the ball long enough to exploit it? Against this Bayern press? Almost impossible.
Still—Pedri's chest boiled. This wasn't just a game for him. He could feel it in his blood, the sting of humiliation from last time against Bayern, that nightmare night burned into his memory. This time—this night—he wanted revenge. He wanted to prove himself. He wasn't going to remain a shadow in Messi's glow, or in the rising flame of Mateo King. He wanted to burn just as bright.
His eyes flicked forward again, and there—Mateo. The new fire of Barcelona, prowling between defenders, shoulders tense, ready to burst. For a heartbeat, Pedri's vision tunneled.
And then—it happened. Their eyes met.
Five seconds. That was all. But in those five seconds, words weren't needed. Mateo's look screamed, Now. Pedri's gaze answered, Yes. Now or never.
Pedri clenched his jaw and darted inward, timing his run perfectly as Messi dropped deeper, hounded by Bayern shirts. Two men crashed onto Messi, trying to suffocate him—but he refused to surrender the ball, using his body like a wall, shoulders low, hips swiveling.
Pedri didn't hesitate. He sprinted into the vacant channel, and Messi—always seeing, always knowing—spotted him. A flicker, a shimmy, and then the ball was whisked across to Pedri with surgical precision.
A shout pierced the night. Müller's voice, raw and urgent, clawed from behind screaming in thick german:
"STOP THERE!!"
But Pedri didn't even glance back. He could hear Müller's boots thundering closer, feel the rush of air as the veteran lunged. The ball descended toward him, spinning, begging to be controlled.
Pedri didn't wait. He refused to let it touch grass.
With a crack—a bang that echoed in the stadium—his foot met the ball in mid-air, striking it pure and clean.
And in that single instant, the whole match trembled.
Tony's voice tore into the roar:
"Ohhh, PEDRI! That is sensational! That is daring, that is defiance—Barcelona will not bow quietly in Munich!"
Guy gasped beside him:
"He's only a boy, but look at the courage! Look at the strike! That is the mark of someone who refuses to be forgotten tonight!"
The crowd exploded into chaos—half gasping, half roaring. Red shirts spun in shock, blue shirts surged with sudden belief. That single hit—before Müller's boot could crash into him, before the grass could even taste the ball—had turned everything on its head.
Mateo, who had been watching everything unfold, caught that brief glance with Pedri—just a spark, a flash of understanding—and instantly realized what was about to happen. No time for words. No time for signals. Just instinct. He dropped his shoulder and darted back into his own half, tearing away from the high defensive line like a man possessed. He had read the trap. He knew Bayern wanted him offside. He wasn't going to let them have it.
The moment Pedri drew back his boot, Mateo was already gone—legs pumping, chest forward, running with the raw hunger of a sprinter chasing his life's purpose. He didn't look up. He didn't need to. He knew the ball was coming. He felt it, almost as if the pitch itself whispered it into his bones.
"This is it," he thought. "This is the moment."
His eyes flicked up just once—to Neuer. The giant in grey stood tall, that unflinching wall of German steel, scanning like a hawk. Mateo's mind raced. Trap it. Drag it long. Then whip it top corner. That's the finish. That's how I kill him. That's how I write my name in this night.
The stadium roared—voices blending into a single wave of thunder. Every scream, every gasp, every chant from the stands burned into his skin. Commentary blasted through the speakers, voices straining with disbelief as the ball arced through the Parisian night.
Tony Jones (shouting): "PEDRI! Over the top, a stunning ball—MATEO KING IS THROUGH! HE'S AWAY!"
Guy Mowbray: "Oh my word, what a pass—this is it! This is the chance Barcelona dreamed of!"
Mateo's legs carried him like a bullet, each stride powered by something greater than fear, greater than nerves. He was already smiling, faintly, eyes alive. Football really is insane, ehn?
But then—his smile shattered.
"No way… no, no, no way."
Because from the very first whistle, even during his scouting, he had known. Someone was following him. A shadow. Alphonso Davies. The Canadian rocket. He knew Davies was fast, but he thought the suddenness of his movement, the timing of his break, would throw him off. He thought he'd shaken him.
He was wrong.
Davies was there. Step for step. Breathing down his neck.
"Shit… shit… what do I do now?"
Every calculation hit him at once—the drop zone was seconds away, Davies was close enough to smell blood. If Mateo tried to drift wide, Davies would smother him. If he tried to slow, Davies would eat him alive. His mind spun, overthinking, scrambling, panic bleeding into adrenaline.
Decision time.
"Fuck it."
Twenty-three yards from goal, instinct took over. Mateo swung his boot with venom, striking through the ball with every ounce of rage and glory in his veins.
BANG!
The ball screamed off his foot like a rocket, the air splitting. The stadium erupted.
Tony Jones: "HE'S GONE FOR IT! FROM DISTANCE—WHAT A HIT!!"
Guy Mowbray: "OH GOODNESS ME, THAT'S AUDACIOUS!"
At the exact same moment, Davies launched himself into a desperate clearance, his body flying like a blur of red and white. Mateo felt the Canadian clip him, and suddenly he was on the grass, falling hard, the shot already away.
And up ahead—Neuer.
The German captain scrambled, legs pounding, backpedaling furiously. For a moment, for a heartbeat, it looked destined. It looked impossible to stop. The ball curved, dipped, carrying death in its flight.
Neuer leapt.
A giant, sprawling save—palm stretching, fingertips straining—and with a slap of authority, he tipped it wide for a corner.
Guy Mowbray: "NEUER! UNBELIEVABLE! HE'S DENIED HIM!"
Tony Jones: "The pass, the strike—two volleys, perfection from Barcelona—and yet Manuel Neuer is still the last word!"
The stands exploded—half screaming in awe, half in agony.
Mateo slammed his fist into the turf, teeth clenched, spitting fury.
"Fuck!" he roared, chest heaving.
Beside him, Davies picked himself up with a grin, brushing dirt off his knees. He laughed—actually laughed.
"You're insane, kid. You really shot from there?"
Mateo turned his head, fire burning in his eyes. One word left his mouth, sharp as a blade:
"You."
Davies' grin widened.
"You speak English, right? I watched your CBS interview. Yeah, you do, ehn? Well—" he pointed at his chest—"you're fast, kid. Tough luck. I'm faster."
Mateo's eyes widened. He rose to his feet, blood hot, heart thundering.
"Oh really?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Let's put that to the test then, ehn."
And in that moment, the pitch shifted. This was no longer just football. This was something else.
Two speedsters. Two titans. Wally West vs Sonic the Hedgehog, reborn on grass. The world's fastest duel about to ignite under the Munich floodlights.
Tuesday, August 6th, 2021. Mateo King vs Alphonso Davies.
And the next chapter of chaos was only just beginning.
A/N
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