"That goal against Sevilla was insane! I was literally crying when you scored — you're really sothing, kid. Truly, so, so good!" the voice said with pure excitent.
Mateo simply smiled, a bit flustered by the stranger's passion. He let out a small, awkward laugh, replying softly, "Thank you… thanks a lot."
"No, no—no need to thank , you," the man continued, but by now Mateo's mind had already started drifting, his focus fading as his gaze fell to the window beside him.
The cab's tires humd softly beneath him as they glided over the streets of Barcelona, carrying him through the familiar cityscape under the amber glow of the late evening streetlights.
Ho.
The word sat quietly in his chest.
Not the dorm room at La Masia — or as its full na went: La Masia – Centre de Formació Oriol Tort, where he had lived these last few years, sharing bunks, cramped hallways, and the relentless buzz of young boys chasing dreams. That had been his second ho, the place of his growth.
But ho… real ho…
That was where his parents were.
His family wasn't a large one — at least not his imdiate family. Just the three of them. His father, David King. His mother, Isabella Nicolás King. And himself — Mateo.
The thought of them made his chest warm.
Their ho wasn't grand, nor luxurious, but it held a different kind of beauty. Tucked away in a small, tight-knit corner of inner-city Barcelona, not far from the bright lights of Camp Nou, stood The King's Palace — his father's modest restaurant despite the irony of its na.
A little English eatery nestled between the sea of diterranean tapas bars and Catalan bistros. A decision his mother had still not forgiven his father for. He could almost hear her voice, mock-arguing even now:
"David, Spanish people want paella and jamón, not your fish and chips!"
To which his father would always laugh heartily and declare,
"Let them taste where I ca from, Bella. It's not about the masses — it's about sharing who we are."
That mory made Mateo's lips curl into a soft smile.
The cab driver, misinterpreting the smile, thought he was enjoying the conversation. With renewed energy, the driver continued his excited chatter, but Mateo wasn't really listening anymore. His mind had already traveled down mory lane.
He imagined the sll of his father's fried cod, the gentle clatter of plates from the tiny kitchen, the warm dim lights inside the restaurant casting a cozy glow. And above the restaurant, their little apartnt — barely three rooms — where his mother's hugs felt like the safest place in the world. The softness of her embrace, her soft voice whispering "Mi niño hermoso," whenever she pulled him into her arms after long days.
He needed this.
After everything these past few weeks had thrown at him — he desperately needed ho.
And what weeks they had been.
Imdiately after his match-winning goal against Sevilla, chaos had unfolded. The mont he stepped off the pitch and into the tunnel, he was practically ambushed. The Barcelona dical staff sward around him, like a pit crew rushing a race car. They placed oxygen masks on him, checked his pulse, took blood samples, asured his lactate levels, monitored his breathing.
All the while, Koeman stood over the commotion, shouting over the noise, his voice booming through the narrow halls.
"I should've pulled you earlier! That was my fault! But still—hell of a winner, kid!"
Mateo could barely reply, nodding weakly as hands prodded and scanned him from every angle.
And just like that, what had once been his problem — his stamina issues — were now officially the club's problem.
Within 24 hours, Barcelona's dical and technical team launched an entire program around him. Strict al plans, specialized hydration, daily blood tests. His diet beca almost surgical. The nutritionist banned certain foods entirely. Sugar? Gone. Late-night snacking? Gone. Even certain fruits were asured. And a nightmare issue, they had even co to his dorm searching for snacks where they almost found their 'not so legal' PlayStation Thank goddess Gavi his roommate had been fast enough and moved it out the room before they entered. Mateo had beco a club's little prince overnight.
On top of that, a personal trainer was assigned to him. Not a regular club trainer — his own. A man who monitored everything from how many hours Mateo slept to how many steps he took during warmups.
And barely a few days later, it was match day again.
Though Koeman had rested him, keeping him out of the starting eleven to manage his workload, Mateo wasn't frustrated. Far from it. The coach had been clear: this was for preservation, not punishnt. After all, in just two matches, Mateo had exploded onto the scene with seven goals — instantly becoming indispensable to Barcelona's fragile frontline.
