"Ooo he's in—he's in! He's in! Is it? Yes, it is! OH MY GOD THAT THAT THAT I'm lost for words what was that ooo"
The voice of the comntator tore through the stadium noise like lightning. "Seven minutes into the ga, and yes—it's just as you guessed—ssi! I an, who else? Who else could strike like that? And he has delivered again!"
The roar of Camp Nou was deafening. The crowd was a sea of arms, flags, and disbelief. ssi stood near the corner flag, arms spread, head tilted slightly back, a soft grin forming as his teammates rushed him, the sound of joy shaking the ground.
"There were talks of a new engine at Barça, a new era," the comntator continued, his voice brimming with excitent. "But co on—as long as this little beautiful man is still at the club, it will always be his as long as Lionel ssi is still playing the beautiful ga there can be no new era! What. A. Goal!"
"Carlos," his partner cut in, breathless but composed, "what's even more important right now—with this goal as of right now, Barcelona have levelled with Atlético! Sa number of points now! Yes, Atlético still have a ga in hand, and by La Liga H2H rules they're technically still first, but… I'm honestly shocked. Who could have imagined this happening just a few months ago?"
"You're right, Maldini," Carlos replied with energy pulsing through his tone. "I an, let's not forget how poor their start to the season was. This—this is the first ti they've even been within three points of the league leaders! and now they are levelled!!! People had written them off completely, said the club was finished, but what a turnaround this has been."
He paused for emphasis before continuing, voice rising with pride. "They're leading Bayern, the defending champions, in the quarter-finals of the Champions League, and now—just seven minutes into this ga—they've tied with Atlético at the top of La Liga. Who could have imagined it?"
"What do you an who could have imagined, Carlos?" Maldini shot back with a grin in his voice. "You know who."
And then the stadium caras panned upward. The image on the giant screen shifted from ssi's calm, burning celebration to the stands—where a familiar figure stood, his energy raw and unfiltered. Mateo King.
He was on his feet, fists clenched, shouting, jumping, almost shaking with excitent. His face was alive with emotion—like the goal had co from his own boot. The fans near him were swept up in it too, clapping, laughing, recording his reaction.
"You can see what that goal ans to him—to the kid, no, to the force many people credit for Barcelona's revival!" Carlos exclaid. "What a story! What a player! Many are still talking about his new contract and whether he deserves it, but honestly—if you've watched this kid this season, you know it's worth every cent. He's been nothing short of transformative. What a talent. Let's see just how far he can go."
Maldini's voice suddenly sharpened, half shouting, half gasping: "Carlos—look, look—they're pushing again!"
...
"¡Vamos! ¡Vamos!"
Mateo was on his feet, screaming at the top of his lungs, the kind of scream that vibrated through the stands and caught the attention of nearby fans. A few turned to glance at him, caught between amusent and awe, shouting back, "¡Visca Barça!" and he imdiately fired back, "¡Visca Barça!" with an infectious energy that made anyone nearby grin the Barca fans who were seated with him was so thrilled to see their Starboy love for the club. He didn't even know why he had stood up when ssi received the ball from the midfield—a pass from Mateo himself—but instinctively, he had. And he had not been disappointed.
ssi, in full stride, was poetry in motion. Mateo's eyes followed him from the stands as he watched as ssi dribbled past Pedro Alcalá, weaving around Alfonso Espino and Álex Fernández with fluid, almost untouchable grace. Perea and Jairo were closing in, desperate to block him, but ssi's composure was flawless. With tight precision, he released the ball, threading it into the net with a margin so small it was almost miraculous.
Mateo sat back for a second, mouth slightly open, marveling at what he had just witnessed. What made it even more surreal was that, in this tiline, this goal was never ant to happen here. In the main universe, it was scheduled to appear during a Copa del Rey final against Athletic Bilbao—a goal that would have instantly gone down as one of if not ssi's best. But due to the circumstances in Mateo's universe, it was now unfolding here, at match day 33 against Cádiz CF, seven minutes in.
And for Mateo and everyone else watching in that mont, none of that history mattered. All they knew was that ssi had just done sothing that felt straight out of fiction. And thanks to that Barcelona were leading 1-0.
"Fuck! See that goal! Ha ha!" Mateo laughed, collapsing back into his seat with a wide, almost uncontrollable grin. His face radiated joy, still lit up from the sheer brilliance of what he had just seen.
Beside him, Fati turned, eyes wide. "That goal was insane."
"Unreal," Coutinho added, sitting next to Fati, shaking his head in disbelief, still catching his breath.
