"You must be kidding ."
The day had long since moved on. Several hours had passed since the match had ended, yet the aftershock of it still lingered everywhere. Across the footballing world, the number one topic remained the sa—the Champions League semi-final between FC Barcelona and Manchester City, and more specifically the performance of Mateo King.
Every sports page, every football channel, every podcast, every tiline online seed to be looping the sa highlights again and again. Debates were raging from London to Madrid, from Lagos to Buenos Aires. Fans argued under clips, analysts broke down his dribbles fra by fra, and comntators tried to decide whether what they had witnessed was simply an incredible performance… or sothing far more historic.
The conversation had grown so massive it didn't stay confined to Europe. It crossed the Atlantic and reached North Arica as well, where sports dia—always eager to jump into anything that looked like a viral wave—quickly joined the frenzy.
Streams, reaction channels, and sports shows began discussing the match almost imdiately.
One particular clip had already exploded across the internet: a reaction from IShowSpeed. The fastest rising strear in the world had watched the match live and completely lost his mind midway through the highlights. In the middle of one of Mateo's sequences he had started shouting about flying to Europe to watch the second leg in person, pacing around his room like a man possessed before attempting a wild backflip that ended with him crashing straight into his setup—sending lights, monitors, and brand-new equipnt tumbling across the floor.
The clip alone had gathered millions of views within hours.
But even that chaos was soon eclipsed by sothing else.
A segnt from a Canadian sports show.
The program was none other than Tim and Sid, airing on the national sports network Sportsnet. The show had a reputation for loud debates, sharp takes, and personalities that thrived on confrontation.
And at the center of it all sat Sid Seixeiro.
Earlier that sa year he had already gone viral for one of the most infamous football takes circulating online—a fiery rant where he declared that anyone who believed Lionel ssi was better than Cristiano Ronaldo should "go to the doctor and have everything checked from the neck up."
The clip had spread everywhere.
Ever since then, Sid had leaned into the role. The anti-ssi angle had proven to be a magnet for attention, drawing supporters and outrage in equal asure. He had ridden that wave repeatedly—another viral segnt mocking ssi's international career, another rant claiming Ronaldo was superior simply because he "looks better in the mirror" and was richer.
Each clip sparked argunts, each argunt brought more views, and Sid knew it.
And today was no different.
"Why would I be?"
The studio lights burned bright above the desk of Tim and Sid on Sportsnet. Across from each other sat the two hosts, their voices already climbing in volu as the segnt spiraled exactly where viewers expected it to.
Sid Seixeiro leaned back in his chair slightly, one eyebrow raised, palms open as if the entire argunt being thrown at him was ridiculous.
"Why would I be kidding?" Sid shot back, his voice sharp, almost amused. "Am I lying? Did I lie?"
Across from him, Tim Micallef simply stared at him for a second before slowly shaking his head, rubbing his face like a man who had already lost patience ten minutes ago.
"Why am I even doing this?" Tim muttered under his breath before looking back up. "Honestly, why am I even doing this? I know what this is. I know you, Sid. You're doing this for the clips online. That's it. You don't even seriously think this."
Sid imdiately leaned forward, eyes widening as if he'd just been personally insulted.
"How else did you want to think?" he shot back quickly. "You're acting like I even lied."
Tim's head snapped up.
"You literally said—" he began, voice rising before he cut himself off with a frustrated gesture.
Then he leaned forward over the desk.
"You literally said Mateo was dragging Barcelona through that match while ssi and the rest of the boys were dead weight!"
Sid didn't blink.
He looked Tim straight in the eye.
"I'm confused," Sid said slowly.
"Was I wrong?"
Tim leaned back in his chair, shaking his head again, letting out a long exhausted sigh.
"Oh brother…"
He dragged a hand down his face again before leaning forward once more, trying to reset the conversation.
"No, no," Tim continued quickly, pointing across the desk. "You all say he's the greatest player to have ever kicked a ball. That's what everyone says, right? That's the argunt every single ti."
He spread his hands wide.
"Well wasn't last night the kind of ga he should've proved it?"
