"Ooh, Madrid are getting destroyed! Madrid are getting destroyed!"
This wasn't a dream. Gavi, a die-hard anti-Madridista was in heaven in his dorm room, he really wasn't imagining it. No, this was very real, April 26th, 2021, Stamford Bridge, England, live on their contraband TV. The Champions League semi-finals were in full swing, Chelsea versus Real Madrid. The Gand was streaming the match via the PS5, their eyes glued to every play, their cheers and laughter filling the small dorm room.
By the 35th minute, Chelsea had already put Real Madrid to the test. After their fourth massive chance of the game, Mason Mount unleashed an insane strike from outside the box, netting Chelsea's second goal. 2-0. The scoreline, however, didn't fully capture the domination; Madrid were being methodically dismantled. And back in Barcelona, at La Masia, news of this spread like wildfire—it was practically a festival for the anti-Madrid faithful.
"Pft! Ha! Ha! Ha! Look at Benzema, ha ha ha… dude seems lost!" Gavi's laughter erupted, echoing around the room as he leaned closer to the TV, eyes wide in amusement.
he laughed so hard he doubled over, laughing, nearly spilling the soda he had perched on the side table. Casado, watching quietly but amused, shook his head with a grin. "Dude, I know you don't like Madrid, but this is… this is too far," he said, chuckling despite himself.
Balde, also watching, leaned back casually, arms crossed, smiling. "Yeah… plus, Benzema is a calm dude," he added, nodding like he was making a point.
Fermin snorted, rolling his eyes at Balde. "Dude, stop acting. You're only saying that because it's Benzema you like. We all know you're just as bad as Gavi and Mateo when it comes to hating Real Madrid."
"What?" Balde shot back, feigning offense, though his lips twitched in amusement.
"I know you follow him on Instagram, bro. Stop the cap," Fermin pressed, leaning closer with a smirk.
Gavi's head snapped from the screen. "Wait… really?" He stared Balde down like a detective uncovering a secret crime.
Balde felt all three pairs of eyes on him—Gavi, Fermin, and Casado—and he sighed, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine! Yes, I follow him," he admitted, voice low but with a hint of pride. "But it's only because he's… too clean, okay?"
Before anyone could tease him further, Balde pulled out his phone, already navigating Benzema's Instagram page. "Have you guys ever gone through his page? His fits are so clean," he said, eyes sparkling as he scrolled.
"Look!" he said, holding the phone up so everyone could see. Pictures of Benzema's sleek streetwear outfits, casual sneakers, and perfectly coordinated kits filled the screen. they all leaned in, Gavi nudged Casado, and even Fermin peered over, all of them momentarily distracted from the match.
The room erupted in a mixture of laughter and playful ribbing, teasing Balde for his "soft spot" for Benzema, while simultaneously reveling in Real Madrid's misfortune on the pitch. Despite the mockery, there was a warmth to it—a dynamic that only comes from years of friendship, the kind where teasing each other mercilessly is just another way of showing care.
Gavi, eyes still glued to the match, chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Man, you guys… I swear, every time Madrid lose, it's like Christmas in this room," he said, grabbing another slice of pizza they had ordered.
"Exactly!" Fermin shouted, raising his arms in victory. "And we've got front-row seats to the action! Best Champions League day ever."
Even Casado laughed, leaning back with a grin. "I swear, I came here for the game, but now I'm entertained by Balde's secret life more than anything else."
Balde rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his grin. "Shut up, man. The fits are clean. Benzema's IG doesn't lie."
And so, the night went on—laughter bouncing off the walls, shouts at the TV, playful jabs at one another, and a bond strengthened by inside jokes, shared passions, and years of unspoken camaraderie. In that small dorm room, streaming a football match across a banned TV.
Gavi pulled the phone away from his face, gently pushing Balde's hand aside as he scoffed. "Not gonna lie, it doesn't matter. As long as he still wears white, I'm biased as fuck," he said, shaking his head like the argument was already settled.
Then something clicked in his head. His eyes lit up. "Ooh, that reminds me—"
He started looking around the room exaggeratedly, hands on his hips. "Mateo? Mateo?" he called out, voice bouncing off the walls as if his roommate might magically appear from behind the wardrobe.
