"Bayern, ehn…"
Mateo muttered the words under his breath as he strolled towards the back entrance of the facility, his footsteps light but his mind already whirling into deep thought. Bayern Munich. Again. The European heavyweight. A club whose na carried the weight of countless nightmares and unforgettable European nights for any Barcelona player.
But his train of thought was promptly hijacked by a familiar voice.
"Hey, Mateo! Good looking out on those boots, especially that jersey! I have it hanged up in my room"
It was Javi—the ever-watchful gatekeeper, standing tall beside his post with a grin that could slice through steel. Javi wasn't just a gateman; he was the unofficial 'Mayor' of the facility's backdoor operations. His eyes always noticed the little details. Today, his target was Mateo's fit.
Mateo glanced down, giving a lazy wave back in response. He wanted to give a cheeky reply, but his head was too cluttered with thoughts of the looming clash.
Before those thoughts could even string themselves into coherence, a tallic shimr caught his eye.
A Cupra Forntor. 2021 model. Midnight black, polished to mirror-level shine, its front lights glinting beneath the late morning sun. The car was unmistakable.
Pedri's ride.
And there he was—seated in the driver's seat, posture relaxed but face sharpened by focus. His brows furrowed slightly, his eyes locked onto his phone, scrolling through sothing intensely. His fingers flicked quickly, a soft furrow on his forehead, his lips pursed.
The world could have crumbled around him, and Pedri wouldn't have noticed.
Mateo, amused, walked casually towards the car, his steps deliberate, slow, a teasing smirk curling on his lips. He approached the driver's side window, leaned in, and with a soft knock—just enough to rattle Pedri out of his phone trance—he said,
"Hey, dude. Open up."
Pedri jolted slightly, blinking as if being yanked from a different universe, before a sheepish grin crept across his face. He reached over, unlocked the doors with a casual click, and Mateo slipped in.
The weight of his backpack thudded onto the car floor with a dense drop, the zippers jingling slightly. It was stuffed—over-packed, honestly—with everything his mother had ensured was 'necessary' for his first official international team et-up. Freshly ironed clothes, toiletries arranged like a military kit, snacks ("in case you get hungry on the way, Mateo!"), and probably more than a few unnecessary items, all packed with a mother's anxious love.
Mateo adjusted in his seat, sitting upright, exhaling as he settled into the leather cushion.
Then, from his side, Pedri's voice cut through the silence.
"Wow… you look nice."
Mateo turned, raising an eyebrow, and saw it—the teasing smirk. Pedri wasn't just saying it; he was milking it. His eyes sparkled with that brotherly sarcasm that only soone like Pedri could deliver without making it annoying.
Mateo's outfit, for lack of a better term, was surgical. His mother had gone all-out. He wore a crisp, buttoned-up dress shirt in soft ivory white, the collar perfectly aligned, tucked into slim-fit navy trousers that looked straight out of a catalog. A thin, elegant brown belt matched flawlessly with his polished leather loafers. His wristwatch, subtle but sleek, glinted under his sleeve. He looked like he was about to attend a high-profile wedding or lead Sunday service—not travel with a football squad.
But as Mateo looked over at Pedri, he couldn't help but chuckle.
Because Pedri's style was—well, Pedri's style.
Black jeans, fitted but casual. Spotless white sneakers, like they'd just been unboxed five minutes ago. A light grey overshirt rested effortlessly over a plain white tee, its collar slightly open, giving off an air of calm confidence. Simple, clean, but with that understated swagger. Not overdressed. Not underdressed. Just… Pedri.
Mateo smirked, shaking his head, leaning back in his seat as he shot back,
"You're one to talk."
This wasn't just Mateo's milestone—this was Pedri's first senior call-up too. And judging by his sharp outfit, the man clearly wanted to mark the mont.
