"Alright boys!"
Koeman's voice rose above the steady buzz of the locker room. His words sliced through the background noise of stretching limbs, crackling heat pads, and the occasional thump of boots against benches. So players were still sipping their isotonic drinks, others getting last-minute massages or adjusting their shin pads. Everyone was busy, but everyone was listening.
"We've trained. We've practiced. We've studied every detail. Now it's all about ntality."
He paced slowly in front of them, voice clear and commanding.
"Getafe's lineup ca in exactly as we expected. No surprises. So no excuses. You're ready."
Heads nodded across the room.
"We start sharp. Win your duels. Trust each other. Play our football. Stay calm, stay compact. The first ten minutes—control the ga. Set the tone early."
He looked around the room, locking eyes with a few of the senior players.
"Let's make a statent today. You've earned this. Now let's go."
The room responded with low grunts, murmured affirmations, the kind of subtle energy that brews just before kick-off.
In one corner, Mateo sat at his spot, already in full kit. His jersey—maroon and blue with golden trim—hung loosely over his knees. He looked down at it, holding a fold of the fabric between his fingers like sothing sacred. There was still a sense of awe every ti he wore it—like he hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that this wasn't just a dream anymore.
But even in that mont, his mind was elsewhere. Not on Getafe. Not entirely.
He was thinking about his sign-in.
That personal ritual. The thing that grounded him before every match. It wasn't just superstition anymore—it was part of him, a thread that stitched every ga together. He hadn't quite figured out what today's sign-in would be, and that unsettled him.
Not because he was scared. But because there was sothing he really wanted from this match. Sothing that would turn this ga into more than just three points. Sothing personal.
His eyes drifted across the room until they landed on soone sitting not too far away—tying his boots, completely in his own world. Calm. Focused. Carrying the silence of a thousand gas behind him.
Lionel ssi.
Mateo watched him for a mont. Not idolizing like a fan, not even admiring like a student—but studying, as if the answer to his sign-in might lie sowhere in ssi's stillness.
He didn't know exactly why. But deep down, he hoped that today, sothing—anything—from ssi would co his way.
Mateo wanted sothing from ssi.
And this ti, it wasn't his dribbles.
It wasn't the body feints, the balletic balance, or that signature shift of weight that made defenders bite on thin air.
No, this ti, it was sothing else. Sothing specific.
ssi's dead-ball craft.
That quiet genius—the ability to take a still ball and turn it into a mont of magic. A free-kick from 25 yards. A curling finish from the edge of the box. That calm, calculated precision that didn't just create goals—it guaranteed them.
It might've sounded odd to anyone who knew Mateo even remotely well.
Dead-ball precision was his thing.
It was the exact reason he was fast-tracked into the first team in the first place. The scouts had called him "a born finisher." Coaches had said he had one of the cleanest strikes they'd seen in years. His system—his mysterious edge—ranked him among the top three young strikers in the world, based on his finishing trics.
But still… it wasn't enough.
Because being world class was one thing.
But what Mateo wanted now went beyond stats.
He wanted to cross that thin line between elite and inevitable.
That desire had taken root during the last match.
Sure, the headlines were generous. Three goals. A late winner. Praise from the fans, from comntators, from ssi himself.
But no one had talked about the two chances he'd missed.
Two clear-cut chances.
The kind that, if converted, would've equalized far earlier. Would've put PSG on the back foot before the match ever spiraled into chaos.
Yes, Keylor Navas had been outstanding. One of those saves had been near-impossible.
But still—he missed.
In the quiet hours after the match, that fact had stayed with him.
Because in a world where top strikers only convert 20 to 30 percent of their chances, scoring three goals and missing two was technically phenonal.
By all standards—world-class.
But Mateo didn't just want to live up to the standard.
He wanted to set it.
And the way ssi struck the ball—the way he made monts look inevitable, look simple—Mateo knew that was the next piece.
That was what separated the very best from the rest.
That was what he wanted now.
In modern football, even the very best strikers miss—a lot.
If a forward finishes the season with 30 goals, it's almost expected that he'll have missed sowhere around 25–30 big chances along the way. At first glance, that sounds wild—almost wasteful. But in reality, it's just how the ga works at the highest level.
There are reasons for it.
Top strikers see more of the ball than anyone else in the final third. They're constantly in the box, making runs, getting on the end of half-chances, crowded by defenders. Sotis the angles are tight. Sotis the goalkeeper reads it. Sotis it's just… football. A bounce, a deflection, a mont lost in milliseconds.