Balde, still scrolling through his phone lazily, barely looked up. "I don't think he's back yet," he said, distracted.
Before he could finish the sentence, the familiar secret knock echoed against the door. Three taps. A pause. Two more.
Gavi straightened instantly. "That should be him," he said, already on his feet.
The door swung open and Mateo stepped in, breath slightly uneven, hoodie half-zipped, clearly in a rush. Gavi was the first thing he saw. "Dropped the load with the movers," Mateo said quickly, already locking the door behind him. "I heard shouting from the staff rooms—what's the scoreline?"
He didn't even wait for an answer, already moving eagerly toward the TV, eyes scanning the screen like his life depended on it.
Gavi followed him, grinning. "You're gonna love it. First half's almost up and Madrid are already down two–nil."
Mateo froze mid-step. "No way," he muttered.
But there it was. Clear as day. 2–0. Chelsea still pressing, Madrid still scrambling, the commentators barely keeping up with the pace. Mateo stared at the screen, disbelief melting into something far more satisfying. A slow smile crept onto his face, the kind you couldn't suppress even if you tried.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Gavi said softly, sliding up beside him.
Mateo exhaled, eyes still locked on the screen. "Almost enough to make a grown man cry."
The two of them turned at the same time, looked at each other—and burst out laughing. Loud, unrestrained, the kind of laughter that comes from shared hatred and shared joy.
Casado watched them from his seat, shaking his head as he muttered, "I get that we're rivals and all, but you guys have an unnatural hate, man. It's not healthy."
Mateo waved him off without even looking away from the match. "You're too young to understand," he said casually. "Still uncultured."
Gavi, still laughing, nodded in agreement. "Yeah, yeah. You don't even know that the ultimate joy of loving football isn't watching your team win—"
He pointed at the screen dramatically.
"—it's watching your rival lose."
They dissolved into laughter again. Casado's lips twitched despite himself as he crossed his arms. "I'm older than you two punks," he muttered under his breath, sounding more offended than convincing.
They didn't even acknowledge him.
Gavi suddenly snapped his fingers. "Yeah—before I forget again—Mateo, how many goals are you on right now?"
Mateo didn't even glance away from the screen. "Uh… I think thirty-one now."
"No, I mean league goals," Gavi clarified.
Before Mateo could answer, Fermin cut in confidently, "Twenty goals."
Mateo nodded. "Yeah."
Gavi's grin spread slowly, dangerously, like he'd just found a weakness. He leaned closer, eyes gleaming.
"Benzema's on what—one goal above you on the league top scorer list, right?"
Balde heard that and immediately turned toward Mateo, narrowing his eyes slightly. "What are you thinking?" he asked, tone curious rather than accusatory.
Mateo finally pried his gaze away from the screen, rubbing his jaw as if the numbers were already lined up in his head. "Yeah… I guess Messi's first with twenty-seven. Then Gerard Moreno and Benzema are tied with twenty-one each. I'm after them with twenty goals, and Suárez is just one behind me."
The way he said it was calm, almost casual, but everyone in the room knew Mateo wasn't guessing. He never guessed when it came to numbers like that. Mateo was frighteningly familiar with his stats and rankings—not just in the league, but everywhere. Call it vanity or whatever, but he enjoyed knowing exactly where he stood. He checked his numbers the same way others checked social media.
In the Champions League too, he knew his place by heart. Third on the list. Seven goals. Just behind Mbappé with eight and Haaland with ten. And with both of them already out of the competition, Mateo knew—really knew—that catching them wasn't a fantasy. It was a possibility. A real one.
And it wasn't just about goals. His assists told their own story. In the league, he was already second with nine assists, only Messi above him with twelve. When you added everything together, it came out clean and ridiculous at the same time—twenty-seven goals and nine assists across all club competitions.
Numbers like that made people forget logic. Made people forget timelines. Clubs across Europe were already whispering again, pretending they didn't know he'd just signed a new contract with Barcelona. No details had leaked—not the length, not the salary, not the clauses. All anyone knew was that Mateo had only played twelve games to rack up those insane numbers. Twelve games. Seventeen years old. Still nowhere near his prime.
