17 million.
That was the number.
Seventeen million people had tuned in for tonight's match. On paper, it was an impressive figure—but for Mateo King, it was the smallest audience he'd performed for in months. Not that he knew, or cared. Because tonight wasn't about numbers while he played in his smallest count ever he had been compensated differently Tonight was.
It was about quality over quantity.
Because somewhere, far from Granada's glowing stadium, tucked away in the cold, clinical heart of Manchester, a conversation was unfolding that would change Football.
—
The walls of the meeting room at Manchester City's Etihad Campus were glass—floor to ceiling—overlooking a sprawling view of pristine, emerald training pitches below. It was evening now, and the Manchester sky had sunk into its usual gray overcoat. Raindrops tapped methodically against the glass, like a ticking clock.
Inside, a group of men sat around a long, minimalist table. Laptops open. Tactical diagrams scattered. Coffee mugs half-drained.
At the head of the table, seated yet exuding a magnetic tension, was Pep Guardiola.
His brow furrowed in thought, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he listened to the ongoing discussion. His ever-vigilant eyes weren't on any particular person—but you could tell he was absorbing everything.
The topic of the hour was simple but unsolved.
Replacing Sergio Agüero.
The club legend's time was nearing its end. His body, once razor-sharp, was failing him. The club needed a new talisman. The discussions had been going in circles for weeks now, but today, they had to find clarity.
One of Pep's assistant coaches leaned forward, his voice direct but cautious.
"Boss, we can't ignore it anymore. We need a number nine. A proper one."
Pep's fingers twitched slightly. His eyes flickered.
"Names," he said simply, his Catalan accent making the word sound like a commandment.
Another assistant—an older, seasoned coach—spoke up.
"Erling Haaland. He's top of the list. The numbers are crazy. He's a machine."
There was a murmur of agreement, but it wasn't unanimous.
"Haaland's raw, though," a younger assistant interjected. "Yes, he's scoring, but he's untested in England. And we know this league—it's a graveyard for untested talent. Kane's a safer bet. Proven. Premier League hardened."
The room nodded, a divided chorus. Pep remained silent, his gaze drifting momentarily to the rain outside.
But then—
A quiet voice, from further down the table, sliced through the noise.
"What about the kid?"
The room froze.
Not a sound. Not a breath.
The very air seemed to pause as the assistant's words lingered in the open, bold and uninvited.
Even Pep Guardiola, who had been buried in a fortress of papers, tactical diagrams, and scouting reports, lifted his head. His fingers rested atop a stack of meticulously annotated sheets, but his eyes had shifted—piercing, narrowed.
The command in his voice was effortless. Sharp.
"What kid?"
It wasn't a question. It was a challenge.
The assistant who had spoken didn't flinch. He knew how thin the ice beneath his feet was, but he pressed forward.
"The Barça kid," he said, voice steady. "Mateo King. We've had scouts keep tabs on him since the Sevilla game. He's raw, yes, but why not go all in? He looks—promising."
But before the words could properly settle, another assistant scoffed, leaning forward aggressively.
"Ehn, that kid?" The tone was dismissive, edged with frustration. "Didn't we already decide we're not pursuing him anymore? He's not the profile we're looking for."
Another assistant chimed in, his voice slightly more diplomatic but still firm.
"Exactly. We're losing Agüero, not just any striker. We need a replacement who's technically as gifted as he is. Not a marksman, someone who can slot into Pep's system immediately. Someone who doesn't just score but orchestrates. Mateo's not that."
The room murmured in agreement.
But the assistant who had first spoken wasn't done.
He leaned forward now, hands resting on the table as if anchoring his conviction into the wood itself.
"You're not seeing it. You're all looking at his recent games and judging him based on that. Barça's system has shifted. Koeman's tactics don't use him in his best role. His skillset's being shackled."
There was a flicker in Pep's eyes at that—a faint, fleeting spark of recognition. The assistant pressed on.
"Watch his old games. The kid's a connector. His positional awareness, how he manipulates space—it's not textbook, but it's effective. He's the type who'll run into the blindspot of a defense and arrive at the exact second a ball's there. He's just not being unleashed in that current system."
There was a pause.
"You're all ignoring what he did against Paris Saint-Germain."
That hit a nerve. Faces in the room stiffened. PSG. The Round of 16. Mateo's involvement in that match had left an imprint.
But resistance remained.