Both of them had suited up—not with Barca tracksuits or casual club gear—but with purpose. Mateo in his church-best like he was about to et the Pope, and Pedri, dressed in his signature clean-but-laid-back style, trying not to act like it was a big deal when it obviously was.
"Okay, man, let's go. We're running late," Pedri announced, his hand adjusting the rearview mirror, posture upright, fingers tightening on the wheel like he was about to pull a handbrake turn.
Mateo, already annoyed, shot a glance at him, deadpan.
"And whose fault is that?"
Pedri's jaw flexed, knowing where this was going.
"And what happened to—wasn't it your brother that was going to take us to the airport?"
Mateo's eyes narrowed as he observed Pedri's casual confidence, one hand casually spinning the keys, the other lazily adjusting the gear shift. His foot was already flirting with the gas pedal, as if he'd done this a thousand tis. All that leaving imdiately the car started as he used his two hands to grip hold the steering wheel.
Then… a cold realization slapped Mateo mid-thought.
Wait a damn minute.
His hand, which had been fumbling near the seatbelt, slowly drifted downwards—sliding, like an instinctual defense chanism—towards the door handle. His fingers found it. Gripped it. Halfway opened it.
He turned his head, slowly, giving Pedri the kind of side-eye you'd give a serial killer who just offered you a ride ho.
"…Didn't you tell … you can't drive?" Mateo asked, voice trembling—not with fear, but with that mix of disbelief and raw betrayal.
Pedri, oblivious for a second, blinked at him. Then, as if insulted by the accusation, he snapped.
"Why are you looking at like that?! Bro, don't disrespect !"
The dramatics of the mont were enough to cause a nearby pigeon to scatter.
"I NEVER said I couldn't drive!" Pedri declared, hands dramatically gesturing towards the steering wheel like it was Exhibit A. "I said I don't have my license yet! There's a difference!"
Mateo's hand, still on the door handle, was now white-knuckling the grip.
Pedri wasn't done.
"Plus, I already told you, didn't I? My brother woke up today with mad cramps in his arm—couldn't even hold the keys. I had to drop him at the hospital. He's fine tho, just a cooking mishap or sothing dumb. He'll get to the airport later to pick up the car."
Pedri's tone was so nonchalant, like it was the most normal thing ever. Mateo's eye twitched. His trust issues had never been so violently triggered.
He looked at Pedri for a mont longer, suspicious, analyzing like a detective. Pedri stared back, deadpan.
Finally, Pedri sighed. "Okay… can we go now?"
Mateo sighed in defeat, slowly releasing his iron grip on the handle. He reached for his seatbelt, strapping himself in—but not before double-checking the lock, and adjusting it like a man preparing for an ergency landing.
"Yeah, yeah… just know, if you crash, I'm faking an injury and blaming you for it," Mateo muttered, voice dripping with mock seriousness.
Pedri smirked, starting the engine. The soft growl of the Cupra purred through the car as he shot back, laced with heavy sarcasm,
"Yes, yes, Mr. King, your highness, sir. Would you like to roll out a red carpet to the airport too?"
Mateo couldn't help but snort, but his hands still clutched the seatbelt like it was a lifeline. He double-checked the strap, pulling it once… then twice.
Just to be sure.
He looked over again. "And your brother… he's going to be good, right?"
Pedri's eyes were locked on the road ahead as he muttered, monotone, "Yeah. Just a cooking mishap. Nothing serious."
The car humd into motion, rolling smoothly out of the facility.
For a few monts, the banter lted into a heavy silence. Not awkward, but thick with anticipation. Two young athletes, both fresh to the senior team, embarking on a new chapter they'd always dread of but never dared fully imagine.
The city blurred past them. The roads opened ahead, smooth and steady.
Despite everything, Mateo had to admit—Pedri did know how to drive
The car rolled through the city, the soft hum of the engine blending with the blur of passing buildings and distant honks. Neither of them had spoken since they left, the air in the car weighed with a quiet tension—as if both were lost in their own tangled thoughts.