Tim's voice shot up imdiately.
"He already has!" he shouted. "He's already proven it—ti and ti again! He doesn't need to prove anything anymore! He is already the greatest of all ti!"
Sid just slowly shook his head, lips pursed, like a man watching soone walk straight into a trap.
"You know what this reminds of?" Sid said quietly.
Tim waved a hand dismissively.
"What?"
Sid leaned forward slightly, the faintest smirk appearing on his face.
"2019. Liverpool versus Barcelona. The second leg at Anfield."
Tim frowned imdiately.
"What about it?"
Sid tilted his head slightly, voice calm but cutting.
"I rember during that ti… after the 4–0 loss… whenever anyone tried to criticize ssi for failing to lead his team…"
He paused, letting the tension sit in the studio for a mont.
"You all would co out swinging."
His voice rose slightly now, mocking the tone he had heard countless tis before.
"You'd start screaming about how he perford in the first leg. His free-kick goal."
Then his voice dropped lower.
Quieter.
Mocking.
"How he had done his part…"
Another small pause.
"How the other ten should chip in once in a while."
Tim just stared at him.
For a mont he didn't even blink.
His jaw tightened slowly, the muscles along his face twitching as he leaned slightly forward in his chair, fingers gripping the edge of the desk.
"Yes?" Tim said through clenched teeth.
Across from him, Sid didn't hesitate.
"Well that's the exact sa thing I'm saying right now," Sid replied, leaning back with that sa irritating calm tone. "Mateo was the only one who truly looked like he was fighting yesterday."
He lifted a hand, pointing vaguely toward the screen beside them where the highlights had been looping earlier.
"The pressure ca," Sid continued, his voice rising slightly, "and your so-called GOAT left the club in the hands of a seventeen-year-old kid."
Tim imdiately leaned forward.
"You are being disingenuous," he fired back quickly. "Then and now are two completely different cases—"
"No it's not different!" Sid cut in instantly, raising his voice and slapping his hand on the desk.
Tim tried to continue but Sid kept going, talking right over him.
"It's not different at all!" Sid repeated, shaking his head. "The only difference between that situation and now…"
He pointed straight at Tim.
"…is that ssi is one of the ten right now and you all can't handle that."
Tim leaned back, letting out a short incredulous laugh before shaking his head.
"You know what?" he said, raising a finger. "All this think-piece analysis you're doing right now…"
He paused deliberately.
"…would've made sense."
Another pause.
Then he leaned forward slightly.
"If not for one flaw."
Sid raised an eyebrow.
Tim looked straight at him.
"ssi literally assisted Mateo for the only goal on their side."
Sid didn't even give the sentence ti to breathe.
"Oohhh don't give that," he imdiately jumped in, waving a dismissive hand. "Co on, Tim. We both saw that goal."
He leaned forward, his voice sharpening.
"That was purely on Mateo. He made that goal happen."
Sid scoffed.
"Assists like that are exactly why it's a fugazzi stat."
Tim opened his mouth imdiately.
"You can't seriously—"
"Humor this."
Sid cut him off again, holding up a hand before Tim could even finish his sentence.
Then without waiting for an answer he continued.
His tone shifted slightly.
More serious now.
Less joking.
"Tell sothing," Sid said slowly.
"How… if not for Mateo King… would Barcelona have gone this far in the round?"
His voice dropped slightly as he leaned forward.
"Would they have pulled off that ridiculous coback against PSG?"
He tilted his head.
"Would they have gotten past Bayern?"
His voice lowered further.
"Would we even be talking about Barcelona in this capacity right now?"
Tim tried to jump in.
Sid talked straight over him.
"Even the league!" Sid continued, gesturing widely now. "The only reason they're even still in contention is because of that insane hat-trick he scored on debut!"
"Again—" Tim said loudly, trying to cut through the rant. "You're being disingenuous again!"
Sid just waved a dismissive hand, barely even acknowledging the interruption.
"Well say whatever you want," he replied flatly.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
"But I know for a fact you can't call soone the greatest ever…"
He paused.