Even if the contract was massive, unless it came with one of those absurd, untouchable release clauses, nobody was ready to give up. Everyone knew what having someone like Mateo meant. Polish him properly. Let him grow. And you weren't just building a team—you were locking down a world-class attacking core for the next decade at least. It was the kind of prospect every club dreamed of and every sporting director quietly obsessed over.
"Wouldn't it be fun to pass Balde's fashion icon?" Gavi suddenly said, a grin spreading across his face as the thought amused him more and more.
Mateo just stared at him, confused, blinking once as he thought, Who the hell is Balde's fashion icon?
Then, just like that, the moment passed. The group of five friends turned their attention back to the screen, settling in again as they continued their hate-watch in comfortable, familiar silence.
…
"Come on."
The word wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be.
It came calmly, firmly, cutting through the low hum of the away dressing room like a knife through cloth.
Zidane stood in front of them, hands loosely on his hips, eyes moving slowly from face to face. There was no panic in him. No anger. Just that quiet authority that came from a man who had lived this moment more times than most of them could count.
"We've been here before," he said, voice even, almost reassuring. "This isn't new to us. We've gone behind away from home, we've been doubted, written off, buried before the second half even starts. And every single time, we answered."
He paused, letting it sink in.
"This," he continued, gesturing around the room, "this is routine for us. Pressure is routine. Hostile stadiums are routine. Nights like this are where we've built our careers. And we can do it again."
Some of the heads that had been hanging low slowly lifted.
Zidane stepped closer to the board, tapping it once.
"Defensively," he said, turning toward the back line, "we tighten it. No loose distances. No free runners between the lines. Sergio, you lead it—keep the line compact. If you have to be physical, be physical. Let them feel us every time they receive the ball."
Ramos gave a short nod, jaw clenched.
"Casemiro," Zidane added, eyes sharp now, "when they sit deep, don't hesitate. Take the shots when they open the lane. Make them step out. Force them to respect you."
Casemiro leaned forward slightly, absorbing every word.
"And Toni," Zidane said, turning his head, "I want you higher. More involved. Fewer backward passes. They're in front of us, not behind us. Move the ball forward. Move the attack."
Kroos met his gaze, calm but focused.
Then Zidane looked toward his forwards.
"Kari—" he began, and Benzema straightened instantly. "The press starts with you. You set the tone. Mark their first pass, force the mistake, make them uncomfortable from the very first second."
Benzema nodded once. He didn't need more.
Zidane's eyes shifted again.
"And you, Vini."
At the sound of his name, Vinícius snapped his head up. There was something raw in his eyes—hope, nerves, belief all tangled together. For a split second, it felt like he was waiting for a lecture, or a demand.
Zidane didn't raise his voice.
He didn't complicate it.
"Just pass the ball," he said simply. "When you reach the final third, just pass."
That was it.
No pressure. No burden. Just clarity.
While Zidane continued giving instructions, steady and composed, motivating the Real Madrid squad as they nursed their wounds in the away locker room at Stamford Bridge—two goals down, backs against the wall—there was one player sitting not too far from where he stood who felt completely detached from it all.
Unlike the others, who were getting massages, sipping water or energy drinks, taping ankles, or listening intently to the coach, this player barely moved.
He sat there, shoulders slumped, eyes facing forward toward Zidane—but he wasn't really seeing him.
He wasn't listening.
His mind was somewhere else entirely.
What am I doing?
Eden Hazard.
that Eden Hazard.
The one whose name once lived in the same conversations as Neymar, Lewandowski, Suárez. The one fans used to argue about, some even daring to place him just below Messi and Ronaldo. The one who, in this very stadium just a few years ago, had been adored, feared, unstoppable.
Now, sitting there, all of it came crashing down at once.
Every doubt. Every injury. Every whisper. Every joke.
Football was cruel like that. If you didn't show something tangible—sometimes in months, sometimes in just a few games—you became a punchline. And Hazard, nearly two years into something that felt worse than mediocrity, was drowning in it right now.
Right here.
The tunnel was chaos—raw, echoing, alive. Boots scraped against concrete, studs clicking in uneven rhythms as players shifted their weight, stretching, pacing, muttering. Staff shouted instructions over one another. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else swore. The air was thick with sweat, damp kits, and tension that clung to the walls.