Finally, the silence cracked.
"So… we're facing Bayern Munich next," Pedri muttered.
His eyes never left the road. Hands gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles had whitened, his thumbs nervously tapping the leather like a ticking trono. He looked composed to the outside world, but the subtle stiffness in his shoulders and the rigid way he leaned towards the wheel betrayed him. He wasn't a bad driver. Far from it. But he wasn't a pro either. Not yet.
The words hung in the air. Heavy.
Mateo, seated with his elbow resting on the passenger door, had his head leaned against his hand, fingers splayed across his cheek. His eyes weren't on Pedri. They were on the window, watching people, cars, and buildings swirl into a soft mosaic as the car cut through the streets.
"Yeah," Mateo replied, his tone flat, eyes still glazed on the city passing by. "Saw it when I was coming over."
Pedri gave a small hum, the kind of resigned acknowledgnt when words aren't enough. "Well… that's gonna be a tough one."
Tough didn't even begin to cut it.
Bayern Munich.
The wall that now stood between Barcelona and the Champions League semi-finals wasn't just a team. It was a machine. A juggernaut.
Just six months ago, they had completed football's most elusive achievent: The Treble. The Bundesliga. The DFB-Pokal. The Champions League. All in one season. A feat so difficult, in the sixty-five years since it beca possible, only seven clubs had ever done it.
Even the mightiest—Liverpool, AC Milan, Real Madrid had never done it before.
But Bayern? This was their second.
They shared that rare air with only one other club.
Barcelona.
But unlike the romantic, pass-and-move artistry that defined Barça's treble-winning sides, Bayern's domination was ruthless. Cold. Efficient.
They hadn't just won their Champions League campaign last season; they had steamrolled through it. Eleven gas, eleven victories. No team could lay a glove on them.
Sa coach. Sa players. Small tweaks here and there, but the core was intact. The world expected them to do what hadn't been done apart from Real Madrid's three-peat: defend the title.
And up till now? They hadn't disappointed.
Their group stage had opened with a 4-0 demolition of Atletico Madrid—the current leaders of La Liga, mind you. They breezed through the group without tasting defeat, and in the Round of 16, they made light work of Lazio, disposing of them with clinical ease.
But… there was a sliver. A microscopic glimr.
Unlike last season's flawless campaign, this ti… they weren't untouchable. Still unbeaten, yes. But not invincible.
Atletico had managed to snag a 1-1 draw at the Allianz Arena. It wasn't much, a single point. But it was enough for desperate fans to latch onto—a straw in a storm.
And it wasn't just Bayern's aura that lood over them.
It was history.
Bayern Munich and Barcelona had faced each other eleven tis in the Champions League. Eleven battles that, for two clubs who prided themselves as football's elite, felt embarrassingly one-sided.
Seven victories belonged to Bayern.
Two to Barcelona.
It didn't help that both of those Barça wins ca at Camp Nou, in their golden years when the football gods wore Blaugrana.
Their best-ever result in Munich's backyard? A draw. Back in 2009.
The most humiliating part? Even the ghosts of ssi, Xavi, Iniesta—couldn't shift the tides against Bayern's relentless machine. For every dreamlike victory against other European giants, Bayern remained their unsolvable riddle.
Barça could be in the form of their lives… stacked with talents, unbeaten in the league, scoring goals for fun…But Bayern? Bayern always finds a way. And knowing them, it's never simple. Never.
That was the curse, wasn't it? It didn't matter how good Barcelona looked on paper. It didn't matter how high the form, how star-studded the squad, how much hope the fans conjured—against Bayern Munich, all of it crumbled. Like a cruel, recurring joke the football gods refused to retire.
In recent years, Barcelona's European ventures had been marred with one disappointnt after another. The once-mighty Catalan machine that had dazzled the continent under Pep's golden era had faded into a side haunted by collapses. Roma… Liverpool… the ghosts were many.