"…and yet a seventeen-year-old kid is the reason he has any hope of winning anything this season."
...
Back in Europe, Spain, the aftermath of the ga was even more pronounced. With El Clásico now just a few weeks and two ga days away, the footballing news cycle had reached a fever pitch. Leading the charge was Marca, with its cadre of Madrid-aligned journalists. Using lip-reading analysis from the previous match, they began a new offensive dia campaign against Mateo. To the average fan, it looked like nothing more than the dia coming down on a rival team's erging star. But those in the know understood the machinery behind it was far darker, far more calculated.
The national team call-up for the Euros was fast approaching, and unbelievably, there were already leaked talks suggesting that Luis Enrique, the head coach, was considering not calling any Real Madrid players to the squad. If that went through, it would be the first ti since the Spanish national team's modern assembly that a Madrid player wouldn't feature in the lineup. Powerful footballing figures and influential parties were agitated at the very thought. Earlier this year, they had already been on edge when Sergio Ramos was the only Real Madrid player called up for the World Cup qualifiers. Now, the prospect of not even him being included seed utterly intolerable.
Enrique, of course, cited lack of matches and fitness as reasons against Ramos, who had been injured for most of the season. But those pulling the strings didn't care about excuses—they knew a Real Madrid player had to be present for the Euros. Compared to Dani Carvajal, still out injured, and Nacho Fernández or Lucas Vázquez, who weren't considered mainstays, Ramos, available and the national team captain, was the perfect candidate. The plan was clear: ensure Ramos's call-up first, then attempt to maneuver in another Madrid player if possible.
This was also the hidden strategy behind the dia storm aid at Mateo. They needed to fra Enrique as a forr Barça coach playing favorites, casting doubt and creating public pressure to bend his selections. While that was the primary goal, there was also a simpler, more visceral motive—so journalists and pundits just liked criticizing a Barcelona player, and Mateo's rising star made him the perfect target.
The balance of power, however, shifted later in the morning. Kyle Walker, in a seemingly innocuous gesture, liked a picture on Instagram of a fan post showing him and Mateo shaking hands after the ga, both smiling. That small act triggered a dia counteroffensive from the Barcelona camp, allowing them to regain the narrative. With the optics now on their side, Barça launched their own campaign, reinforcing Mateo's image while subtly undermining the Madrid-aligned narrative. The chess ga of football dia, influence, and politics was in full swing.
...
Oblivious to the type of fight he had just walked into, Mateo sat slumped in the Joan Gamper complex, inside the dorm rooms, staring at the screen in front of him. The loss from last night, intense as it had been, now felt like child's play compared to this.
"No way…" he muttered, his voice low, almost broken. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, reflecting a kind of disbelief and shock that made it look as if he had just experienced the greatest loss and pain of his life. His jaw tensed, lips pressed tight, and for a mont he could do nothing but stare.
Then, a loud, unrestrained laugh cut through the tension. Mateo felt a hand wrap around his shoulder, light but firm, shaking him slightly. He turned, only to see Gavi, grinning like a maniac, his face pressed close to Mateo's as he burst out laughing.
"No way, you fucking lost, dude!" Gavi shouted, the sound echoing across the room.
Mateo flinched and pushed him away, irritation bubbling up.
"Get out," he snapped, voice sharp.
Gavi laughed even harder, leaning back slightly, wiping a tear from his eye from laughing so much. Mateo barely had a mont to catch his breath before another figure approached. Balde strolled up, shaking his head, a smirk plastered across his face.
"Guy… are you serious? You lost to a junior?" Balde chuckled, the amusent in his voice obvious.
Mateo's panic started to rise as he glanced around the room.
"You… you…" he stuttered, turning toward the corner where Casado was standing, laughing so hard he could barely breathe, while Fermín held up his phone, filming the chaos, laughing himself silly.
Seeing Fermín holding the cara, Mateo couldn't contain himself anymore. His face twisted in frustration, veins popping slightly on his forehead. He leapt to his feet, pointing at each of them one by one, voice cracking and rising with fury.