Balde, seated just in front of them, leaned back and smirked. "He practically just gave Pedri a free-assist there."
Gavi, laughing alongside them, chid in, "If this is how they dash out assists in the first team, it wouldn't hurt to co play soon."
The group—Mateo, Fati, Coutinho, and Braithwaite—sat together in the sa row, buzzing from the goal, while directly in front of them were Mateo's friends, the La Masia students, occupying their seats, still in disbelief at the sheer magic they had just witnessed.
The conversation had barely begun to settle when laughter erupted again, this ti at the expense of Lamine.
"I'm telling the truth! I did a play like that too in the tournant!" Lamine said, half-protesting, half-proud.
Mateo reached over, lightly touching his shoulder with a sarcastic smile. "Sure you did."
Lamine's eyes widened, realizing Mateo wasn't buying it. "Well, it wasn't exactly the sa! Mine was just against three players, plus I didn't score—I made the assist at the last minute, but everything else was the sa. I also cut in after making a run from midfield!" He gestured animatedly as Mateo and the others listened, clearly amused. "You can ask Curbasi and Bernal—they'd tell you."
"Hey, Curbasi, didn't I—" Lamine started, turning to glance at Curbasi, hoping for the confirmation. Lamine didn't know why but when it ca to bragging especially in front of Mateo he always wanted to, since joining La Masia, ever since he first laid eyes on Mateo, he had always looked up to the striker. It wasn't just admiration—it was almost reverence. Despite being only three years and a few months younger than Mateo, Lamine couldn't help it. Mateo had this magnetic aura about him, a presence that drew almost everyone in the lower classes at La Masia like moths to a fla. He was, without question, the golden boy of the entire institution.
But for Lamine, it was different. He didn't just idolize Mateo; he wanted to emulate him. And Mateo, in his generosity, had never made them feel small or insignificant because of the age gap. He played with them, laughed with them, made training fun, and treated them like equals. Then, when Mateo debuted for the first team, that dream just grew ten tis more. To Lamine, Mateo wasn't just a player anymore—he was the benchmark, the ultimate goal. Everyone at La Masia dread of breaking into the first team, but Mateo had done it in a matter of matches, and he had beco a complete, unstoppable force. For Lamine, impressing him had beco a personal mission of his.
But before Lamine could finish, before he could fully get the words out to confirm the goal he had created, the entire room shifted. All at once, the attention of the La Masia students, Mateo, Fati, Gavi, and even the other attendees in the stadium, turned sharply toward the field. The movent wasn't subtle; with many even shouting, "Go! Go! Pass! Pass!" The excitent, the energy—it was contagious. Lamine's head whipped toward the pitch. Only one thing could trigger such a reaction, and he knew imdiately: Barcelona was attacking again.
Just one minute after the goal, Barcelona was already on the move. Lamine's eyes scanned the field, tracking the ball instinctively. He didn't need to know how Cádiz had lost possession after the restart. All he needed to know was the ball was moving fast, and his team was surging forward. He quickly pinpointed Griezmann running down the flank, his determination clear, his body angled to slice through the opposition. Dembele streaked alongside him, the ball glued to his feet as Cádiz defenders—three in perfect formation—scrambled desperately to cover him.
Griezmann flicked the ball across to Dembele in a crisp, clean pass. The crowd erupted, half in cheers, half in urgent shouts. Lamine echoed them instinctively, "Pass! Pass!" The urgency wasn't wasted: ssi was already darting in from the side, his run tid perfectly. Dembele, in a move that made even the seasoned La Masia students gasp, sent a no-look pass—a precise, almost casual flick—allowing ssi to surge in behind him.
The Cádiz keeper ca charging out, trying to close down the angle, but ssi, calm and calculating, chipped him with a delicate touch. The ball floated gracefully over the keeper's outstretched hands and into the net. The stadium erupted before the ball had even fully settled. Lamine, along with everyone else in the stands, nearly jumped from his seat, fists pumping, hearts racing, shouting instinctively. The goal wasn't just a score—it was art, it was ssi, it was perfection in motion.
"Goall! Goall!"
The Camp Nou erupted, a tidal wave of sound cascading from the stands as Barcelona fans launched into their familiar, jubilant chant for their captain. The lody soared, joyous and infectious, carrying the excitent of the stadium high above the pitch. Just fifty seconds after opening the scoring, ssi had doubled his tally, putting a brace on the board within the first ten minutes of the ga. And yet, the real spectacle wasn't just ssi's brilliance—it was Mateo, the teenage prodigy, who had beco an emblem of joy in the stands. He was standing, leaning forward, hands pumping the air, singing along, laughing, and making faces that perfectly mirrored the happiness of the thousands around him.