But all of it… all those bruises… boiled down to that night.
August 14th, 2020.
A date carved in the darkest corners of Barcelona's history. A night that had beco synonymous with disgrace, with humiliation. The night when Bayern Munich didn't just defeat Barcelona. They destroyed them.
8-2.
A scoreline that didn't sound real. A scoreline that sounded more like a cruel video ga simulation than the quarterfinals of the UEFA Champions League. But it happened. In Lisbon, on that suffocating sumr night, the Spanish giants had been humbled, dismantled, embarrassed in front of the whole world.
It wasn't a bad day at the office. It wasn't a fluke. It was a demolition. Systematic and rciless.
Pedri felt his jaw clench involuntarily as the mory crashed back into him. His hands, which were already tense from gripping the steering wheel, tightened further, his fingers pressing into the leather until it creaked softly beneath his grip.
He had been a Barcelona player then. Technically. Signed nearly a year before that disastrous night, though he was still plying his trade at Las Palmas, sharpening his skills, biding his ti until he would join the first team.
That evening, he had sat in his small apartnt in Gran Canaria, the TV screen lit up, eager to see how his future team no—his club—would fare against the Bavarians.
He had tuned in with excitent.
That excitent had bled into disbelief.
Then spiraled into helpless despair.
Pedri hadn't even developed an emotional bond with the club yet. At least Not like he had now. Back then, he was a prospect, a promising kid whose heart was still rooted in his boyhood club. But watching that ga? Watching his future get thrashed on the grandest stage?
It had been a gut punch. He hadn't bled for Barcelona yet, but watching that night, sothing in him had.
But even that… even his ache… was overshadowed in that mont.
Mateo was different from Pedri.
For Pedri, Barcelona had been a destination—a dream reached after years of hard work, but still a place he had grown into loving. Mateo? Mateo was Barcelona.
He had grown up in its veins, lived within the red brick walls of La Masia, eaten under its banners, trained on its sacred grass, and dreamt of wearing that crest with a devotion that wasn't just professional. It was personal.
He had cried when they lost.
Cried when the coback in Ro smashed them.
Cried when Anfield erupted into a night of nightmares.
In recent years, the tears had co more often than not. The club was bleeding, and so was he.
But strangely… on that night—that night—he hadn't cried.
August 14th, 2020.
He had been there, in the common room at La Masia. The place was full, filled with students and academy staff. Everyone had gathered to watch their beloved club fight in the Champions League quarter-finals. There was optimism, cautious but present. When Bayern scored early, the room had erupted in groans, only for hope to surge when Barça equalized. Cheers rang out. Maybe, just maybe, they could take this.
Then ca the second goal.
Then the third.
The fourth.
The mood shifted from tense optimism to silent dread. One by one, students began slipping out of the room. Staff mbers who couldn't bear to watch left in awkward mutters. So returned in a flurry of hope when Barcelona clawed a second goal back. A glimr of life.
But that hope was butchered in real ti—by a certain Alphonso Davies, weaving through defenders like a phantom, laying it off for Kimmich to slot into an empty net. The common room went still.
What followed after was no longer football.
The sixth, the seventh, the eighth.
Two of them courtesy of a man wearing their own crest—Philippe Coutinho, on loan to Bayern, twisting the knife with assists and goals like a Shakespearean betrayal.
It was horrific.
And Mateo? Mateo had just sat there.
He hadn't left. He hadn't scread obscenities or thrown tantrums. He hadn't cried.
He just sat, eyes dead, locked on the screen. His body frozen, but his insides churning. That night, what coursed through him wasn't sorrow—it was rage.
His hands had started shaking, not unlike those images of Sir Alex Ferguson during the 2011 Champions League final, hands trembling as he watched his team get outclassed.
But Ferguson's hands had trembled with nerves.
Mateo's hands trembled with fury.
Pure, unfiltered rage.
The sa rage that, even now, in Pedri's car, had returned.