From above, the sound spilled down like a flood. The home fans were already at it—jeers crashing through the tunnel mouth, voices overlapping into one cruel chorus.
"We didn't need you!"
"Enjoy Real Madrid!"
"We didn't need you—enjoy Real Madrid!" [I want to clarify that I know Chelsea fans always showed respect to Hazard and never mocked him. This part is purely fictional for the story's plot. I sincerely apologize to any Chelsea fan who might feel hurt or misrepresented.]
The chant was familiar. yet painfully unfamiliar. It bounced off the concrete and drilled straight into him.
Hazard stood there, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at nothing. Each word hit heavier than the last. His heart sank lower with every repetition, the noise shrinking him, making the tunnel feel narrower, tighter. He felt small. Smaller than he had in years.
The second half was about to begin—and for the first time, a terrifying thought crept in.
Can I actually do this?
A few hours ago, he'd been stocked with energy. Properly buzzing. He'd told himself this was the night. Even though he had been far from his best this season, it was still better than last season—at least this year his body had held up. Very few injuries. Over 30 games played already. The stats weren't something to praise, no—but his body was healthy. And as long as his body was healthy, he believed.
Believed he could turn it around.
Believed that Chelsea—his former club—would be the stage where he told the world:
That Eden Hazard. That man you all feared. That man you respected. He is back.
But instead of that, the exact opposite was happening.
"When doesn't the gaffer sub Vini? I have said it before, that guy is playing against us."
The words drifted into his ears almost accidentally, catching him while he was wallowing. Hazard's head tilted slightly, his eyes shifting as he looked back. It was Benzema. Kroos beside him. The two of them talking casually, almost lazily, as if this was just another halftime complaint.
Hazard pretended he wasn't listening—but his ears opened wider.
"I'm telling you, that dude is playing against us. During the first half I had a clear chance. I was open. And he tried dribbling. I mean—who does that? It was a clear goal."
Hazard's chest tightened. That should be Benzema, he thought bitterly. The frustration in the voice was unmistakable.
Then the second voice cut in, calmer, lower.
"You better stop it. If it leaks you're talking like this again, the club would be upset."
There was a brief pause. Benzema just grunted in response.
Kroos continued, his tone shifting slightly. "Besides… he isn't the one I'm even worried about. What of the guy who just came here to eat and rest?"
Hazard didn't know why—but his back tensed instantly. His shoulders stiffened. His stomach dropped.
That's me.
He was sure of it.
So lost in the thought, so deep in that sinking feeling, he barely registered the referee's voice cutting through the noise.
"Alright—let's go! Second half, now!"
Players began moving. Boots shuffled forward. Someone clapped. Someone shouted back toward the pitch.
Hazard reacted late. He staggered a step, snapping back into the moment just as Benzema glanced at him.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah—uh… yeah," Hazard stammered, forcing a nod.
And then he stepped out onto the field—straight into the mocking laughs, the jeers, the chants crashing down on him all over again.
…
"They are back."
"Hmm."
High above the pitch, at the highest viewing point of the stadium, inside the presidential suite, Roman Abramovich spoke without taking his eyes off the field. Below, the players were filing back onto the grass to begin the second half. Beside him stood Florentino Pérez, equally still, equally unreadable.
Despite the fact that Chelsea were winning, Roman's face carried the same calm, carved expression as Pérez's. It wasn't friendliness that bound the moment between them, nor rivalry either. It was recognition. Two billionaires at the very top of their world, both silent, both thinking far beyond the ninety minutes below.
Roman's thoughts had little to do with tactics or substitutions. A few days earlier, a discreet message had reached him from his people back home in Russia. It hinted at movements, plans, and decisions being shaped far above the level of ministers and press conferences. On the surface, it had nothing to do with football. But Roman knew better. For men like him, nothing was ever isolated. Money, power, politics—everything bled into everything else. As he watched the players jog into position, his mind worked coldly through contingencies, assets, exits, and shields. How to protect what he owned when the ground itself might soon begin to shift.
Pérez, on the other hand, was untroubled by such distant storms. His business empire was stable, flourishing even. As chairman and CEO of Grupo ACS, one of the world's largest construction giants, he operated from Spain—predictable, controlled, secure. No, his unrest came from a far more familiar source. Just like always, his problems wore white.