Even Robert Lewandowski—arguably the most complete striker of the last few years—misses plenty. Back when Cristiano Ronaldo was in his pri, he too would rack up dozens of missed chances, even as he buried 40 or 50 in a single campaign.
Missing was part of the job.
It was, by all asures, the standard for elite forwards.
But Mateo King wasn't interested in the standard anymore.
At just 17, he had already netted 16 goals in six first-team appearances—a ridiculous return by any tric. And in all those gas combined, he had missed just five clear chances.
He wasn't just eting the standard. He was already exceeding it.
But why stop there?
He wasn't here to be slightly better than the rest. He wasn't just another academy star who got his chance and rode the wave. He had a system behind him. An edge. So called it luck. So said it was talent. Mateo knew better. It was more than that—more than anything he could na.
He had sothing that other players didn't. Sothing that told him, deep down, that "world class" wasn't his ceiling.
It was only the starting point.
And as his eyes drifted once more to the other side of the dressing room—to the quiet figure tying his laces, lost in his own routine—Mateo felt the hunger deepen.
ssi.
Mateo had started coveting sothing specific. Not the step-overs. Not the low center of gravity. Not the impossible dribbles.
No, this ti it was ssi's dead-ball instinct.
That ruthless calm. That surgical precision. That ability to turn a single glance at goal into an outco. One chance—one finish. No waste. No hesitation.
ssi was the only player in history who could score 30, 40, even 50 goals in a season, and still maintain a remarkably low number of missed chances. Most of that was down to how he played.
He wasn't a classic No. 9. He dropped deep. He created from midfield. He picked passes others couldn't see.
And yet, when the opportunity ca—when the ball fell just right—he finished.
Not hoped. Not tried. Not wished.
Finished.
At the end of the day ssi still finishes
Mateo wanted that.
As the players finished tying boots and slipping on shinguards, Ronald Koeman clapped his hands together loudly, drawing everyone's attention.
"Win your duels. Trust each other. Play our football. Stay compact, stay aggressive, and be smart. This is our house. We start strong, we stay strong. Let's send a ssage—tonight, we don't just play. We set the tone."
A few nods and quiet murmurs of agreent echoed through the room. Koeman clapped again, this ti with a grin.
"Let's do this. Visca Barça!"
A loud, unified chorus followed.
"Visca Barça!"
As the players began rising from their seats and heading toward the tunnel, Mateo glanced at his jersey again. The navy and garnet glowed under the fluorescent lights, the club crest catching a bit of shine.
But his mind wasn't on the crest.
Not now, Mateo. Focus. Getafe first.
He shook his head, trying to chase the thoughts away.
Even if he didn't get what he wanted tonight—didn't get anything from ssi—he could still take sothing aningful from the match. There was always sothing to gain. Always sothing to learn.
His body moved on autopilot, muscle mory guiding him toward the center of the room, where the players naturally ford their pre-match circle. He found his spot, instinctively.
Lionel ssi stood at the front of the group, calm and composed as always. He didn't say much—he never did. But when he spoke, every ear turned to him.
"Let's be sharp. Let's be fast. Let's enjoy it. You know what to do. And rember…" He glanced around the circle, eyes locking with several players. "We fight for each other. Start to finish. And most of all…"
He paused, raising his voice slightly.
"Visca Barça."
"Visca Barça!" the team roared back in unison, their voices echoing through the tunnel halls.
The atmosphere buzzed with energy. And then—just as they began walking toward the pitch—the music of the stadium took over.
The fans had found their voice.
🎶
"Tot el camp... és un clam!
Som la gent blaugrana!"
(The whole stadium... is a cry!
We are the blue-and-claret people!)
"Tant se val d'on venim,
si del sud o del nord,
ara estem d'acord, estem d'acord,
una bandera ens agermana!"
(It doesn't matter where we co from,
be it the south or the north,
now we all agree, we all agree,
one flag unites us!)
The official hymn of FC Barcelona—"Cant del Barça"—was being belted out by nearly 100,000 passionate voices. The crowd swayed, scarves spinning, voices rising with the beat of the drums.
High above the pitch, in the executive VIP section of Camp Nou, Andrew King sat still for a mont, eyes drawn to the imnse wave of humanity pulsing beneath him. The anthem thundered through the stadium, rumbling up through the glass.
Joan Laporta, seated beside him, leaned back slightly with a wide grin.
"Well, Mr. Andrew," he said over the noise, "how do you like it now? This... this is the true Camp Nou."
Andrew said nothing at first. He turned his gaze to the pitch below.
