"Look at the crowd… this is insane," Mateo muttered under his breath as he and Pedri leaned closer to the window, their reflections faintly visible in the glass.
Outside, the streets were already overflowing. It wasn't just a crowd—it was a living, breathing wave of people. Thousands upon thousands pressed together, bodies rubbing shoulder to shoulder, voices crashing into each other in one endless roar. Flags were everywhere, blaugrana colors whipping violently in the air, flares burning bright and staining the night sky with smoke and light. Faces were painted, some half-blue, half-red, others fully covered, eyes wild, mouths open mid-chant. People screamed until their voices cracked, some jumping in place, others pounding on the sides of the barriers, veins popping in their necks. Mateo even saw fans climbing onto poles and railings, balancing like it was nothing, while others rode on friends' shoulders just to get a better view of the bus.
Banners stretched across entire sections of the street. Some were messy, hand-painted, others clearly planned days in advance. Mateo's breath hitched when he noticed how many of them had his name on it—bold letters spelling MATEO, drawings of him mid-run, mid-celebration, his number scribbled everywhere. He swallowed hard. Even Pedri, smaller beside him, quietly pointed out a few banners with his own name, shaking his head with a shy smile like he couldn't quite believe it either.
Just behind them, Jordi Alba leaned forward in his seat, peering past their shoulders before letting out a small chuckle. "Well, it's the Champions League semi-finals to be fair," he said calmly. "Crowds go crazy on nights like this. Last Champions League game at home. By the way this is small Just wait till we reach the stadium side."
Mateo glanced at Alba for a moment, catching the way the fullback kept his eyes fixed outside, his expression unreadable but focused, like he'd seen this a hundred times and still respected it every single one. Mateo turned back to the window and muttered quietly, almost to himself, "The last Champions League game at home…"
As the bus rolled forward, inching closer to Camp Nou, the noise only grew louder. The chants became clearer, sharper, more aggressive. The air felt heavier, charged. Fans were now right up against the road, banging on the sides of the bus, sprinting alongside it for a few seconds before falling back into the mass. Mateo started noticing even wilder sights—guys on stilts towering over everyone else, easily ten feet tall, waving flags from above the crowd like giants. Others Climbed lamps, Buildings, some running after the bus, some laughing, some screaming, some crying all at once.
His heart began to pound harder with every meter they moved. Not just as a player—but as a fan of the club too. He understood it now. Why they were this loud. Why they were this desperate. Why this night meant everything. The energy seeped into him, settling his nerves even as it tightened his chest.
This was the fucking Champions League semi-finals.
Three matches away from club glory. One round away from standing on a stage so many great players never even touched. Legends like Francesco Totti. Antonio Di Natale. Even freaking Maradona had never reached this point. And yet here he was—about to step into that moment, to carry that weight for his club.
As the bus turned onto the final street leading to Camp Nou, the sound exploded, dwarfing everything that came before it. His emotions crashed into him all at once—fear, anxiety, nerves, disbelief, responsibility, pride—but even combined, everything got dwarfed by his excitement.
Mateo started becoming ecstatic. On the surface, his face was calm, almost distant, his expression locked in a dazed stillness that gave nothing away. Anyone looking at him would have thought he was composed, maybe even detached. But his heart betrayed everything—hammering violently in his chest, beating so fast it felt like it might tear straight through him, close to three times per second. In that moment, everything else fell away. The anxiety vanished without a trace. The responsibility he carried for the club evaporated like it had never existed. His coach's trust in him slipped from his thoughts, distant and irrelevant. The pressure of wanting to impress his family, soon to be watching from the stands, dissolved. The weight of the fans' expectations faded into nothing. Even Messi's dream—the one he had carried in his heart for so long since that day, the one that had shaped his path ever since it was spoken to him—quietly moved to the back seat of his mind.
More than that—more than all of it—Mateo just wanted to touch the field. Right now. This instant.
