1–2
85th minute
After a furious series of exchanges — attack for attack, blow for blow — the Allianz Arena had been transformed into something unrecognizable. The pitch was no longer a rectangle of grass; it was a battlefield painted in red and blue, and the fans were its witnesses. Home or away, Bavarian or Catalan, everyone in the stands functioned on a single thought that pressed itself into the air: What a game.
Every surge forward carried with it the electricity of inevitability. Every interception cracked like thunder. The duels, the flicks, the tackles, the desperate sprints — they weren't just actions, they were brushstrokes painting madness onto a canvas of ninety minutes. The skills on display were dazzling, but it was no longer about aesthetics; it was survival disguised as beauty.
And the crowd — the crowd had become part of it. Thousands upon thousands rose to their feet, not one soul able to stay seated. Their eyes were wide, their hearts racing to the rhythm of the match. It was no longer just spectatorship. It was trance. It was communion. Fans of both colors were locked in, as if spellbound by the raw essence of football unraveling in front of them.
Yet even they — the ones who lived for this, who bled the game so much they had come here to worship it in person — knew deep down this storm could not rage forever. The lungs of the players would give. The legs would buckle. And football itself, glorious as it was, remained bound by the laws of time: only ninety minutes to decide everything.
So when a throw-in paused the frenzy, thousands of eyes flicked upward to the colossal screen. The clock burned its numbers across the sky. 85:24.
Only five minutes of normal time remained.
And in that instant, all the dazzling flicks, the daring runs, the thunderous tackles, the artistry that had enchanted them became irrelevant. The thrill of competition, the sportsmanship, the so-called "beauty" of the game — all of it crumbled into dust.
Because for those who bled their colors, who clung to their mottos, who lived through their clubs, there was one truth that transcended every other emotion.
More than the beauty.
More than the pride.
More than the spectacle.
It came down to the simple facts of win and lose.
My team played well. We dribbled, we dictated, we suffocated possession — seventy percent of the ball belonged to us. But what use was possession if, at the final whistle, the scoreline spat in your face? What use was beauty, dominance, control, if all you held in your hands was defeat?
Because football, for all its poetry and rhythm, for all its grace and artistry, had at its core a truth that burned cold: it was a competition. A game of numbers. A brutal ledger that did not care for style points, for bravery, for "almost." When the curtain fell, it came down to the simplest, cruelest of facts: winners and losers.
And as both sets of fans lifted their eyes to the clock, the emotions that had bound them in awe just moments ago shattered into two paths. A single glance at the time split the stadium into opposites.
For the home fans — the Bavarians, proud and unyielding — despair crept into their throats. In the stands and in the living rooms across Germany, even across the world, the same taste of dread lingered. Their star striker, their executioner-in-chief, had been ruled out before the game even began. From the first whistle, they had watched with gritted teeth as the opposition's supporters mocked them, laughed at them, as though this contest had been signed, sealed, and buried before the fight had even started.
And then came him.
Mateo King.
They had called him a prodigy, a wonder kid, a boy dancing in the light of football's future. But for Bayern, he was no child. He was no golden boy. He was the demon draped in Blaugrana, a villain with cruel timing and a merciless touch. Twice in the first half, he had carved them open. Twice, he had silenced their fortress. His name, spat out in anguish, lingered in every Bayern fan's throat like venom.
Yet still they refused to surrender.
Because they were Bayern Munich. At home, in their cathedral. And in their hearts burned the oldest, most dangerous kind of faith: the faith that no matter how many you scored against them, no matter how dazzling your tricks, no matter how ruthless your demon, Bayern would rise.
Then came the second half.
And their faith was rewarded.
Like a storm breaking loose, Bayern surged. They were ferocious, pressing with a hunger that felt almost primal, dominating Barcelona in wave after wave. Red shirts flooded forward, tackles cracked like gunfire, the tempo rose to a frenzy only Bayern could sustain.
And then — the breakthrough.
The goal.
The stadium roared like it hadn't in years. It wasn't just noise, it was defiance incarnate, a scream that rattled the very bones of the Allianz Arena. One of the loudest in recent memory, one of those moments where football was no longer sport but ritual, where the walls themselves trembled beneath the ecstasy.
And yet, when the dust cleared, their opponents still stood. Barcelona did not break. They did not fall. They did not surrender.
But still the Bavarians believed.
Because even against a team as strong, even against the demon himself, they knew who they were. They were Bayern. And if they played their best, if they gave everything, Bayern would overcome.
That was what it meant to fully believe in your team. To wear its colors like armor, to breathe its history as if it were your own blood. The current holders. Last season's treble winners. A machine that had conquered Europe and refused to bow to anyone. Their faith was not fragile; it was iron. Unshakable. Bayern Munich would win. It was not an opinion, it was destiny. All they needed was time.
Time… time… time.
But as the massive screen loomed above the stadium, the numbers glared back at them with cruelty. Five minutes left. Normal time was dying. Time was slipping through their fingers, vanishing into the night like smoke.