His left hand, clenched into a tight fist, was shaking once more.
His jaw tightened.
It wasn't like the other defeats. Ro had brought sorrow. Anfield had brought heartbreak.
But Bayern? Bayern had sparked sothing different in him that night.
Sothing that didn't cry.
Sothing that wanted revenge.
But he knew—deep down—that this feeling, this burning anger swelling in his chest, wouldn't help him one bit.
Bayern Munich was not a team you could beat with sothing as trivial as anger.
Mateo knew that.
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as the car humd along the road. After Barcelona's qualification to the quarter-finals, he had spent hours—nights even—studying every possible opponent. Watching match tapes, analyzing formations, combing through injury reports, even tracking live alerts from fan forums and tactical breakdowns.
Preparation was the only edge you had in monts like these.
And now, as he sat in the passenger seat, head against the window, he scrolled through every fact he knew about Bayern Munich.
This season, like most teams, Bayern weren't untouchable. They had their own struggles—an ever-growing injury list that included two key pieces from that infamous 2020 annihilation: Alphonso Davies and Serge Gnabry.
Davies, the Canadian bullet train, was battling an ankle problem. His return was uncertain. Gnabry had it worse—declared out for the upcoming quarter-finals. Even so of Bayern's depth players were sidelined.
Normally, news like this would bring comfort. A grin, perhaps. A small sigh of relief.
But Mateo wasn't fooled.
He knew exactly why Bayern Munich were feared. Injuries, tactics, even venue advantages were secondary.
Their terror could be distilled into one singular na.
Lewandowski.
The Polish Machine.
A man who had broken football's unwritten rules of limits. A man who had scored over 50 goals last season, outscoring not just ssi, not just Ronaldo, but obliterating them with ruthless efficiency. Fifteen of those goals had co in the Champions League alone, in a season where the second legs of knockout ties had been scrapped due to the pandemic.
He was a man who had been cruelly denied his 2020 Ballon d'Or—cheated by circumstances. Yet, he didn't need a golden trophy to prove he was the apex predator of Europe. His performances had already declared it.
And this season? Lewandowski wasn't just replicating his form—he was surpassing it. He had already shattered his dostic scoring tally, now gunning for the sacred Bundesliga record of 40 league goals, held by the legendary Gerd Müller.
Mateo thought back to the system note—the one etched in his mind like a branded seal. If he closed his eyes, even for a second, he could still see it. Crystal clear.
A ranking.
Top 3 strikers in the world.
His na was there as indicated by the system.
He knew it. The world knew it.
But he knew so was Lewandowski's.
And if Mateo was being brutally honest with himself, if he stripped away all pride and bravado, Lewandowski wasn't third. Hell, he didn't even think he was second.
That was the level he was about to face.
That's who Mateo was up against.
His hand trembled harder, every muscle in his forearm tensing, as if his body itself was reacting to the sheer weight of the challenge.
But then—
A voice. A mory.
Echoing through his head.
"I want to win the Champions League this season."
ssi's words. Simple. Calm. Yet so loaded with conviction that even now, just thinking about it, Mateo felt the air shift around him.
That conversation flashed in his mind—the way ssi had said it, not as a boast, but as a truth. As a mission statent.
Lewandowski might have been a monster.
But Barcelona wasn't lacking in monsters either.
His hand stopped shaking.
Just like that, the tremors vanished, as if his body had realigned itself, centered by that mory. His fist unclenched, fingers spreading open, resting now with purpose rather than tension.
A small smile crept onto his lips.
Don't rely on anyone. Didn't you say you wanted that pressure?
He could hear his own voice now, challenging himself, mocking the doubts.
He smiled wider.
He wasn't that helpless kid anymore.
The boy who had once sat frozen, forced to watch his team get humiliated.
No.
That boy was gone.
Now—he too was a monster.
And he was ready.
Ready to run amok on that stage.
A/N
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