He wanted to feel the grass under his boots, to hear the raw sound of the crowd without glass or metal separating him from it. Mateo just wanted to play ball. To be out there, under the lights, on a stage that had denied so many greats before him, surrounded by this madness, this atmosphere. To score—oh, to score. The thought alone made his chest tighten, his breath catch. He couldn't even properly imagine it, couldn't form the picture without his heart racing all over again.
At this moment, Mateo wasn't a prodigy. He wasn't a responsibility. He wasn't a symbol or a future leader or a name painted across banners. He was just a kid who wanted to play his favorite sport. A kid who had fallen in love with a ball long before expectations, pressure, or legacy ever existed. His eyes gleamed despite his effort to stay composed, a quiet, uncontrollable glee flickering in them—pure, unfiltered joy threatening to spill over.
…
"Alright guys, listen up."
"When we get in: straight to the dressing room."
"You'll have five minutes for autographs and photos."
"Media zone is optional — no pressure."
"Anyone not feeling right, tell the physios immediately."
"Kick-off is at nine, warm-up at 7:50."
The voice cut cleanly through the hum of the bus. As it slowed to a final halt, the team manager—the boss of the player services office Mateo had been in earlier that day—stood near the front aisle, clipboard in hand, flanked by a couple of liaison members already scanning the surroundings outside. Their tones were firm but familiar, routine instructions delivered on a night that was anything but routine. The engine idled beneath them, vibrating through the floor, while the noise from outside pressed against the windows like a living thing, muffled but relentless.
Mateo finally pulled his eyes away from the window. He exhaled slowly, then reached over and tapped Pedri lightly on the arm. Pedri hadn't moved an inch since the bus slowed—still staring out, eyes wide, locked onto the endless mass of people outside. Painted faces, raised scarves, flashing lights. It took him a second to register the tap. He turned toward Mateo, blinking, like someone waking from a deep thought.
Mateo didn't say a word. He simply tilted his head forward and gestured subtly toward the front of the bus, where the team manager was still talking. Pedri followed the gesture, then let out a quiet breath, a half-smile creeping onto his face.
"Oh… we've arrived," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, his voice giving away how far gone his thoughts had been.
The aisle began to stir as players rose from their seats. Bags were pulled down, headphones removed. One by one, they started moving toward the exit, each player wrapped in his own silence, his own headspace. At the door, Koeman stood waiting, tall and steady, watching them pass. As each player stepped down, he spoke calmly, evenly.
"We've done the work. Trust it."
"Enjoy it. Nights like this are why you play."
Some nodded. Some didn't respond at all. Every face carried something different—focus, nerves, hunger—but no one lingered.
Then it was Mateo's turn. He reached the door, one foot planted on the top step, the noise outside now loud enough to feel in his chest. Koeman reached out and placed a hand on Mateo's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. He leaned in just slightly, his voice softer now, meant only for him.
"Let's do this."
Mateo didn't look at him. He simply nodded once, sharp and certain, and took the last step forward, stepping outside.
At first it was small. Muted. The thick glass and metal of the bus had been taming the noise, pressing the screams down into something distant and contained. Mateo had been half right about that—the walls really had softened it, turned the chaos outside into a low, constant roar that vibrated more than it screamed. But none of it prepared him for what happened once the doors opened.
The moment the first players stepped down, the sound swelled. Not gradually—violently. Like a wave crashing against a breakwater that suddenly wasn't there anymore. And when Mateo came into view, when his boots touched the steps and his face appeared under the floodlights, the noise didn't just rise.
It exploded.
The screams slammed into him so hard his ears rang, the sound briefly dissolving into a sharp, numbing pressure before resolving back into individual voices, chants, shouts all stacked on top of each other. It was overwhelming, dizzying. Mateo blinked, walking forward almost on instinct, his eyes scanning the scene as his body moved through it.