And suddenly, for the first time in years, the thought became unbearable.
Would they lose?
Them? Bayern Munich? The treble winners? The unbeaten giants of Europe? In the Champions League? To Barcelona of all teams — their "customers," their victims, the team they had humbled again and again? Here? In their own fortress? No Way... Wait Really ... They would Lose. No Freaking Way!!!!.
The thought spread like poison. Disbelief. Denial. Anger. Dread. Fear. Despair.A carousel of emotions spun wildly in every supporter's chest. War cries that once shook the Allianz Arena into a cathedral of intimidation fell into silence. Prideful roars became hoarse whispers. Faces twisted, hands clutched at scarves, at heads, at hearts. Eyes flickered desperately between the pitch, the bench, the dugout. All that remained from the once proud Bayern faithful was desperation — raw, helpless desperation.
Please…
"Flick, do something!" one voice cried. "Make a change!"
"Who's on the bench?" another muttered, pulling at their hair. "Someone — anyone!"
"Shoot the ball! Just shoot!" came another scream.
And then, like a spark in the dark, the whisper of an idea caught flame in the stands.
We don't need the win. A draw. Yes… yes, just a draw. Just one more goal. That's enough. We'll avenge it later. The second leg. Please, just one more…
The mighty Germans — kings of Europe, predators in their own house — were now reduced to begging for survival. A draw.
It started with one.
One man stood in the stands, face red, throat straining, and he shouted into the night with everything he had left.
"EIN TOR! EIN TOR! JUST ONE MORE!"
At first, people turned. Then, they echoed.
"One more!"
Then more voices joined. Then more. Then a thousand. Then the whole of the Allianz. The chant grew contagious, primal, desperate. It wasn't support anymore; it was begging. A collective cry from tens of thousands of throats, louder than any cheer before, because it was no longer about glory. It was survival.
The chants rang out, shaking the steel, echoing into the Munich night.
But the home fans weren't the only ones haunted by the clock. By the time…
...
The away fans — the Culers huddled high in their corner of the Allianz — glanced up at the clock and felt something dangerous crawl across their faces. A smile. Small at first, almost unbelieving, then spreading like fire.
No way… no way we are actually winning this. Against Bayern. In their own home.
They had come with songs in their throats and doubts in their hearts. They had laughed when Lewandowski's name was nowhere to be found on the lineup. They had screamed themselves hoarse when their new love, the boy from home — Mateo King — scored not once, but twice. But now… now, with just five minutes between them and full-time, the realization began to claw its way into their minds.
They were about to do something they hadn't managed when Messi was in his absolute prime destroying a prime Boateng. When they had the prince, himself dancing with them through Europe in that treble-winning squad. Not even then had Bayern been beaten here.
To beat their tormentors. Their executioners. Here, in the very fortress where they had been humiliated before…
It felt impossible. It felt unreal. And yet, here they were, staring it in the face.
But then a sound cut through their euphoria.
A burst of screaming from the other side.
They turned, craning their necks, and what they saw sent a shiver through their joy. The Bayern end was on its feet, throats burning, fists hammering against the air. The chant was spreading, heavy and primal — "EIN TOR! EIN TOR! ONE MORE!" The Culers watched the red wave shake and tremble, saw men and women scream until their faces were purple, and the thought stabbed through them like ice:
One more? A draw? No… no, no way. Not here, not now. We can't lose this No We Cant Even Draw This, This is ours…
Their eyes fell back onto the pitch.
Bayern's players were hunting now. Hunger glowed in their eyes, fury in every sprint, a machine of bodies still running, still charging. And then they looked at their own warriors in blaugrana. Some were spent, legs heavy, lungs burning. But still they fought, still they pressed, spirit refusing to collapse.
The fans' eyes darted to the bench, to Koeman, to the subs warming up. And suddenly their smiles died, replaced by fear. What if it was taken from them? What if all of this — the songs, the hope, the dream — slipped away in the final breaths?
They didn't want survival. They didn't want a draw. They wanted blood. They wanted revenge. They wanted victory.
And as the Bayern fans poured their desperation into attack, the Barcelona fans broke, too. Their voices cracked with panic, their chants tangled into commands.
"DEFEND! DEFEND! Five minutes! Just defend!"
"Why are you still attacking?! Hold the ball!"
"Mateo can't even run anymore! Take him off! Put a defender in! Don't you see he's finished?!"
"What's Koeman doing?! Someone tell him! Defend, defend!"
The blaugrana section was in pieces now. Some were shaking, some were crying, some were just screaming blindly. Fear and desperation poured out of them like smoke.
Two sets of fans. Two colors. Two identities. Yet the same disease spread through them both — desperation. One side shrieking for all-out attack. The other shrieking for defense at all costs.
The Allianz had become a madhouse.
But the players?
The players were an entirely different case.
By this stage of the match — when lungs burned like coal, when legs felt as heavy as iron, when the weight of expectation pressed down like a mountain — the noise around them began to blur. The fans' screams, the coaches' frantic gestures, the staff's tactical diagrams and warnings… all of that became secondary.
