Ronaldo Nazário, O Fenômeno—The Alien. A name that stands among the greatest to ever grace the sport, a legend whose legacy is etched into football history. He was not just a striker; he was an unstoppable force of nature, a man who redefined the very art of attacking football. His devastating finishing, explosive dribbling, and sheer dominance on the pitch made him a spectacle to behold. From his historic World Cup triumphs to his tragic battles with injuries, Ronaldo was a living embodiment of joga bonito—the beautiful game.
Yet, amidst all the brilliance, one of his most terrifying attributes often goes underappreciated—his speed. Not just raw pace, but speed with the ball at his feet. He wasn't just fast—he was one ofthe fastest. Faster than Bale, faster than Cristiano Ronaldo, faster than Davies, Kyle Walker, or anyone else in their prime. His acceleration was unnatural, his strides devoured the pitch, and when he ran, defenders felt helpless. Perhaps only Thierry Henry and Kylian Mbappé could rival him, but for those who watched Ronaldo in his short-lived, godlike prime, there was no debate—he was the ultimate speedster with the ball.
And now, that same exhilarating speed was rushing through Mateo's legs.
The 17-year-old Spanish-born talent felt an electric surge coursing through his body, his muscles tingling with the same uncontainable energy. His body moved before his mind even registered it, an instinctive burst of motion. An afterimage of himself seemed to flicker in his vision—a ghostly blur of speed. His heartbeat pounded like a war drum, his breath came quick, but his grin only widened. He jogged back into position, tilting his head toward the scoreboard.
"Eight minutes left. Still enough time."
Assigned to an unfamiliar midfield role, Mateo scanned the field, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The game had resumed, but something felt…off. His grin faded slightly, replaced by a small frown. The Barcelona players around him moved sluggishly, their shoulders slumped, their eyes vacant. There was no fire left in them. No fight.
Huesca had possession, yet the two other Barça midfielders barely reacted. Instead of pressing, they merely stepped back, hesitant and passive. No one wanted to chase, no one wanted to fight. They were waiting—for what, Mateo didn't know.
And he wasn't the only one who noticed.
A deafening storm of boos rained down from the stands, the discontent of the fans echoing across the stadium. It was not just frustration—it was disgust. Barcelona's crest demanded resilience, passion, the spirit of warriors. But all they saw was surrender.
Mateo exhaled sharply.
"What should I do?"
His question was answered the moment a Huesca midfielder received a pass. Without thinking, Mateo surged forward, slamming his shoulder into his opponent, sending him stumbling off balance. The ball had already been played away, but that didn't matter.
The way Huesca moved... they were sluggish too.
A slow grin crept back onto Mateo's face.
"I know what to do."
Mateo wasn't the only one grinning.
Across the pitch, another player wore a full-blown, toothy smile—Huesca's midfielder, García.
For him, this was more than just a good game. It was the best game of his career. He had already racked up an assist and scored a spectacular long-range effort, a goal so sweet it belonged in highlight reels. Everything was going right. Every touch, every pass, every movement—perfect. He felt untouchable, as if the football gods had chosen this night to bless him.
And in the back of his mind, bigger thoughts had started creeping in.
This performance could change everything.
For lower-division players like him, a match like this—against a European giant, against world-class talents bought for hundreds of millions—could shape their entire future. He knew scouts were always watching. If he outplayed these stars, someone would notice.
"Would a better team sign me now? Maybe a middle-table La Liga club? Anything but going back to the lower division..." he mused.
Or maybe he should stay at Huesca but demand a raise. Yeah, a big salary bump, he thought, feeling his grin widen. His mind drifted further.
"After the match, where should I celebrate? I heard there's a great club nearby…"
García was so lost in his own world of ambition and plans that he barely registered the ball being passed to him. He trapped it with his foot absentmindedly, standing still for just a second.
A second too long.
Because hurtling toward him like an unstoppable freight train was something he had failed to see.
Or rather, someone.
Rick, another Huesca midfielder—the one who had passed García the ball—was the first to realize the impending disaster. He caught a blur of motion from the corner of his eye, a streak of blue and red slicing through the pitch. The speed was unreal, too fast for his mind to process, but his instincts screamed at him.
"Pass! Pass! Behind you, Garcíaaaa!" he bellowed, panic surging through his voice.
García blinked, confused by the urgency. Why is he shouting? he wondered.
Then, he turned.
And his blood ran cold.
A face—right there—so close that it nearly made him stumble back in fear.
Mateo's eyes burned with focus, a predator locked onto its prey. He was already upon García, and before the Huesca midfielder could react, he was gone.
"That's reckless..." García thought in a daze.
Then he looked down.
No ball.
His heart sank. Shit.
Jerking his head back up, he spun frantically to find the ball thief. But Mateo was already halfway down the pitch, tearing through the grass at an impossible speed.
García's mind screamed in disbelief.
"How?! How is he so fast?! Who even is that?!"