Outside the stadium, the internet erupted. "Mateo is just another ssi lover!" "He's just like us!" ran through social feeds, trending relentlessly. Clips of his goofy smiles, his exaggerated celebrations, his obvious love for the ga were shared everywhere. Anyone watching could see it: this kid truly adored football. And for Barcelona fans, it wasn't only the spectators at the stadium who felt it. Those watching from ho experienced the sa electricity. Seeing their young starboy react with such pure passion created a chemical joy, a rush only football could conjure.
After enjoying a mont with the fans, Mateo settled back into his seat, still grinning, still buzzing with energy as he watched the match unfold. Barcelona was now two goals up, but Cádiz, rather than responding aggressively, adopted an uncharacteristically defensive strategy. For the first thirty minutes, Barcelona dominated completely, racking up an astonishing 87% possession. Cádiz hadn't managed a single shot on target. Their only real chance ca after De Jong slipped in midfield, allowing Jonsson to pounce on the ball. He released a through pass to Álvaro Negredo, who had a clear path toward goal. But Pedri, never one to give up, sprinted after him, sliding in at the precise mont to snatch the ball cleanly from under his feet. Cádiz protested, but the referee waved them off without a second thought.
For Barcelona, the standout mont ca in the 24th minute, a testant to Ousmane Dembélé's sheer brilliance. From his no-look assist in the eighth minute to this point, he had been untouchable. Alba sent a wide pass from the left, and Dembélé drifted to the right, his pace electric. Two defenders tried to contain him, but he toyed with them, feinting, faking a shot, drawing the keeper out. In the center, Griezmann had been ready, but the finish eluded him. Yet it was Dembélé's brilliance in movent, in creativity, that left everyone watching in awe. From dribbles to crosses, to perfectly tid passes, he was a force. The coaching staff, seasoned veterans though they were, simply shook their heads in appreciation; the fans roared in approval. It was known—on his day, Dembélé could be one of the best players on the planet. The problem had always been consistency. But today, he was untouchable.
By the 36th minute, he struck again. A rare counter unfolded, Cádiz venturing out despite their usual cautious approach. ssi, seeing the gap, threaded a pinpoint through ball to Griezmann, who in turn shifted it sideways into Dembélé's path. He accelerated into the box, a burst of power and precision, and finished cleanly. The scoreboard flashed: 3-0. Camp Nou vibrated with the roar of the crowd, echoing the perfection of the move, the fluidity of the connection, and the sheer brilliance of the trio—ssi, Griezmann, and Dembélé.
And that wasn't even the end of the half. By the 43rd minute, Cádiz were completely backed into their own half, playing a defensive shell that Barcelona had already dissected with ease. Dembélé, electric as ever, found a tiny sliver of space down the right. With the ball glued to his feet, he weaved past one defender, then another, his pace blurring their attempts to stop him. Approaching the edge of the box, he didn't take the shot himself. Instead, with the calm of a veteran, he cut the ball back to ssi. The Argentine didn't hesitate—he struck it with precision, the ball sliding dead to the corner. The Cádiz keeper barely moved; the shot was immaculate.
Barcelona 4, Cádiz 0. ssi had completed his hat-trick. Dembélé had already racked up two assists and a goal, Griezmann had one assist, and Pedri's earlier contribution had set the tone. The team was on fire, moving like a well-oiled machine. Every pass, every run, every interplay seed preordained, the chemistry undeniable.
Fans in the stadium were ecstatic, so laughing and joking about how unstoppable Barcelona looked. Online, the comntary was even wilder. A bold fan had started videoing Mateo, holding the cara up, shouting, "How does it feel, bro, if you were in the ga you'd already be on a hat-trick?" Others added their voices: "Mateo would've had six by now!".
Mateo, seated comfortably amid the cheers, just smiled and laughed. He'd stopped the over-the-top celebration after the third goal, his grin now more subtle, almost knowing. The ga, in his mind, was already done. No one—not even Cádiz themselves thought they could mount a coback with this level of precision and firepower. As players retreated to the tunnel for halfti, he waved at a few, sharing a quick nod here, a grin there, continuing his conversations with the people around him. Martin Braithwaite, as usual, was glued to his phone, scrolling away, but the others eagerly engaged.