Fans were screaming themselves hoarse, crushing their bodies against the barricades, hands stretched out desperately, faces painted, veins popping in their necks as security guards strained to hold the line. Flags waved violently in the air, banners shook, phones were raised so high it looked like a field of stars had descended to ground level.
"Mateo! Let's destroy City! Hat trick!"
"Visca Barça!"
"Mateo! Mateo! Mateo!"
The chants overlapped, collided, drowned each other out. Somewhere to his side, he saw familiar figures—Piqué pausing to sign a shirt, De Jong scribbling his name across a notebook, a few others half-smiling as they answered quick questions from reporters shoved dangerously close by the media scrum. Cameras flashed relentlessly, capturing every step, every glance.
Mateo moved through it all in a daze, the world feeling unreal, distant, like he was watching himself from somewhere behind his own eyes.
Then he felt a light weight settle against his back.
Pedri leaned in slightly, close enough that Mateo could hear him over the chaos.
"Dude," he said, his voice half-laughing, half-breathless, "this is insane."
Mateo turned his head a little, about to respond, still trying to process how different this felt compared to watching it through the bus window. But before he could say anything, Pedri tapped him again, sharper this time.
"What's that—no way."
Mateo followed Pedri's line of sight, his eyes lifting toward where he was pointing. And there, just ahead, stood a group of fans that felt different from the rest. No club flags waving wildly, no generic banners lost in the sea of blaugrana. Everything about them—what they wore, what they held up, the way they shouted—made it unmistakably clear.
They weren't just Barcelona fans.
They were his.
Mateo King's fans.
Clearly, Mateo already knew he had a fast-growing, almost frightening fanbase inside the club. Sarah reminded him of it all the time, and his Instagram numbers reflected it clearly enough—followers climbing by the hour, edits flooding his mentions, comments calling him the future. But this… this was different. This wasn't digital. This wasn't distant. This was flesh and voice and breath, right in front of him.
These weren't just Barça supporters who liked him. These were his fans.
They stood together as a unit, unmistakable even from a distance. Some wore custom shirts with his name stretched boldly across the back, others had scarves that weren't official merchandise at all—handmade, stitched, painted. A massive banner hung above them, so wide it took several people to hold it steady. It showed the frozen image of his last-minute goal celebration against Bayern: Mateo mid-celebration, arms wide, mouth open in a roar, the crowd around him a blur of chaos. Underneath it, in thick blue and red letters, were the words "El Futuro Ya Está Aquí."
At the very front stood a group of guys without shirts, their chests bare, stomachs painted in thick, uneven strokes. Each had a single letter splashed across their belly, and when they stood shoulder to shoulder, it spelled out his name clearly.
M A T E O K I N G.
They were bouncing, shouting, veins bulging, completely unashamed. Flags waved behind them—not just Barça flags, but custom ones with crowns, initials, and his silhouette printed across the fabric. Phones were raised, but many of them weren't even recording. They were just screaming. Living in it.
Mateo slowed without realizing it. His steps faltered for half a second as the weight of it hit him properly. Shock flickered across his face—real, unfiltered. His eyes widened slightly as he took them in, as if he needed to be sure he wasn't imagining it.
Then he heard them.
A chant rose from that section, sharp and coordinated, cutting through the noise around it like a blade. A middle-aged woman stood at the front, scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, hair tied back, eyes blazing with pride. She led them with her whole chest, arms pumping, voice commanding—but she wasn't the one answering.
That was the crowd.
Shout: "Who is he?"
Reply: "MA-TE-O!"
Shout: "Where's he from?"
Reply: "LA MASIA!"
Shout: "What is he giving us?"
Reply: "THE FUTURE!"
Shout: "When do we want it?"
Reply: "RIGHT NOW!"
Shout: "Against who?"
Reply: "MANCHESTER CITY!"
All together, fast and deafening, voices crashing into one another:
"Hat-trick loading!
Our fu-ture King!"