While García stood frozen in shock, Huesca's defenders didn't have the luxury of time. They had seen the ball get stolen, had seen the sudden blur explode past their midfield. Now, they scrambled into action, yelling at one another, desperate to reorganize.
But it was chaos.
Barcelona's lack of attacking urgency earlier had left Huesca's defense in disarray—players out of position, gaps wide open, confusion setting in. Still, the center-backs reacted. They turned, sprinting back, their muscles burning as they tried to match the speed of the storm that had just been unleashed upon them.
And then, before they could even adjust—whoosh!
A gust of wind brushed past them.
Mateo was already gone.
"What the—?" The defenders barely had time to register their shock.
Mateo felt weightless. The sensation was unreal. The wind roared in his ears, slamming against his skin, as if he had broken through an invisible barrier. He wasn't just running—he was flying. His legs moved in perfect harmony with the ball, the leather sphere seemingly glued to his feet.
No hesitation. No doubt. Only pure, unfiltered speed.
Ahead of him, the final obstacle stood—Huesca's goalkeeper, Fernández.
Fernández had seen enough.
Watching his defenders get obliterated, he knew he couldn't afford to wait. If he hesitated, he'd be picking the ball out of his net in seconds.
So he made a decision.
Abandon the goal. Charge forward. Cut off the angles.
He sprinted out, making his frame as large as possible, throwing himself into the moment with unshakable confidence.
Mateo saw him coming.
And as he did, his grin stretched even wider.
Mateo's grin stretched even wider, wild and untamed, mirroring the chaos around him.
This was exactly why he had been selected for Barcelona's first team. Not for his passing. Not for his tactical awareness. No, there was one reason and one reason only—his dead-ball mastery and lethal finishing. Mateo had always been a born goal-scorer, a player who lived for the final moment, the last strike, the killer touch.
And now, with the goalkeeper rushing at him, this was his moment.
Fernández, desperate to salvage the situation, lunged forward, his towering frame cutting down the shooting angles. He threw himself to the ground, arms outstretched, fully committing to blocking whatever shot was coming.
Mateo saw it all happen in a split second.
And he knew exactly what to do.
It was a move every Barcelona fan—home or abroad—had seen before. A move made famous by another teammate, a trick beloved by those who played FIFA, the legendary OX combo—a Dembele special.
Still in mid-stride, Mateo raised his right leg as if he was about to hammer the ball towards goal. Fernández took the bait, diving in anticipation, his body collapsing onto the grass to stop the shot.
But there was no shot.
Instead, with ice-cold composure, Mateo gently lifted the ball, lofting it into the air.
The stadium collectively held its breath.
Fernández, now fully sprawled on the ground, eyes wide in horror, stretched out his hands, desperately clawing at the empty space above him. But it was too late.
The ball soared over him, an elegant, effortless chip, and time seemed to slow as it sailed toward its inevitable destination.
And then—
Swish.
The net rippled.
For a second, there was silence.
Then—an explosion.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!"
"WHAT KIND OF SPEED WAS THAT?! SINCE WHEN DID BARCELONA SIGN A SPORTS CAR?!"
"DID YOU SEE THE CHIP?! MY GOD, THAT WAS NASTY!"
"DO YOU THINK THAT WAS AN HOMAGE TO MESSI, WHO WAS SENT OFF?"
"WHATEVER IT WAS, IT WAS BRILLIANT!"
The commentators screamed in disbelief, their voices struggling to keep up with the sheer madness of what they had just witnessed.
And then the stadium erupted.
The fans, still catching up with what had just happened, roared to life, their delayed reaction only making the noise louder. The vibrations of the celebration echoed through the stands, and yet, even amidst all the madness, there was something almost comical about the scene.
Because while the crowd was losing their minds, the Barcelona players were still in their own half.
Not a single one had reacted to Mateo's run.
Some of it was due to their own lack of motivation, still mentally shackled by the mess the game had become. But another part? They simply couldn't keep up with him. By the time most of them realized what was happening—the goal was already scored.
Eight seconds.
Maybe ten.
From stealing the ball to weaving past defenders to the audacious chip—Mateo had done it all in a matter of seconds.
And now, as the ball rolled back out of the net, he wasted no time.
He dashed in, snatching it up in his arms before immediately sprinting back to the center circle. His energy was infectious. The sheer hunger in his movements sent a message louder than words ever could—this game wasn't over.
That was when the rest of the Barcelona players finally snapped out of their daze.
One by one, they rushed to him.
"Mateo, that was insane!" Pedri grinned, patting his back.
"Dude, how the hell are you that fast?!" another player laughed, shaking his head.
"Nice one, kid!" came another voice, full of admiration.
They surrounded him, words overlapping, hands ruffling his hair, congratulatory slaps landing on his back. Mateo, still breathing hard, smiled. He lived for moments like this.
Then—
A firm, commanding voice cut through the noise.
"Alright, guys, enough celebrating."
All heads turned to their captain.