He could see Mateo jogging lightly with the other players, laughing at sothing soone said, bouncing a ball from thigh to foot as effortlessly as breathing. The crowd was already reacting to him, even in warmup.
Then Andrew looked back at the stands. At the flags. The chanting. The sea of bodies, all moving in ti.
It was unlike anything he'd experienced.
Almost overwhelming.
They'd said Camp Nou could fit close to a hundred thousand people. But no one had ntioned how alive it would feel.
How heavy the atmosphere would sit in your chest.
How loud it could actually get.
He swallowed lightly, lips curving into a slower, more genuine smile.
"…I can see why Mateo likes the club so much."
Andrew King had, of course, heard of football. Being British, it was impossible not to. Born and raised in Manchester—a city that stood as one of football's spiritual hos—he understood how deeply the sport was embedded in people's lives. But while the whole world around him had worshipped the beautiful ga, Andrew never quite connected with it.
Not out of disdain, but distraction.
As a boy, while other kids in the neighborhood chased footballs through alleyways and schoolyards, Andrew was buried in books or running errands for his mum. Even when his brother—Mateo's father—tried to coax him outside, Andrew's mind was already wired toward sothing else. Focused. Calculated. His path was set early: study hard, get out, make money, protect the future.
There had never been space for football.
When he got older and started working, the distance only grew. The closest he ever ca to the sport was the ti Mateo had visited him in London and dragged him to a Premier League ga. Andrew had spent most of the match on his phone, juggling client calls, barely looking up at the pitch. He didn't even rember the teams that played.
But now, things were different.
Now, football wasn't just background noise—it was his job. His focus. His nephew's world.
And tonight, seated high up in the executive section of Camp Nou with a perfect view of the field, sothing began to shift. For the first ti, the noise of football—the singing, the stomping, the undiluted energy—started to seep in. Like electricity humming through stone, it entered his chest.
He looked around, eyes scanning the endless sea of fans. The songs weren't just loud—they were united. Thousands of people, all pouring out their emotions in lody, colour, and rhythm. Banners waved. Flags danced. And through it all, the sa na floated again and again from the mouths of fans:
Barça. Barça. Barça.
The noise then climbed several notches—louder, sharper, almost frenzied.
Andrew didn't need anyone to tell him why. He looked back down at the pitch.
The players were walking out.
Leading them in front, the unmistakable figure of Lionel ssi.
Even Andrew—who had never watched a full ga—recognized him instantly. The beard, the stance, the quiet intensity. There was a lift in the crowd as soon as he stepped onto the grass, the sound rising as if every fan in the stadium had just drawn a deep breath and released it all at once.
But then, the volu rose again. Just as loud. Maybe louder.
Andrew's eyes scanned the players behind ssi.
Then he saw him.
Mateo.
His nephew. His client. His responsibility. And now, clearly, a fan favourite. The Camp Nou roared his na as though he'd already etched his legacy into the walls.
Andrew blinked, stunned.
Fans were on their feet. Scarves twirled. Dozens stood up doing Mateo's now signature celebration, hands raised in defiance and pride.
The sa celebration that once sparked controversy was now a symbol of defiance and belonging.
He heard them sing:
"És el nostre fill, batega sang de búlgar!"
("He is our own, he bleeds Bulgarian blood!")
"El petit príncep del Camp Nou!"
("The little prince of Camp Nou!")
A chant in Mateo's honour. Loud, rhythmic, reverent.
"Wow," Gerard Piqué muttered beside Alba on the touchline, looking around at the crowd, impressed. "I haven't seen sothing like this since Iniesta's farewell. And that was a send-off."
Alba nodded, watching as fans chanted Mateo's na again and again. Then he turned toward the boy himself.
"Never betray that trust, kid," he said calmly.
Mateo turned to him, eyes steady, heart pounding.
"I won't," he said.
His voice was quiet. But certain.
I would never betray that, he thought. Not this. Not them.
As the players got into formation, ssi—having won the toss—signalled that they would kick off.
Mateo took his spot in the front line, looking around the stadium one last ti. He felt the cool air on his skin, the weight of the jersey, the bright lights overhead, the sheer wall of fans chanting his na.
A massive smile spread across his face.
Let's do this then.
Then—ding.
A sharp sound echoed in his head. The all-too-familiar system notification.
His smile widened even more as he opened the notification window in his mind.
[Congratulations! You have unlocked:
Ronaldinho's Superstition & Lucky Charm Beliefs]
He blinked.
The smile faded slowly.
"…ehn?"
Before he could even process what that ant—
PHEEEEEEP!!
The referee's whistle cut through the night air.
Kickoff.
A/N
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