Mateo stopped just a few steps away from them, frozen for a moment as the chant washed over him. The air vibrated with energy, and the force of their voices made the hairs on his arms stand on end. At the very front, a lady who looked to be around his mother's age stood with her arms raised, directing the chant with every ounce of authority she had. Her voice carried above the roar, guiding the cadence of their shouts, and Mateo couldn't help but admire her intensity.
After a brief pause, she leaned forward and screamed, "1, 2, 3—GO!"
In unison, every single person in that section shouted back, their voices a tidal wave:
"OUR FUTURE, OUR PRIDE, OUR KING, WE LOVE YOU MATEO KING!"
Mateo's face lit up in an incredible, wide smile, so bright it seemed to catch the sunlight. Without hesitation, he took a step closer to them, throwing his arms slightly out as he shouted back, "I LOVE YOU TOO!"
That single movement and shout acted like a spark in dry tinder. The crowd surged forward instantly, their semblance of controlled order vanishing in an instant. The energy around him exploded. Fans screamed individually, their voices overlapping in chaotic harmony:
"I love you Mateo!"
"Mateo, please help me sign this!"
"When would you come to your parents' restaurant? I go there every day!"
"Mateo Ballon d'Or, let's do this!"
"Can you do this celebration when you score?"
"Mateo, here, here!"
"Please follow me on IG!"
"Take a selfie! Take a selfie!"
"Mateo, what happened to your hair?"
Security guards scrambled, trying to hold them back, but it was like trying to restrain a tidal wave. Even the middle-aged woman at the front was screaming, waving her arms, "Wait! Wait! Calm down!" but the fans ignored her, surging forward relentlessly, their eyes fixed on Mateo like he was the center of the universe.
Mateo took a deep breath and stepped forward into the wave of energy, raising his hands slightly to signal calm. "Hey! Hey! Calm down, everyone! I'll sign everything, no worries, okay?" His voice carried over the chaos, firm but warm. Slowly, gradually, the crowd started to ebb, their shouts softening just enough for him to be heard clearly.
"Thank you! Please, don't injure yourselves!" Mateo continued, his tone gentle but commanding. "Also… I loved your chants. Thank you all!"
The words ignited the crowd again, this time with a different kind of joy. Cheers erupted, louder than before, but filled with awe and admiration rather than chaos. Voices shouted over one another, trembling with excitement:
"Did you hear that? Mateo said he loved me!"
"Hey dude calm down, he said it to us all!"
"I love you too, Mateo!"
Mateo's smile grew even wider, his heart pounding with a mixture of glee, disbelief, and pure happiness as he stood there, surrounded by the undeniable, electric love of his fans.
Mateo spent the next several minutes fully immersed in the chaos and the joy, moving from fan to fan, signing jerseys, notebooks, and scarves, taking selfies and group pictures, answering questions as best he could. Every interaction carried a spark—each "thank you" and "good luck" only fueled his energy more. He laughed at some of the more outrageous requests, posed for selfies with small kids who looked like they'd just been swept off their feet by the excitement, and tried to keep pace with the sheer number of fans who wanted just a moment of his attention.
Finally, as he signed one last item, he looked up and said, "Thanks for supporting me!" His gaze fell on the woman who had led the chants, standing boldly at the front, her energy unbroken by the surging crowd. She stepped forward, waving her hands emphatically, her eyes bright with admiration.
"Mateo! I'm Marisol!" she said, her voice carrying across the small space between them. "I've been following you since that hat-trick against Huesca! Every game since then—I've watched every single one even all your la Masia matches. Well… almost every one. I couldn't find your La Masia matches from below U13, but everything after that I watched them!" She held up a scarf covered in his name and photos, practically vibrating with excitement. "I even made a fan page for you—it's already got over four thousand members!"
Mateo blinked, stunned, unable to hide his amazement. "Four thousand? Wow… that's incredible. Thank you, Marisol." he said, signing her scarf carefully. She kept talking as he signed, her words pouring out in an unstoppable stream, and he laughed quietly, shaking his head in disbelief at her dedication.