"Even still," another assistant countered, exhaling with exasperation, "he's not tested at the level we need. La Liga's one thing. The Premier League is a battlefield. You want to gamble on potential when we have Harry Kane practically waiting to be signed? He's ready. Proven. Exactly the mold we're looking for."
The argument hung in the air, both sides rigid.
Normally, in most clubs, that would've been the end of it.
An assistant coach voicing transfer opinions was like whispering into a hurricane. Their input might be noted, but rarely would it dictate the flow of decision-making.
But this wasn't most clubs.
This was Manchester City.
And in this room, the man who sat at the head of the table didn't just coach the team—he defined it. The board could present proposals. The sporting director could scout. The analytics department could run all the data models they wanted.
But no player walked through the doors of this club unless Pep Guardiola said so.
He wasn't just the coach. He was the architect, the gatekeeper, the final signature.
That level of autonomy was a privilege reserved for very few. Sir Alex had it. Ferguson could bend a club's will. So could Arsène Wenger in his prime. But in the modern era, there was Pep. His footballing brain had earned that right.
Which is why, when an assistant who had stood by his side for years—across Barcelona, Bayern, and now City—spoke, people listened. Maybe his words wouldn't make the final cut, but he had Pep's ear. And in a world of boardrooms and agents, that was worth more than a thousand contracts.
The room waited, tense, as Pep leaned back in his chair, his arms folded.
His eyes hadn't left the assistant since the moment he mentioned "the kid."
But Pep hadn't said a word.
Yet.
Pep sat there in his chair, seemingly disconnected from the chaos around him. The room was alive with voices—arguments, theories, suggestions—but Pep? Pep's eyes were closed. His fingers moved in slow, methodical circles over his bald head, massaging his temples as if trying to calm a storm raging in his mind.
He was still. But not quiet.
Inside that head, thousands of tactical permutations were unfolding. Systems, patterns, rotations, fluidity. He was zoomed out of this room, and yet, hyper-aware. The debate had stretched thin, the noise diluting into a dull, constant hum until—
"Enough."
His voice wasn't raised.
But it cut through the room like a razor.
"Enough. Enough."
The assistants fell silent immediately. No shifting chairs, no coughs, no mutters. Just the man in the chair, who had spoken not with authority, but with finality.
Pep's eyes slowly opened, piercing, sharp, as they scanned the room with a calm that made everyone in it hold their breath.
"Rodri has a match now, no?" he asked, his tone casual, but everyone knew better. Pep didn't ask questions he didn't already know the answer to.
"Yes, gaffer," one assistant replied quickly. "Spain's just about to kick off."
Pep nodded once, leaning back slightly, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the edge of the table.
"Good. Then let's watch. The kid should at least get some minutes in, right?"
"On it, boss."
One assistant, younger, always the fastest to react, sprang up and moved toward the wall-mounted TV. The remote was already in his hand, and within seconds, the screen flickered, shifting from a scouting dashboard to a live broadcast. The Spain-Greece match filled the screen.
But the air wasn't settled yet.
"I thought we weren't going for marksmen," the assistant who opposed Mateo's signing muttered, half under his breath, half hoping for backup. His tone was laced with a final attempt at reasoning.
But before he could finish, Pep's voice sliced through.
"No."
The assistant froze mid-sentence.
"At this point," Pep said, his eyes narrowing, his gaze now fixed on the TV, "a marksman might be exactly what we need."
The room stiffened.
It wasn't the statement itself—it was that Pep Guardiola, the very man who had built dynasties without relying on traditional No.9s, had just admitted it. A shift. An evolution. But Pep didn't care for their reactions.
His eyes were already on the screen.
Because something was about to unfold.
And Pep, the relentless tactician, was locked in.
—
But it wasn't just Pep.
Miles away, in Liverpool, the scene was quieter but no less intense.
In the dim warmth of his study, Jürgen Klopp sat hunched over his desk. The surface was a storm of organized chaos—folders with scouting reports, player analytics charts, a coffee mug dangerously close to teetering off the edge. Amidst the papers, a photo frame stood out.
It was a picture of Mateo King, a candid shot where he was laughing mid-training, joy etched into his features. Klopp's gaze flickered to it for a moment before returning to the television screen mounted on the wall.
The Spain match had just begun.
A small, intrigued smirk played on Klopp's lips as his eyes narrowed. He didn't need reports for this one. He wanted to feel what the kid was like. See if that spark of chaos he loved in players like Firmino and Mane existed in Mateo.