Much of the discussion centered on Coutinho, the Brazilian attacking midfielder. Questions flew fast: "How did the Premier League's training compare to La Masia's?" "Was the pace really as brutal as they say?" "What's the biggest difference in match intensity?" Even the smaller nuances—how players managed transitions, positioning, or pressing—were dissected. For these Spanish-born, Barcelona-bound La Masia students, the Premier League was a distant, almost mythical land. Few had ever considered leaving their ho club, let alone the league, but curiosity burned: how did the other side train? What made it 'the best league in the world'?
Coutinho, once one of the brightest stars in England, answered patiently. He spoke of the physical intensity, the tactical discipline, the relentless tempo of matches, and the subtle differences in positional play and decision-making. He compared it to La Masia, where developnt wasn't just about producing professional players—any top-class academy could do that—but creating world-class talent consistently. ssi, Xavi, Iniesta, and even the small boy sitting near him were proof of that. The students leaned in, eyes wide, absorbing every detail, asking more questions: "What about set-piece routines?" "How often did you practice under pressure?" "How did you manage recovery after long matches?"
Even amid these intense conversations, they didn't miss the match. Cheers erupted, groans followed near-misses, and laughter echoed across the seats. The energy in the room blended perfectly with the energy on the pitch, creating a rare, almost intoxicating atmosphere.
By the 68th minute, after over twenty minutes of relentless Barcelona possession and Cádiz desperately defending, the next breakthrough finally ca. Barcelona scored their fifth goal, adding yet another layer of dominance and celebration to the match.
This ti from an insane free-kick from twenty-five yards out—the pri ssi spot—Barcelona struck again. The foul on Dembélé on the right side of the pitch had given ssi the perfect opportunity, and a hot, focused ssi in that position the freekick was practically a penalty. He didn't disappoint. The ball sailed with precision, curling just past the wall and over the desperate dive of the Cádiz keeper, who stretched every inch but couldn't get a hand on it. The stadium erupted once more. ssi had secured his fourth goal of the ga, and Barcelona's dominance was now unmistakable.
With the scoreline already emphatic, both Koeman and Álvaro Cervera began making substitutions. Both coaches had reached the sa conclusion: the ga was effectively over, though their reasoning differed. Cervera, resigning to defeat, rotated his defenders and midfielders, pushing his team into a more aggressive posture He wasn't about to give a clean sheet to Barcelona. Koeman, anwhile, made tactical substitutions for a different reason entirely—rest. Key players needed recovery ahead of their crucial clash with Bayern Munich in just three days. So of the first-team regulars were removed simply to protect them, others because the margin was wide enough to allow for experintation.
By the 70th minute, both Pedri and De Jong were substituted, effectively removing two of Barcelona's midfield core. ssi was taken off in the 79th minute, passing the captain's armband to Sergio Busquets. Lenglet and Alba followed in the 85th minute, exhausting all five available substitutes. with the rotation and the slight uptick in Cádiz's aggression, the result of that was already written.
Sure enough, in the 87th minute, Cádiz managed to breach Barcelona's defense for the first ti. Substitute Iván Alejo unleashed a ridiculous outside-foot strike from the right side, catching Ter Stegen slightly off guard. The ball kissed the back of the net, Cádiz's first and only goal of the match. While the goal hardly threatened the outco, it offered a small, bittersweet relief to Cervera, who at least got to see his team notch one score against a relentless opponent.
The drama wasn't finished yet. In the 93rd minute, just over a minute past the allocated stoppage ti, Barcelona struck again. Dembélé, relentless and explosive, carved open the Cádiz defence once more, finishing with his second goal of the night the sixth of Barca's and the seventh of the night. The stadium exploded. The Cádiz players, fans, and coaching staff were furious, storming toward the referees and demanding why the ga hadn't ended sooner. Their frustration boiled over, resulting in three red cards—Cervera and two players sent off. For Koeman, the goal and the final whistle were a much-needed confidence boost. Recently Critics had been questioning whether the team was overly dependent on Mateo since the striker was scoring almost all Barca goals recently and whether their depth could sustain results. A goal fest 6-1 win against the 12th-place team silenced many doubts and reaffird the squad's trajectory.
.....
None of that mattered to Mateo and his group. After the match, they made their way down to the locker room, laughter echoing in the corridors as players celebrated around them. Mateo had brought along the younger kids—Lamine, Curbasi, and Bernal—who were ecstatic, filming and laughing as they interacted with their idols. Every encounter with ssi was unforgettable. Though many had t him before, seeing him receive another Man of the Match award was sothing else entirely. Dembélé had been a major contender with two goals and two assists, but ssi's four-goal masterclass secured his accolade once more, adding to his already staggering collection.