Suddenly, someone from the staff lightly tapped him on the shoulder. "Mateo, we need to start going."
"Already?" he muttered, glancing at the staff member, who just nodded.
Marisol, still holding a stack of items she had brought for him to sign, finally paused. Mateo turned toward her, handing back her scarf, and said warmly, "Thanks for everything, Marisol. I loved the chant—bye!"
She froze, clutching the scarf tightly to her chest, muttering under her breath, "I'm glad you like the chant… I made it myself… wait… he knows my name!" The press of the crowd pressed around her, pushing and jostling, but she barely noticed as Mateo moved away, the fans' screams trailing behind him like a roaring tide.
Mateo heard the continuing cheers, the shouts, and the calls of reporters, but he chose to ignore them for now. He couldn't stop for every fan, as much as he wanted to. His heart was still racing, the rush of excitement amplified by Marisol and the other fans' devotion. This was a new experience—being celebrated not just as a Barcelona player, but as him, Mateo King, for everything he had accomplished and the promise he carried. Even knowing someone had followed his La Masia days left him breathless.
With that joy and gratitude fueling him, Mateo kept walking forward toward the locker room, weaving past the screaming fans and persistent reporters. The smile on his face lingered, a bright, unwavering light, as he started locking in mentally for the game ahead.
...
"Hey… so I can't make it tonight. Maria and Marius will be there, but Valentina and I will watch from here. Good luck — do your best."
The message sat there on the screen, unmoving, its soft glow reflected faintly in the glass of the Manchester City bus window. On the other side of the arrival zone, the Barcelona players had already disappeared into the stadium, swallowed whole by noise, cameras, and color. Here, inside the City bus, the atmosphere was quieter—muted, restrained—but heavy in its own way.
He kept staring at the message longer than he needed to. Long enough for the noise outside to fade into something distant. Long enough for the weight of the night to settle deeper into his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen as if he might type something else, something longer, something that explained more than good luck. But he didn't. He simply locked the phone and let it rest in his palm.
"Boss… hey, boss."
The voice cut through his thoughts.
He blinked once, then again, snapping back to the present as he turned his head slightly. His eyes found the assistant standing in the aisle, concern flickering across his face at having to call him more than once.
"Juanma," he muttered, the name slipping out almost absentmindedly, his tone still distant, as if part of him was somewhere else entirely.
Juanma leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. "The Barcelona staff just informed us we can start entering. Their players have already gone in."
For a moment, he simply absorbed the words. Then he gave a small, firm nod, the kind that signaled the switch had flipped. The private weight of the message was pushed aside, tucked away where it could no longer interfere.
He straightened in his seat, squared his shoulders, and lifted his gaze from the floor.
Then he looked toward the players.
He didn't raise his voice at first.
Instead, he stood up slowly, the aisle of the bus suddenly feeling narrower as every eye drifted toward him. There was something heavy in his posture—not weakness, not doubt—but a quiet melancholy that made the players straighten without even realizing it. Conversations died instantly. Phones were slipped into pockets. Hearts began to thump a little harder.
He took a few steps forward, stopping near the middle of the bus, one hand gripping the seatback as if grounding himself.
"I know… I know," he began, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What does this man have to say again, eh?" A few players exhaled through their noses, barely smiles. "What now? Hasn't he talked enough already?"
He shook his head lightly, pacing a step to the left, then another to the right, eyes moving from face to face.
"I know I have said it all," he continued, softer now. "And I know you have listened. Every time."
He stopped walking.
Then he turned back to them, eyes suddenly sharper, voice steadier.
"But tonight," he said, lifting a finger slightly, "I would like to tell you one more story. Just one."
A pause.
"Please… listen."
The bus was silent. You could hear breathing. You could hear the hum of the engine.