You could argue it was due to his brilliance. Or perhaps it was a reflection of the gaps Barcelona desperately needed to fill showing their weak squad depth. But the reality was simple: Mateo King had quickly beco one of the most important players in Barcelona's squad.
Only a fool would dare bench him for long.
He had spent the first half sitting quietly on the bench, watching the ga unfold with a calm but sharp gaze — a spectator to his own absence.
In truth, his absence was painfully visible.
Barcelona struggled. They were tied 1-1 at halfti. Frenkie de Jong had managed to score and give them so breathing room, but in all honesty, it wasn't a convincing performance. Not against Osasuna — a side lingering in the lower half of the table, fighting not for glory but for survival. A club Barcelona should be comfortably sweeping aside.
The weight of expectation was obvious. Every misplaced pass, every weak challenge, every failed chance — it all echoed what everyone inside Camp Nou already knew: without ssi and now Mateo King on the pitch, there was an empty space.
The void.
Koeman saw it. The staff saw it. The crowd certainly felt it.
That's why, as the whistle blew to signal the start of the second half, there was no hesitation. Mateo was called off the bench. His warmup had been brief. His instructions were simple. And then, as his cleats crossed onto the field, it ca:
[Sign-In Successful at Camp Nou]
[Critical Acclaim: Always Full Stamina and Injury Resistance when playing at Camp Nou]
The mont the system's familiar voice rang inside his head, a chill ran through him.
This sign-in… was insane.
As long as he played at Camp Nou — this cathedral of football — he would never again worry about stamina. His legs would remain fresh, his lungs full. He could press, sprint, fight for 90 minutes and more, without feeling his body betray him. But even more important was the second gift: injury resistance.
That was priceless.
For a footballer, injuries are the silent monsters that haunt every ga, every training session, every single movent on the pitch. Injuries can turn world-beaters into forgotten nas. They steal careers. A twisted knee, a torn ligant, a fractured bone — they can take a genius at his peak and reduce him to a shadow of his forr self. Confidence vanishes. Fear creeps in. The body, once an unstoppable weapon, becos fragile glass.
For athletes, injury is not just pain. It's the beginning of doubt. Doubt that sotis never leaves.
But now, at least inside this stadium, Mateo was free from that nightmare. Here, under the Camp Nou lights, his body was untouchable.
The relief changed his ga almost instantly. His style, once slightly reserved to avoid overexertion, transford into sothing much more ferocious. He fought defenders with newfound strength, pressing higher, bullying center-backs, throwing his body into duels without a second thought. No fear. No hesitation.
And his impact was imdiate.
Within minutes, he delivered two assists: one perfectly weighted through-ball to Griezmann, the other a clever pass to de Jong, who bagged his second goal of the night. Then, as if that wasn't enough, Mateo added his own goal — a clinical, ice-cold finish after dancing through two defenders.
By the final whistle, Barcelona walked away with a 4-2 victory. Three points secured. Montum restored.
But football is relentless. For a professional, there's rarely ti to savor a win.
Just three days later, he found himself stepping onto another stage — the Reale Arena in San Sebastián, facing Real Sociedad. Another away match. Another test.
And once again, as his boots touched the pitch, the system activated:
[Sign-In Completed at the Reale Arena]
[Reward Acquired: Long Pass Precision of Xabi Alonso]
Mateo's eyes widened slightly when the notification ca through. This reward… this was special.
Xabi Alonso's long-passing ability was the stuff of legends — laser-like accuracy, unmatched vision, the ability to switch play or create chances from impossible distances. And tonight, that skill flowed through Mateo's veins.
He wasted no ti putting it to use.
Throughout the match, he rained perfect long passes across the pitch. Ti and again, Griezmann was on the receiving end, running into space as the ball dropped directly into his stride. The Frenchman scored his first ever hat-trick for Barcelona that night — all assisted by Mateo.
And as if to stamp his own mark on the ga, Mateo produced a solo mont of brilliance late in the second half. Picking up the ball deep, he slalod through four Sociedad Players, slicing them apart with tight touches and feints, before calmly slotting the ball past the keeper. It was pure artistry.
He was subbed off in the 75th minute, leaving the field to a standing ovation from both ho and away fans. Barcelona finished 5-2 victors.