The match also served as a public rebuttal to the online trolls claiming ssi couldn't score again. The scoreboard—6-1—and the quality of the performance told a different story. ssi's brilliance, complented by the team's energy, had rendered the skeptics irrelevant.
For Mateo, the rest of the day beca a blur of excitent. After leaving the locker room, the La Masia kids were whisked away by Fati to a luxurious restaurant, where laughter and conversation flowed freely. They returned to the dorm; the day was so fun the older students even allowed the younger ones an almost unprecedented opportunity: a round of FIFA. The room buzzed with energy until Marc Bernal delivered a crushing 7-3 victory over Mateo, nearly driving the overly competitive striker to madness. The others laughed, mocked, and recorded every mont, centing it as yet another mory for them to use to laugh against Mateo.
It had been a much-needed day for him—a day of reprieve, fun, and connection with friends. But as the evening drew near, a reminder of responsibility arrived. Mateo was called out by the dorm supervisor.
So there he stood. The evening had settled into a calm hush, the La Masia dorms a few ters away where he guessed the older students were still wrapped up in their FIFA battles. That, however, was far from his mind. Mateo stood upright, a piece of paper in his hand, scanning it carefully. The dim light of the hallway highlighted the edges of the sheet as he studied it, anticipation mixing with curiosity.
Dieting Plan for Mateo King
What Mateo was holding in his hands imdiately caught his attention—a neatly folded sheet, officially stamped by the club. It was his new dieting plan. Soone from the club had personally delivered it, specially tailored for him, optimized not just for strength, but for stamina. The idea was simple: make sure Mateo could sustain his explosive style from minute one to the final whistle, without fading like so many before him.
He unfolded the paper and scanned the list. It was filled with the usual suspects for a stamina-focused diet: bland, tasteless foods, boiled vegetables, lean proteins, and carbohydrate portions carefully asured for energy release. Yet sohow, even as he looked at the uninspiring lineup, a smile crept across his face. Maybe it was the thought of the challenge ahead, or the fact that he loved pushing himself to the limit.
Truth be told, Mateo couldn't wait to start. He had already set a personal goal: to be able to play a full 90-minute match by the ti El Clásico rolled around, and absolutely by the Champions League final, if and when they made it that far.
Normally, he would start feeling drained around the 75th minute—an issue that had now beco a major concern at La Masia. Youth players weren't really expected to step directly into professional matches and perform at peak stamina, so the academy never really focused on that too much. Yet here he was, an anomaly among anomalies, defying the standard showing the club they had so flaws to their training plans.
The academy's youth directors had grumbled, gawked, and rewritten parts of the training schedule so on the rare chance a situation like Mateo ca up again the player would be fully ready. much to the dismay of Gavi and the others.
But Mateo wasn't bothered. He knew that most players in his situation wouldn't even dream of eting the stamina requirents until halfway through the next season, just as the club's dical director had warned.
Mateo, however, had never been "most players." And perhaps to mock the very idea of limitations, a new ability had erged after the Bayern ga. He could still rember it vividly. Just after stepping off the pitch at the Allianz Arena, following the late picture with Pedri and the team, as he walked back toward the bus, he had heard it—a quiet, undeniable whisper of ability, promising more than anyone expected.
[ding] — the iconic sound of the system echoed in Mateo's ears, and what followed was just as unmistakable:
[Sign-in detected: Stellar performance — Hat trick staged in the Champions League quarterfinals at the Allianz Arena. Host receives new ability: Kimmich ntality]
At first, Mateo was puzzled. His initial hope was that this wasn't so gimmick—nothing like the Ronaldinho Lucky Charm nonsense he had gotten before. But as he sat on the bus, scrolling through the system's description, the reality settled in.
[Ability: Kimmich ntality]Effect: Greatly boosts match focus and ntal clarity, helping the player stay calm under pressure, ignore critics, and maintain peak performance while pursuing a desired result. When fully concentrated on a single training session for a low or average Physical attribute, it doubles the improvent gained—but only if the host is completely free of distractions and wholly focused.]
Mateo read through it again, a smile slowly spreading across his face. He couldn't use it to boost his already high stats like imagine he started training his speed under this effect—but this was precisely the tool he needed for his stamina training it was like it was tailored just for it. For the focus requirent? Mateo didn't even blink. At sixteen, with no vices or distractions and endless amount of desire to beco great, he was about as pure a host as the system could have hoped for.
Unbeknownst to him, however, fate had a little irony in store. Right now, sowhere in the airport in La, the world's greatest human temptations—the vices that no man could resist—were quietly assembling, ready to board a plane bound for Spain.
A/N
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