"It starts like this," he said, beginning to move again, his hands coming alive now, shaping the air as he spoke. "Imagine a small boy. A nobody. A ball boy… in his own country." He gestured low, almost to the floor. "Small country. Big dreams. Always watching. Always running after the ball when it went out."
He smiled faintly, but his eyes were far away.
"He fell in love with football. Fell in love with one club." His hand pressed briefly to his chest. "So he worked. He worked and worked and worked. He clawed. He fought. And when he was thirteen years old, they let him into the academy."
He took another step forward.
"More work. More sacrifice. More pain." His voice grew firmer. "Until one day—he makes it. He plays for the first team. His team. The one in his heart."
A few players swallowed. Someone's leg bounced uncontrollably.
"And he stayed," he went on. "Many years. Even when his legs were gone, when he could no longer play… he stayed." He pointed backward now, then forward. "He joined the staff. He learned. He failed. He worked again. And again. And again."
His pace slowed.
"And after everything," he said quietly, "he became a manager. Thirty-seven years old."
He stopped completely.
The silence was crushing.
Then he lifted his head, eyes glinting, voice dropping into something darker.
"And in four years," he said, each word deliberate, "he destroyed the sport he loved."
No one moved. No one breathed.
Suddenly—bam—he slammed both hands against his chest.
"It's me," he shouted. "That's my story."
The sound echoed inside the bus. Several players jolted upright, adrenaline surging.
He clenched his fists, knuckles white, veins visible in his forearms.
"I want you to take that story," he said, voice burning now, "that love I had for that club—" He pressed his hand to his chest again. "—and just like I destroyed the sport with it…"
He threw his hands outward, as if tearing something free.
"…I want you to do the same tonight."
His voice rose.
"That club. That city. That country." His words accelerated, sharper, louder. "Burn it all."
He took a step forward, eyes blazing.
"And I know you can do it," he roared. "You—who have destroyed England—DO IT AGAIN!"
His voice climbed, filling every inch of the bus.
"CAN YOU?"
The players exploded.
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
"COME ON!"
He spun toward them, shouting over the noise.
"I SAID—CAN YOUUU!"
The response was thunderous, fists slamming seats, chests pounding.
"YESSSS!"
"LET'S GO DESTROY!"
Kevin De Bruyne shot to his feet, eyes wild, voice tearing through the chaos.
"COME ON, CITY!"
"CITY!"
"CITY!"
"CITY! CITY! CITY!"
The bus shook with it.
…
On the field, down by the sideline—
"IT'S OUT, IT'S OUT, IT'S OUT!"
The shout came out half-laugh, half-squeal, completely uncontained. It cut through the hum of the stadium like a kid spotting fireworks early.
A beat later, a calmer, far more composed voice followed.
"Come on, Micah," it said, dry but amused. "Have some class. Especially while we are on air."
Micah Richards just burst out laughing, not even pretending to feel guilty. He held his phone up like evidence. "Sorry, Thierry," he said, still chuckling. "I can't help it. The lineups are out and I'm barely containing myself."
He bounced slightly on his feet, shoulders rolling, energy spilling everywhere. "This atmosphere, man… it does something to me. I start vibrating."
Thierry Henry laughed openly now, shaking his head. "I understand, I understand," he said. "Alright then—what have we got?"
Micah immediately snapped his eyes back to his phone.
"Okay, okay—home team first," he rattled off, slipping straight into pundit mode but still buzzing. "Ter Stegen in goal… and—" He froze. His eyebrows shot up. "Ooooh. Back three! That's surprising."
He squinted at the screen dramatically. "Lenglet… Frenkie—" he stopped, looking up. "Wait, wait. Frenkie there? Interesting." He nodded, impressed. "And Sergio Roberto."
He kept going, finger scrolling fast. "Midfield we've got Alba, Pedri—ooh, I like that kid, I really do—Busquets, obviously, and then Ronald Araújo."