What's going on? he thought sharply. They don't even have a single shot on target yet.
Fifteen minutes had already passed since the restart. Madrid were two goals down, and still nothing—no real threat, no clear attempt. Pérez leaned forward slightly as he noticed a sudden change below. Madrid were finally building something. His hand tightened around the edge of his seat, fingers pressing into the leather as if trying to will the play forward.
The ball broke loose, and Vinícius Júnior surged onto it, accelerating down the flank. Pérez's posture stiffened. Vinícius pushed the ball ahead, his strides long and urgent, slipping past Ben Chilwell with raw pace. The crowd noise rose. Ahead of him, Karim Benzema and Eden Hazard began their runs, arms gesturing, voices calling.
Pérez leaned further forward now, breath caught halfway in his chest. Now. Now. Benzema was screaming for the pass. The lane was there—brief, fragile. Vinícius hesitated. A fraction too long. One extra touch. One thought too many.
From nowhere, Antonio Rüdiger thundered across, his timing brutal and perfect. He smashed into Vinícius just as the ball was about to leave his foot, muscling him aside, killing the move in an instant. The chance was gone.
What is he doing?
The words burned through Pérez's mind, sharp and furious, though his face remained composed, almost bored. Below, Vinícius scrambled back to his feet, throwing his hands up, apologizing, frustration written all over him. Pérez watched him with a gaze that darkened rather than softened.
Vinícius had been his decision. Pérez remembered the sting of losing Neymar years earlier, the regret of watching that talent slip away. He had sworn not to repeat that mistake. That was why, when Vinícius was only sixteen, he had authorized the €45 million without hesitation—paying it knowing full well the boy would have to wait nearly a year before he was even allowed to set foot in Spain.
but Florentino Pérez was satisfied—to a point. He had poured resources into the kid, time, patience, protection. Year after year he had watched Vinícius Júnior grow, stumble, rise again. The rawness was still there, the hesitation in decisive moments, the tendency to think instead of act—but Pérez was not blind. Anyone with eyes could see the talent. That was why he had shielded him, why he had instructed coaches to keep playing him, to temper him, polish him, let him burn through mistakes in white instead of elsewhere.
Normally, that would have been enough. Normally, Pérez would have waited longer. Another year. Maybe two.
But these past months had changed everything.
It had been over four years since he bought Vinícius. Three full seasons of real minutes, real pressure, real responsibility. Patience, once a virtue, had started to feel like a luxury he could no longer afford. Not now. Not after what he had seen.
A kid—three years younger—had blossomed without excuses, without a runway, without careful handling. No tempering. No easing in. Just results. Immediate. Ruthless.
Mateo King.
Thrown into a worse team, mid-season, chaos all around him—and he had shined anyway. Pérez's jaw tightened slightly at the thought. That was the difference. That was what irritated him most. He didn't want to wait anymore. He didn't need to. He wanted impact. Now. Especially now.
For a brief moment, his thoughts drifted—uninvited but unavoidable—toward the Super League project. When the news finally broke in full, not just whispers and leaks, he knew the backlash would be brutal. He didn't care. Public outrage had never scared him. What mattered was leverage. One thing only: the Madrid fanbase. He needed them behind him. And the formula was simple. Win. Matches. Trophies. Glory. Show them this wasn't fear, wasn't desperation—but dominance. Show them what Real Madrid meant. Kings of the sport.
That was why, despite Joan Laporta's insistence, Pérez had continued postponing the announcement, much to Laporta's irritation. Timing was everything.
He couldn't say it like this. Not in a season that was slipping away, where silverware looked distant. But dragging it too long was dangerous too. Partners hesitated. Convictions weakened. Minds changed. Pérez knew the balance. At the latest, it had to be before the season ended.
His gaze dropped back to the pitch, and a single thought cut through him—
Was I wrong letting him go in 2018?
The thought barely lasted a second. He shook it off almost immediately, a sharp, dismissive motion. No. He wouldn't look backward. What was done was done. The past didn't win titles. The future did.
And the future, to Pérez, was already clear.
He didn't need long to decide. He knew exactly how to turn the club around. The same policy that had built dynasties. The same philosophy that had given them the Galácticos. That had delivered the threepeat.