Klopp leaned back, fingers laced behind his head, eyes glinting.
"Show me, boy," he muttered, the German endearment slipping through. "Show me you're different."
—
Across continents, another figure was watching.
In the opulent lounges of a sports complex in Saudi Arabia, Xavi Hernandez sat, arms crossed, as the same match played out on a screen before him.
Xavi's table was clean. Minimalist. Just a glass of water, a tactical notebook, and his phone, face-down. The man was always in control, always thinking three passes ahead. But as he stared at the screen, a thought invaded him. Unwelcome.
A conversation that had haunted him for days now.
"We would be happy to take you back at Barça. You are the one for the job."
He could hear it, the federation voices echoing. He shook his head, banishing the thought. He was mid-season here. Focus, Xavi. Focus.
But his eyes betrayed him.
They kept drifting back to Mateo King on the screen.
Because, for all of Barcelona's history, for all the talents that passed through La Masia's halls, Mateo King was a wildcard. A beautiful, dangerous wildcard. And one day, Xavi knew, their paths would collide.
But for now, he watched.
Quietly. Calculating.
—
And in Spain, right there on the pitch, Luis Enrique's eyes weren't on the match. They were on Mateo King.
The rest of the players were warming up, the usual drills. But Enrique wasn't interested in routines. His gaze was fixed, laser-sharp, watching every twitch, every step, every glance of the boy who had been the center of so much noise these past weeks.
He could hear the critics. He could hear the doubters. The federation whispers, the Madrid media storms.
But none of that mattered now.
Because Enrique had decided.
"Let's really see what you're made of, kid."
"Four coaches. One boy."
That was the silent headline in the minds of every person reading now.
Their eyes were glued to him—not with the innocence of fans, but with the calculating precision of men who molded futures, shaped legacies, and played chess with careers. Each pair of eyes carried their own thoughts, ambitions, and blueprints.
Pep Guardiola, arms crossed, his lips pursed in that familiar half-frown of contemplation. His mind was already dissecting Mateo's movements, seeing patterns no one else saw, asking himself if this boy could fit into his machine.
Jürgen Klopp, leaning forward now, eyes glinting with a different hunger. He didn't want a machine part. He wanted chaos. Energy. A player who would press, fight, and dance to the rhythm of Anfield's roars.
Xavi Hernandez, seated calmly, fingers drumming softly on his notebook. For him, it was simpler. He wasn't scouting a signing—he was scouting a successor. Someone who could inherit the bloodline of La Masia's philosophy. Someone who could bring Barça back.
Luis Enrique, arms behind his back on the touchline, watching the boy like a general assessing a young officer before battle. His gamble. His defiance. His last great project as Spain's architect.
And at the center of all those stares stood Mateo King.
Oblivious.
Blissfully unaware of the plans and designs that surrounded him like invisible threads.
To him, today was simpler.
Today was ecstasy.
As he stood there on the center circle, the bold number 36 stamped across his back, his jersey fluttering gently as the stadium air pressed against him, Mateo wasn't thinking of futures or legacies.
He was thinking of freedom.
At Barcelona, his role had been sculpted into precision. A final blade in the attack. He was to stay forward, make the runs, stretch defenses. With teammates like Messi, De Jong, Pedri—players who could slow time, control tempo, and pull strings like maestros—Mateo didn't need to drop deep, didn't need to weave tapestries of play.
No.
His job was simple.
Sprint. Cut. Bury the ball.
He wasn't complaining. It was effective. It was what the club needed.
But deep inside, Mateo King knew he could do so much more.
He felt it in his lungs, in his feet, in that burning itch behind his ribs—the feeling that his canvas was bigger than just the penalty box.
And now here, in the red of Spain, he had a new chapter.
A new stage.
A team that didn't have a Messi to orbit around. A system that didn't confine him to mere destruction.
Today, for the first time in a long time, Mateo King was ready to unveil all of him.
The ball was placed at his feet.
The whistle was rising to the referee's lips.
And Mateo's heartbeat?
It was in perfect rhythm.
Mateo stood still for a second, his foot hovering gently over the ball at the center circle. But his eyes—his eyes were alive, scanning, absorbing, remembering.
He turned his head back, gaze drifting over his teammates as they spread out across the field like pieces in a well-planned formation.