"Why are you laughing?! It's a fluke! I was not feeling the ga!"
He spun toward another friend. "It's the pad! I've been telling you, we need to change that pad!"
No one answered. They just kept laughing.
Mateo's temper boiled over, a vein standing out on his temple. His hand shot up, finger trembling as he pointed directly at them.
"Why are you even laughing?! If he can beat , do you think he can't beat you too?!"
Fermín paused the recording, still chuckling.
"Don't transfer, bro," he said, snickering.
Casado shook his head, laughing as he added, "Yeah… it's still uncertain if he can beat us, but… at least we know he can beat you."
The room erupted in laughter all over again.
Gavi, still wheezing from laughing so hard, jabbed Mateo lightly on the shoulder.
"This is why it's not good to be too eager. You were shouting how you wanted to play first, and now look at you… whining!"
Mateo stood frozen, baffled, feeling the sting of betrayal from his so-called friends. He opened his mouth to say sothing, but nothing ca out. He knew, deep down, he couldn't argue with them.
But that didn't an he couldn't vent his anger. Mateo turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing as they landed on the three culprits who had delivered this absolute sha to him.
Yes… it was these three brats, not my lack of skill.
He inhaled sharply, letting his frustration bubble just under the surface. And yes, I'm still tired. Haven't rested properly since yesterday's ga… that's why… no way I would actually lose, right? Aren't I the best at FIFA?
His mind raced, finding every excuse possible for why he lost, every tiny justification he could cling to.
Finally, his gaze settled on the three, still laughing at the jokes flying around the room, especially the one in the middle, pad still clutched in his hands, grinning wide as he celebrated with his friends. Mateo's jaw tightened.
He started moving toward them, each step slow, asured, eyes locked on the culprit in the middle.
Lamine, noticing Mateo approaching, stood up imdiately, straightening his back, a wide smile plastered across his face.
"I told you, Bernal is so good in FIFA, ha ha!" Lamine laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the dorm walls.
"Especially if he uses Bayern… still can't believe he beat you 4-1 though!"
He shook his head, chuckling as he continued, unable to stop himself. "I always hear people say how good you are…"
"Well… it's not really surprising. Bernal is just so good… it's even good he didn't beat you more," he added, eyes sparkling with amusent.
The joy of finally being invited into Mateo's room, being in his space, playing FIFA with the big boys, had Lamine talking non-stop, oblivious to the subtle twitch forming at the corner of Mateo's mouth, the clenched fists, the rising tension. (reminder Lamine is 12/13 while Mateo and his friends are 17/18)
Mateo's face darkened, his brow furrowed, shaking his head slowly.
"Good, good… it's not your fault," he muttered under his breath, voice low and cutting. "It's … I bla…"
Then he straightened, voice rising.
"Okay… you three have had enough fun. It's ti to start going."
Lamine froze mid-laugh, surprise written across his face. Even Bernal and Curbasi looked stunned, eyes wide, the room falling briefly silent.
Mateo's voice was steady but carried an edge that made them all pause.
Before he could continue, a hand landed on his shoulder.
"Okay, okay… you lost. No need to bully them," Balde said, his tone almost pleading.
"Leave that sore loser alone, resorting to this cause you lost," Gavi added, tugging gently at Mateo's arm.
Mateo's eyes flashed, voice sharp. "You—stop that!"
But they didn't listen. Their hands gripped him firmly, pulling him back as Fermín and Casado joined in, tugging at his arms.
"Pass the pad!" one shouted.
"Yes, I want to also play, Bernal!" the other chid in, laughter still lingering in their voices.
Balde rolled his eyes, pointing to the three culprits. "You guys know… loser drop, right? Let's go."
Mateo had been bullied, shoved, and dragged to the back of the room, his pride stinging but restrained by the force of friendship and their relentless teasing.
As everyone settled down, Fermín grabbed the controller, sitting next to Bernal, and began the team selection process, the room buzzing once again with the chaotic energy of the gang, laughter and playful taunts blending into the hum of the gaming console.
A/N
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