He was going to buy.
Even Eden Hazard, running aimlessly now, a heavy investment gone wrong, didn't deter him in the slightest. Money was a tool. Mistakes were inevitable. The solution was never restraint—it was renewal. New blood. New fire.
And he knew exactly where to start. He knew exactly who he wanted. The man who could carry Madrid legacy on his back and deliver all expectations with perfection.
As that thought settled, a small grin crept onto Pérez's face. His eyes remained on the field, calm, unreadable—but his mind was already elsewhere, already shaping the future.
…
The commentators could barely hide the disbelief in their voices as the final whistle echoed through the night.
What a game this had been. What a statement. Chelsea, disciplined, ruthless, unapologetic, had beaten the Kings of Europe 2–0. Not scraped past them. Not survived them. Beaten them. Every pass sharper. Every duel hungrier. Every mistake from Madrid punished without mercy. If not for the fact that Madrid had this aura that allowed teams to inexplicable miss chances against them this match scoreline would have been one for the ages.
Around Stamford Bridge, the silence was deafening. Not the silence of respect, but the silence of shock. White shirts stood frozen, hands on hips, heads bowed, eyes lost somewhere between disbelief and dread. This was not how European royalty were supposed to fall.
But football, the commentators reminded everyone, had a cruel sense of timing. This was only the first act. The tie wasn't dead. Not yet. It would all be settled next week, Wednesday night, under the lights of the Santiago Bernabéu.
"Ha ha ha."
The sound burst out suddenly in the dorm room, loud and unfiltered.
Mateo and Gavi were leaned back on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, laughter spilling out of them as the camera zoomed in on the dejected faces of Madrid players trudging off the pitch. Around them, Balde, Fermín, and Casadó all wore wide smiles, some shaking their heads, some clapping sarcastically at the screen.
Mid-laugh, Mateo suddenly shot up from his seat.
"What a glorious hate watch!" he shouted, throwing his hands up before breaking into laughter all over again.
Almost immediately, his stomach growled.
"Man… I'm hungry," Mateo added, rubbing his belly.
Gavi, still laughing, wiped a tear from his eye and said, "Would the café still be open by now?"
Mateo shook his head dramatically. "Who needs that?" he said, already moving toward the fridge. "Where's the food my grandma brought?"
Balde leaned forward. "It should be there, but guy, it remains small. Let's share it, I'm also hungry."
Mateo paused, opened the fridge, and tilted his head. "What was that?" he said loudly. "I can't hear you."
He pulled the container out anyway, shutting the fridge with his foot, already slipping his slides on.
As he headed toward the door, Balde jumped up, hurriedly shoving his own slippers on. "Mateo, stop. Serious, I'm hungry."
Mateo broke into a grin and suddenly sped up, almost running out into the hallway.
"HEY—COME BACK!" Balde shouted, chasing after him, slippers slapping loudly against the floor.
Mateo zigzagged through the hall, laughter overflowing, nearly dropping the container as Balde lunged for him, missing by inches. Chairs scraped, doors rattled, and somewhere behind them the dorm "mother" was already screaming at the two troublemakers to stop running immediately.
Their laughter echoed down the corridor.
A couple of streets down, something very different was happening.
Inside a bus parked in the underground lot of a nearby five-star hotel, the engine finally cut off. The doors hissed open.
"Okay, team," a voice said calmly but firmly. Instructions followed with practiced clarity. Everyone needed to be ready by 8 a.m., on time, no excuses. They would head straight to the Ciutat Esportiva Dani Jarque for light training, nothing intense, just movement, sharpness, focus. Then by 3 p.m., they'd head to Camp Nou—to feel the pitch, to familiarize themselves with the space, the grass, the atmosphere. No overthinking. The match was tomorrow. Rest tonight. Sleep early.
One by one, the players stood, grabbing bags, stretching stiff legs, stepping off the bus. Some chatted quietly, some yawned, some laughed softly, the kind of laughter that came from routine more than joy.
Last to step down was the man who'd been speaking.
He paused at the bottom of the steps.
A wide smile spread across his face as he looked around, taking it all in. He drew in a deep breath, slow and satisfied, and said quietly, almost to himself:
"It's good to be back home."