Unai Simón, far behind, stood tall between the posts, his hands resting calmly on his hips, but his eyes flickering with sharp alertness. There was a coldness to goalkeepers at this level. A detachment. Simón had it.
On the right, Marcos Llorente was stretching, bouncing lightly on his toes, ready to explode up the flank the moment the chance presented itself. A hybrid of energy and raw athleticism.
In the heart of the defense, the partnership of Eric García and Sergio Ramos was a mixture of youth and battle scars. Eric's face was calm, but his fingers were tapping against his thigh, betraying a trace of adrenaline. Ramos, the captain, stood like a monument. Arms crossed, chin slightly raised, his mere presence felt like a command—silent but undeniable.
On the left side, José Gayà was crouched low, adjusting his socks, his eyes already scanning for his first overlap run.
Ahead, the midfield trio was a fluid engine waiting to be ignited.
Rodri, stationed as the deep anchor, was a general in calm waters—unfazed, his stance wide, ready to pivot the ball out of pressure at a moment's notice.
Koke, ever the workhorse, had his hands on his waist, but his head was tilted sideways, murmuring something to Sergio Canales, who simply nodded, a faint smile on his lips. They were like craftsmen ready to sculpt the tempo of the match.
Out wide, Dani Olmo on the right and Ferran Torres on the left were sharpening their blades. Olmo's gaze was narrowed, chin up, tapping the ground with his foot like a sprinter at the blocks. Ferran's shoulders were loose, his body language casual, but his grin was the giveaway—he was ready to have fun tonight.
Mateo felt a smirk creep up his face as he soaked it all in.
But then, his head tilted forward.
The view changed.
The Greek players stood across from him now, lined up like a wall of tension. There was no looseness in their limbs. Their eyes were sharp, yet wary, every muscle taut with nervous energy. They shifted from foot to foot, shoulders stiff, jaws clenched.
Mateo saw it instantly.
Fear.
It wasn't the paralyzing kind—it was the respectful kind. The kind of fear that comes when you know you're about to face a team of a different breed.
Mateo's lips curled.
His faint smirk grew into a wider grin.
Game on.
The referee's whistle pierced through the air.
And the world moved.
Commentary Box, Live Broadcast
"So, do you think the kid can score today?"
The commentator's voice carried a mixture of curiosity and excitement, his eyes watching the young boy standing near the halfway line, his number 36 boldly imprinted on his back as if it were daring the world to remember it.
"Well, if he does, he breaks the youngest goalscorer record for Spain. Just 17 years and 34 days old. That would eclipse Ansu Fati's mark of 17 years, 304 days. Another La Masia prodigy ready to etch his name into the books."
His co-commentator chuckled, voice laced with certainty.
"Given the form he's been in, I wouldn't be surprised if we see it broken tonight. But what I'm watching for is a hat-trick. You know what that would mean, right?"
"Oh, absolutely. That's 96 years of history we're talking about. Juan Errazquin's hat-trick against Switzerland back in 1925. No Spaniard that young has done it since. If Mateo King pulls that off, we're looking at a generational moment."
"Seems the game's picking up, though. Spain's midfield engine is humming. Look at that, they're on the move."
He was deeper than usual, almost touching midfield. The game was still finding its rhythm, but Mateo's mind was already two steps ahead.
The ball zipped to him.
A Greek defender was charging fast, boots thumping onto the turf, but Mateo's touch was delicate—his right foot cushioning the ball as if cradling glass.
No panic.
The defender lunged, but Mateo flicked the ball with an outside boot feint, his hips twisting as he shifted the tempo. In a breath, the ball was gone, curling on a laser-guided pass across the field. A 40-yard diagonal bomb, the kind that made coaches lean back and smirk like proud parents.
The ball skidded across the turf to Ferran Torres, who didn't need to control it; the pass had done the thinking for him. Tap. One-touch back into the center.
Koke received, pivoted, released a fast ball forward.
It was poetry.
Despite the lack of club chemistry, their minds synced. They were professionals; at this level, sharp football IQ connected them faster than weeks of training.
The ball came back to Mateo.
Mid-stride.
The crowd inhaled.
The Greek center-back was too slow to react. Mateo, sensing the gap, flicked the ball past him, let it bounce once, then struck it.
A thunderous left-foot volley.
Time froze.
The ball screamed into the net.
One bounce.
The net rippled.
The stadium exploded.
Commentary Box
"Oh, he's done it! He's done it! Mateo King, seventeen years and thirty-four days, and he's just rewritten Spanish football history!"