Then ca the next fixture.
Back ho. Back to Camp Nou. This ti against Eibar — bottom of the table, dood for relegation.
But Mateo showed no rcy. Neither did Barcelona.
The match turned into a slaughter. 7-1 the final score.
And of those seven, Mateo was involved in six: four goals for himself, two assists for his teammates. The crowning mont ca in the second half when he executed a bicycle kick that froze the stadium. The ball soared like poetry into the top corner. Gasps and roars erupted from the stands.
Even the neutrals were calling it the goal of the season.
All thanks to that new sign-in.
[Congratulations — Rivaldo Shooting Powers and Signature 'Barb Shot' Acquired.]
The notification flashed inside Mateo's mind like a small spark of lightning — one that would ignite yet another fire inside his ga.
Mateo had always been a right-footed player — naturally dominant on that side since he first kicked a ball. His left leg, while serviceable, had never carried the sa confidence, the sa venom, as his right. But now… now everything was different.
The mont he received Rivaldo's legendary shooting gift, it was as if years of technical training had been downloaded directly into his muscles, his joints, his very instincts. His left foot no longer felt like a weaker substitute — it felt like an equal. He could strike with either leg now, and the ball obeyed him the sa.
But that wasn't all.
With his previously acquired aerial ability, this new skill took his finishing to another dinsion entirely. The bicycle kick against Eibar had only been the first taste. In that mont, when his body soared horizontally, seemingly defying gravity, it wasn't just luck or talent — it was Rivaldo's power coursing through him. The ball had rocketed off his boot like a missile, slicing into the top corner with surgical precision.
The dia was still playing the replay on loop:
"Mateo King — gravity is just a suggestion."
The entire world had started paying attention now. This wasn't just a young star showing promise; this was sothing far rarer. Special.
But beyond the highlight reels, the real story was how Barcelona — against all predictions — had not crumbled in the last four matches. They had been expected to stumble, perhaps even collapse. After ssi's red card suspension, critics had sharpened their knives, pundits predicted doom, and rivals watched eagerly, waiting for Barcelona to fall.
Instead?
They roared.
First ga: 4 goals.
Second ga: another 4.
Third ga: 5.
And now most recently: 7.
Twenty goals in four matches. Barcelona wasn't stumbling — they were stampeding.
The pundits had been silenced. The critics had no answers. Barcelona hadn't looked this sharp, this alive, in years. The team wasn't just surviving without ssi — they were playing with a fiery hunger, as if determined to remind the world who they were.
The fans had responded with an eruption of passion. Camp Nou shook as the chants echoed into the night sky:
"WE ARE BACK!"
You could hear them outside the stadium, across the streets, even online where Barcelona's global army of supporters flooded every platform.
"This is WITHOUT ssi!"
"Just wait till the king returns — you're all dead!"
"Barça is BACK!"
The energy was infectious. It felt like 2009 again. Or 2015. Or perhaps... sothing entirely new.
And as if the heavens themselves wanted to add fuel to the euphoria, even more good news arrived.
Word spread like wildfire across Catalonia:
Atlético Madrid had dropped points.
Atletico had hosted Sevilla in what was supposed to be a straightforward ho fixture. But Julen Lopetegui's Sevilla had rediscovered their old, pragmatic identity — a tight, disciplined, suffocating defense that made even Atletico taste a dose of their own bitter dicine.
The match had been decided early. Sevilla scored within the first ten minutes — a scrappy goal bundled in from a corner — and then locked the doors. For eighty brutal minutes, they sat deep, absorbed pressure, and repelled Atletico's every attack with military-like precision.
The match ended 1-0. The Madrid fans left in stunned silence. Atletico, who had looked comfortable at the top for weeks, had just opened the door.
And Barcelona? They celebrated like they had won the match themselves.
The city was alive. Fireworks cracked in the sky. Horns blared down La Rambla. Strangers high-fived in the streets. Flags waved from balconies. Bars overflowed with singing supporters. It wasn't just a victory — it was hope.
Because thanks to Atletico's slip, the table was tightening.