Sergio Busquets stood there, his expression calm but his eyes burning with newfound determination.
"Thanks to Mateo, we've pulled one back. Now it's time to go all out. The worst that can happen? We lose. But we're already losing, aren't we?" His voice grew louder. "So let's give it everything we've got. No holding back. Let's go!"
And just like that, the entire Barcelona team roared in unison.
"LET'S GO!"
The energy shifted instantly.
The players jogged back into position, fire igniting in their eyes. What once seemed like a hopeless match had suddenly transformed.
Only one Barcelona player had remained motionless the entire time.
Marc-André ter Stegen stood near his goal, watching his teammates running back to take their positions, watching their spirits lift, watching hope return.
The frustration that had been boiling inside him for the past hour?
It wasn't gone. But for the first time, it had cooled.
For the first time, it didn't feel like they were doomed.
And all because of one moment of brilliance.
All because of one player who refused to give up.
Mateo.
And as the referee blew his whistle for kickoff, Ter Stegen let out a deep breath.
Maybe—just maybe—they had a chance.
Today, Marc-André ter Stegen was furious. His body was tense, his mind buzzing with frustration. From the back of the pitch, he could see it—the defense was nonexistent, the midfield was sloppy, and the attack was toothless. It was as if his teammates were shells of the players they could be. He had been doing everything he could, already racking up more than seven saves, but it was clear—he was alone in this fight.
The scoreboard was unforgiving, and, looking at the screen, people would likely blame him for the deficit. But he knew the truth. He had been the best player today, keeping his team in the game as best he could. Yet the others had been awful. The lack of focus, the mistakes piling up, and the constant pressure were overwhelming. It had been a mess. A disaster in the making.
Ter Stegen couldn't understand how it had come to this, but now wasn't the time to wallow. Now was the time to push.
As Mateo's subbed-in goal reignited a flicker of hope, the tension didn't ease. They were still losing, and the game wasn't over. The match had barely entered the final stretch, and that was all he needed. The roar from the fans wasn't enough to drown out his frustration. He threw his head back, screamed into the air, his anger erupting like a volcano.
"Now is not the time to celebrate," he shouted, his voice raw. "We are Barcelona. We want to win this. Get your heads in the game!"
But his words were swallowed by the deafening cheer of the fans. The players, in the midst of their own celebration, couldn't hear him—nor did they need to. The look on their faces said it all. There was still fire in them. They could feel it too.
Ronald Koeman stood on the sidelines, hands trembling with a mix of nerves and determination. The atmosphere was charged with electricity, and he could sense the tension. The clock was ticking, and his players were starting to believe. Koeman stole a glance at the time—7th minute of the second half. His lips curled into a smile, the excitement of the moment fueling him. Let's do this, guys, he thought, his heartbeat synchronizing with the roar of the crowd.
The referee's whistle broke the spell, signaling the restart of play. Huesca's players, now holding the advantage, were cool under pressure. They exchanged quick passes, keeping the ball moving and slowly running down the clock. Barcelona was scrambling, and Huesca didn't need to engage in Barcelona's style of play anymore. A few more minutes of control and they could walk away with the win.
But Garcia, one of Huesca's midfielders, couldn't shake the weight of guilt pressing down on him. His mistake had led to the loss of possession earlier. His teammates were looking at him with frustration, but Garcia only saw a chance for redemption. He was determined to make up for his error.
His heart raced as he waved his hand at the teammate with the ball. "Hey, pass it to me!" he shouted, urgency in his voice.
The ball came his way. Garcia's feet were ready, his focus razor-sharp. But as he looked at his teammate, he saw a look of horror flash across his face. The blood drained from his teammate's features, and it was that expression that struck him like a bolt of lightning. A bone-crushing thought flooded his mind. Something was wrong.
His eyes darted back to the pitch just as he saw it—the blur of a player moving so fast that Garcia could barely comprehend it.
A breeze swept past him, and for the second time today, he was caught in that nightmarish déjà vu. The same ghosting sensation. The same unbearable speed. He was too slow. Again. Mateo had left him behind.
Garcia's legs screamed to push harder, but it was already too late. Mateo, number 36, was already twenty yards ahead of him, and Garcia was still frozen in place, his body not responding quickly enough. The realization hit like a punch to the gut. His legs felt heavy. The stadium seemed to close in around him as Mateo took possession of the ball, his acceleration slicing through the air.
The sound of the crowd was a distant rumble, but the electric energy of the moment was undeniable. The roar, the thundering wave of sound that surged through the stands—it was all because of one player. Mateo.
And Garcia, left gasping in his wake, could only watch as Mateo streaked away with the ball. His heart sank, the despair weighing on him like lead.
All around the stadium, the air seemed to crackle with excitement. The Huesca fans were on their feet, screaming in disbelief, while the Barcelona supporters, a little stunned by the sudden surge of energy, tried to find their voices. Could Mateo really make this count?
A/N
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