"Fifteen minutes. That's all it took him. Fifteen minutes to leave his name in the record books. This kid isn't waiting for permission."
Mateo's feet carried him toward the touchline. His arms raised, but his celebration was restrained. It wasn't a wild sprint, nor a rehearsed dance. It was a pure, raw release of a boy soaking in his first national team goal.
But his grin—his grin was loud.
Estás aquí, Mateo. You're here now.
His teammates swarmed him.
"Nice one, bro!"
"First of many, King!"
"That's how you arrive, kid!"
Hand slaps. Shoulder bumps. It was euphoric, but Mateo's mind was already somewhere else. Let's go make another. The fire was lit.
He stood there, breathing heavy, but proud. His chest puffed out. This wasn't luck. This was what he was built for.
"Luis Enrique's plan to deploy Mateo King as his dagger against Greece's Olympic legion is playing out in full color. Complete devastation. The boy's slicing through them like poetry written in fire."
The ball zipped around the pitch like it had a mind of its own, but Mateo King—positioned almost dead center—was the pulse of it all. Every time Spain cycled possession, it eventually gravitated back to him.
There he was again, standing tall, back straight, eyes darting like a chess master already picturing the next five moves. As the Greek midfield pressed in, suffocating the passing lanes, Mateo casually took a single touch to control a hurried pass from Rodri, then—without even lifting his head—slid a no-look backheel that dissected the pressure.
"Oh my word, that's filth from King! How's he seeing those lanes?!" The commentator bellowed, the crowd roaring in synchronicity.
The Spanish attack flooded forward off that pass, but the final shot flew just over the bar. Still, the message was clear—Mateo King was orchestrating. He wasn't here to be a passenger.
25th Minute
The play built slowly from the back, but when Mateo received the ball, the tempo snapped. He found himself swarmed near the halfway line—three Greek players closing like wolves.
But Mateo was always a step ahead.
A deft drag back, a body feint to the right, and the defenders bit. That's when he unleashed it—a long, curling ball, soaring over the entire Greek backline, bending wickedly into the path of Ferran Torres who was already sprinting down the left channel.
"That is a diagonal for the archives! What a pass from Mateo King—he's slicing Greece open like a surgeon!"
Ferran didn't even need to break stride. One touch, then a smooth finish past the Greek keeper.
2-0 Spain.
Mateo raised a fist, smirking as his teammates engulfed Ferran. He didn't need to celebrate it loud; he was already back near the center circle, ready to dictate the next phase.
27th Minute
Enrique's voice echoed in his head.
"I don't care how much freedom you get up top—when we lose the ball, I want you tracking back. That's non-negotiable."
So when Spain lost possession in a dangerous turnover, Mateo was already sprinting. The Greek winger had burst free on the counter, but Mateo—closing the distance with frightening pace—timed his slide perfectly.
Boot met ball.
Clean interception.
"And look at that! The kid isn't just about flair—he's got the work rate to match. Luis Enrique asked for defensive commitment, and Mateo King just delivered a masterclass recovery tackle."
The crowd responded with raucous applause, the kind that respects the grind as much as the glory.
32nd Minute
Spain was relentless now. Greece couldn't get a foothold.
Dani Olmo earned a corner after a dazzling dribble down the right. The stadium buzzed with anticipation.
Mateo positioned himself at the edge of the penalty area.
"Is the young King going aerial now?" one commentator mused.
The corner was whipped in by Koke—low and venomous.
Mateo charged.
He didn't leap for a towering header. No, he timed it to perfection—ducking under a Greek defender and flicking his neck muscles like a whip.
The ball glanced off his head, changing direction sharply, leaving the keeper flat-footed.
Goal.
The net bulged.
"He's done it again! That's a brace! Mateo King—seventeen years old and already writing folklore tonight."
The cameras zoomed in on Mateo's calm, composed face as he jogged to the corner flag, a slight grin playing on his lips. He wasn't here for small stories.
38th Minute
Spain was a blur of red and white.
Mateo, now almost permanently stationed at the center, was the axis on which everything turned. His touches weren't flashy—they were surgical. One-touch layoffs, disguised passes, switches of play. The Greek players looked drained, chasing shadows, constantly a yard too late.
"This isn't football anymore. This is a masterclass in ball circulation, and the conductor is Mateo King." the commentator breathed.