He leaned back, grinning. "In front of that, looks like it's Griezmann time. And then up top—" he slapped his hand against his chest. "Messi… and my guy, Mateo."
Thierry turned slowly, one eyebrow raised. "Your guy?"
Micah didn't miss a beat. "Yes. My guy. What? Are you jealous?"
Thierry laughed, folding his arms. "No, no. It's just… when we had him on the show last time, I seem to remember a certain Frenchman being his favorite. Or am I forgetting something?"
Micah waved a hand dismissively. "Old age is really scary, you know."
Thierry laughed harder, conceding the hit, as Micah dove back in.
"Alright, challengers now," Micah said, voice rising again. "Facing off against this very unique Barça 3-4-1-2, we've got classic Pep Guardiola 4-3-3."
He read carefully now, almost reverent. "Ederson in goal. Back four of Cancelo, Dias, Stones, and Walker."
He paused, staring at the screen, then slowly looked up. "I mean… as I'm reading this, I'm shocked again. What a defence."
Thierry tilted his head. "You thinking of changing your pick for tonight?"
Micah laughed loudly. "Ha! They're scary, yes—but I'm comfortable with my pick."
Then he leaned closer to Thierry, lowering his voice theatrically. "But if you want to change yours… and not betray your club, I understand."
"Betray?" Thierry's head snapped toward him. "Betray?"
Micah was already laughing. "I mean, I seem to remember you playing here once upon a time."
Thierry scoffed dramatically. "You are one to talk about betrayal, aren't you? You're literally City."
Micah puffed his chest out smugly. "I'm a lover of the game," he said. "I go where my heart takes me."
He glanced back at the phone. "Anyway—leaving betrayal aside—City midfield: Gündoğan, Rodri, Bernardo Silva."
Then his eyes widened. "Oh! Here we go. First surprise of the day."
He looked up slowly. "Kevin De Bruyne… up front."
Thierry blinked. "Up front?"
Micah nodded vigorously. "Yep. Wings are Foden on the left, Mahrez on the right."
He locked his phone, staring toward the pitch now, grin spreading. "The stars are out. The stars are out."
He turned toward the camera, suddenly very serious for half a second. "What a game."
Then he broke into a smile again. "Jamie and Kate are out today, so we'll be your hosts. My name is Micah Richards—"
He gestured dramatically to his left.
"—and beside me, the Judas."
"Thierry Henry."
Micah immediately cracked up. "I get why Kate loves doing introductions now."
Thierry just shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath, "I am never doing a duo with you again."
…
"Okay everyone, it's time to start stepping out."
The voice cut gently through the dressing room, firm but calm. One of the team liaisons stood by the doorway, headset resting on his neck. "The refs are asking for us," he added. "It's game time."
Mateo heard it, and instantly his heartbeat kicked up again, sharp and fast, thudding against his ribs like it was trying to get ahead of him. He drew in a slow breath, then let it out through his nose.
"It's time," he murmured, almost to himself.
A moment later, Koeman stepped forward from near the tactics board. The room quieted on instinct. No shouting, no theatrics—just attention.
"Okay, boys," he said, his voice steady, grounded. "The time is here."
He looked around the room, meeting eyes one by one. Not long, not intense—just enough. Like a father making sure everyone was present at the table.
"We've prepared," he continued calmly. "We've trained. We've talked. We've lived these moments together. Nothing out there should surprise you."
A small pause.
"Trust yourselves," he said. "Trust the man next to you. If one of you falls, another will be there. That's how we've come this far."
He gestured lightly with his hand, not pointing, just opening the space. "Play with courage. Play with joy. And remember—this is our home."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"Whatever happens, we face it together."
Then, louder, clear and sharp—
"Visca Barça."
The benches scraped back as one. The response came instantly, powerful, unified, filling the room with warmth and fire all at once.
"VISCA BARÇA!"
A/N
I would take the next week off to get some things sorted with the P@treon so i decided to post 3 chapters now enjoy
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