And now, the standings looked like this:
Position | Team | Played | Wins | Draws | Losses | Points
----------------------------------------------------------------------
1 | Atlético Madrid | 30 | 22 | 5 | 3 | 71
2 | Barcelona | 30 | 21 | 5 | 4 | 68
3 | Real Madrid | 30 | 20 | 7 | 3 | 67
4 | Sevilla | 30 | 18 | 6 | 6 | 60
With just eight gas remaining, La Liga — which once seed like a one-horse race — had transford into a battlefield. What had begun as a season with little hope had now beco a brutal, suffocating three-way war. The stakes had never been higher, and the pressure never more crushing.
Barcelona.
Atletico Madrid.
Real Madrid.
Each club stood like gladiators inside the coliseum of Spanish football, their swords drawn, their shields up, their eyes burning with the hunger for glory.
Atletico, once so comfortable at the top, now felt the hot breath of their rivals right behind them. Their rock-solid defense and counter-attacking style were starting to feel the strain of pressure. Every draw, every missed chance now carried the weight of an entire season.
Real Madrid — the eternal kings, proud and arrogant — were clawing their way forward like wounded lions refusing to fall. Injuries had weakened them with them facing massive rebuilding to get back to their form before their own king left, but the Madridismo spirit — that refusal to surrender — pushed them forward with every desperate matchday.
And then, there was Barcelona — the team that, just months ago, was written off, laughed at, dismissed. The sa Barcelona that lost ssi to suspension, that had injuries and internal chaos. And yet, sohow, they surged back. With their young prodigy Mateo, with Koeman's adjustnts, with a spirit reborn, they were no longer underdogs — they were contenders.
The league table was tighter than it had been in years. Every single match now felt like a final. And for Barcelona fans, the once faint embers of hope had erupted into roaring flas of belief.
They scread it from the bars, from the streets, from their balconies:
"We are winning the league!"
But reality remained brutal. Of the three title contenders, Barcelona had the most difficult path. Their final fixtures read like a horror script.
On matchday 36, they would travel into enemy territory: the Santiago Bernabéu, to face Real Madrid under the blinding lights and the deafening roars of the capital.
And then, as if fate itself wanted to craft the cruelest ending, Barcelona's final match of the season, on matchday 38, would be against Atletico Madrid — at the Wanda tropolitano — in what was already being called:
"The Final Showdown."
If both Barcelona and Atletico continued to win every ga up to that point, the league could be decided in that last, rciless battle. It wouldn't just be a match. It would be war.
And what made it even harsher for Barcelona was La Liga's tiebreaker system: unlike many other leagues that use goal difference, Spain prioritized head-to-head results.
For Barcelona, simply drawing wouldn't be enough.
They would have to win.
They would have to fight.
They would have to conquer.
Even for Mateo — who tried to remain focused — the weight of it all was creeping into his chest. He could feel his heartbeat racing just at the thought of those upcoming battles, his mind already flashing images of hostile stadiums, screaming fans, sliding tackles, and decisive goals.
But then, as his mind threatened to spiral further into that tense future, he clenched his fists and took a deep breath.
"Not so fast, Mateo," he whispered to himself.
"First, PSG. Handle Paris first. The league will co after."
He exhaled slowly, calming the storm inside his chest. For now, the battle ahead was in France. The league war would co in its own brutal ti.
As that wave of focus returned to him, he suddenly heard a voice cutting through his thoughts:
"Mateo, Mateo."
The cab driver's voice snapped him back to reality, and his eyes darted open, blinking like soone waking from a dream.
"Ehn?" Mateo replied, startled.
The driver smiled and pointed ahead.
"We're here."
Mateo shifted forward, peering out of the cab window.
There it was — ho.
A small, humble restaurant tucked between two narrow stores on the right-hand side of the street. Its brick walls were aged but full of character, with ivy creeping up one side and small, warm lights glowing from its front windows. The glass door glead under the streetlights, with a large, bold sign hanging proudly above:
"King's Palace Restaurant"
The lettering was golden, slightly worn by years of sun and rain, but still standing firm — like the family that owned it.
The sight instantly lted away every bit of tension in Mateo's body. His nerves faded. His heartbeat slowed. A calm, gentle smile ford on his face.
"Yes," he said softly, almost like a prayer.
"This is the place."
A/N
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