In the 38th minute, Spain stitched together 23 uninterrupted passes, with Mateo involved in eight of them, including the one-touch through ball that almost led to Ferran's second.
The camera cut to Luis Enrique on the sidelines.
He wasn't smiling.
But his eyes—his eyes were gleaming.
Mateo King had drifted wide now, his once crisp movements now laced with a brutal heaviness. He was tracking back again, his legs burning with every sprint, his lungs screaming with every inhale.
"Fuck, what is this?!" he thought, his teeth clenched as he pressed yet again. This Luis Enrique brand of football was relentless—constant pressing, constant shifting, no room to breathe. Mateo had been used to the polished choreography of Barcelona—stay forward, make the runs, let the ball come to you. But this? This was war.
Every tackle, every press, it was draining him, pulling from a stamina pool that wasn't yet fully filled. He could feel it. Half-time was near. There was a high chance he'd get pulled off for someone fresher.
But if he was going to be subbed, he was leaving a mark.
"Let's end my first start with a bang," Mateo muttered, his gaze sharpening. "Make a statement."
Spain regained possession after a frantic back-and-forth. Mateo was positioned on the flank, hands up, screaming.
"Rodri, here! Forward!"
Rodri, always the calmest presence, had just wrestled the ball away from a Greek midfielder. He looked up and saw him—Mateo was weaving through, slicing across the defensive line like a phantom. Rodri didn't hesitate.
He launched it.
It wasn't a neat pass. It wasn't a pinpoint delivery. It was a brutal, lofted ball—a hit and hope.
"Oof, I think Rodri's overcooked that one!" the commentator exclaimed, tension rising.
"But wait… look at King… he's chasing it down!"
Mateo's eyes followed the ball, seeing it flying far beyond where it should've. He hissed through his teeth.
"Damn it, Rodri. That's too far."
But his legs moved anyway.
He tore through the turf, igniting afterburners from midfield, drifting right, bypassing two defenders who tried to clip him. They reached, he glided. They shoved, he shrugged them off. Speed was the cruelest kind of weapon—and tonight, Mateo was wielding it like a blade.
"Nothing beats speed. Nothing." he thought, the wind roaring in his ears.
Speed was raw. Ferocious. It didn't need finesse or elegance. It just needed will.
"The keeper's coming out! He's seen it!"
"No, wait—he's pulling back! He knows he's not getting there first! Mateo's going to get to this!"
He did.
But barely.
The ball skipped ahead, touching his foot—but the control was messy. His first touch betrayed him, the ball spilling away, loose and wild.
"Ahh! Bad control! He's lost it! The keeper's pouncing!"
"It's over—no, no, no… WAIT, WHAT DID I JUST SEE?!"
The ball was slipping away. The keeper had launched himself like a missile, his body horizontal, his gloves stretching to smother the mistake.
But Mateo wasn't letting it die.
His left leg planted. His body twisted.
He reached for the ball—just inches ahead—and with the underside of his right boot, he scraped it, dragging it back, rolling it, not to stop it—but to lift it.
The ball kissed the ground and bounced, light and cheeky, like it was laughing at the keeper.
The Greek keeper's glove brushed the air uselessly as the ball flicked over him—millimeters out of reach—before gravity reclaimed it, dropping it delicately behind his sprawling frame.
Gasps tore through the stadium.
But Mateo wasn't done.
He didn't let the ball settle.
With the calmness of a predator, he stepped up—one stride—his body coiled, and unleashed.
A cannon shot.
The ball exploded into the back of the net.
4-0 Spain.
The entire stadium detonated.
The Spanish fans screamed, their flags blurring as they waved them furiously. Mateo was already sprinting towards the corner stands, his veins electrified. His face was a mask of intensity, no smile, no grin—just raw, primal adrenaline.
He stood tall.
Arms wide.
Chest out.
No words.
No sound.
A king addressing his people.
His teammates came charging—Ferran, Dani, Rodri—but Mateo barely flinched, his expression carved in stone as the camera zoomed into him, body language screaming "This is my throne."
The commentators lost it.
"A hat-trick. A fucking hat-trick. A 95-year-old record obliterated in 43 minutes. Mateo King, seventeen years old, has done what no one thought possible tonight!"
"Look at that celebration—he's telling them! This isn't the golden era anymore. That's gone. This—THIS—is Mateo King's era!"
"This is Spain's era. This is Mateo King's Spain!"
The stadium roared, a nation rising with him.
A/N
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