The supporters in the stands, who claimed to love the crest more than anyone else. The coaches on the touchline, who barked as though they alone understood the chessboard of football. They weren't the ones inside the storm. They weren't the ones whose bodies were battered, whose veins ran with fire, whose minds teetered on the razor's edge of fatigue and adrenaline.
No — it was the eleven men in red. The eleven in blaugrana. Them, and only them.
And as the seconds drained away, one figure stood at the right flank of the pitch, frozen for the briefest heartbeat before igniting into motion.
Alphonso Davies.
His chest was heaving, each breath dragging through his lungs like sandpaper. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes. His legs screamed with exhaustion, calves knotted tight, thighs trembling with every push. Mentally, he was teetering — his body begged him to slow, to stop, to collapse. Yet his spirit refused.
And in his eyes, behind the haze of fatigue, something still burned. A fire. A refusal. A defiance that screamed louder than any fan, louder than any coach.
Something was about to happen.
Something that would shut everyone up.
...
"Hey, hey!"
Davies' voice cut through the roar of the Allianz. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down the sides of his face, lungs burning, but his eyes still burned with a fire that wouldn't die. He waved his arm furiously at one of his teammates — a sharp gesture, urgent, commanding.
"Cover for me! Shift inside, push in closer!" he barked, jerking his chin toward the gap in midfield, already mapping the move in his mind.
The teammate frowned, eyes darting nervously at Barcelona's half. "What about the counter? They'll break down the middle—"
Both of them turned instinctively, eyes locking on the figure in blaugrana already bent double near the center line. Mateo King. His socks sagged, his chest rose and fell like a bellows, legs heavy with exhaustion. He was gasping, almost drained.
Davies didn't hesitate. "The kid's out. He's finished. At this stage, we've got to risk it." His voice was firm, almost daring his teammate to disagree.
There was a pause, the sound of the crowd swelling, then a nod. "No problem, man. Go."
A quick smile flashed across Davies' tired face, a brief moment of relief. And then he was gone — legs pumping, muscles screaming — sprinting upfield to join where Musiala cradled the ball for a throw-in on the right touchline.
Barcelona's defenders shuffled nervously into position, their chests heaving, sweat darkening their shirts. The commentary rippled through the noise of the stadium like an echo: "Davies is pushing higher now… he's demanding more space. Bayern are risking it…"
Musiala's eyes flicked quickly over the field, his fingers worrying the ball, teammates shouting at him from every direction — "Here! Here!" "Inside, inside!" "Quick, quick!" He feinted the motion toward Davies, making the Canadians' marker twitch, but in a heartbeat the throw went elsewhere — a clever dart into midfield.
The ball touched boots and was instantly under pressure — a snap of Barcelona bodies collapsing onto the man in possession, their shouts overlapping, "Press! Close! Don't let him turn!" A slap of boot against leather, the ball shifted away just in time, finding Davies again at the edge of the sequence.
"Hey! Back, back!" came a shout from one of the Barça defenders, hands waving as they scrambled to contain. But Davies was sharper, releasing the ball quickly, just a single touch to keep the rhythm alive.
Around him the pitch was chaos — shirts clashing, voices cutting through: "Mine, mine!" "Switch it!" "Go, go!" The entire scene burned with urgency, every pass a risk, every second a storm.
Davies' eyes flicked toward the teammate he had spoken to minutes earlier. The player had drifted inward, exactly as instructed. The hole was opening.
So Davies ignored the weight in his legs and pushed further, deeper, cutting diagonally toward the right flank where Sané prowled like a wolf. Sané received the ball with venom in his boots, the aggression written all over his face. His first touch snapped forward, his eyes flashing as Davies arrived at his shoulder.
"What are you doing here?!" Sané snapped, teeth bared, disbelief twisting his features.
Davies didn't slow, didn't flinch. "Now's not the time!" he shouted back, voice cracking with the sheer effort. His arm lashed out in a gesture, pointing furiously at the space inside. "Move! Shift in! Pull them with you!"
Sané growled under his breath, a curse swallowed by the thunder of the crowd. He hated being told what to do mid-run, hated the chaos. But the Canadian's intensity broke through. With a grunt, Sané veered inward, dragging his marker with him, the play twisting, shaping into something new—
The midfield became a battlefield. Every touch felt like a blade striking iron, every pass a desperate gamble. Musiala muscled through Pedri with a shoulder, gritting his teeth as he slid the ball across to Kimmich. The German maestro tried to turn, but Busquets was on him in a flash, long limbs snapping at the ball, grunts and cries echoing as the clash rattled the center of the pitch.
"¡Cierra! Close him!" shouted Alba, darting in from the flank, sweat dripping into his eyes as he lunged at the loose touch. But Kimmich spun out of it with a sharp drag-back, the ball glued to his boot, releasing instantly toward Musiala.
Musiala — quick feet, electric — skipped past Frenkie de Jong with a swivel of hips, drawing a gasp from the crowd. "Go, go, go!" echoed from the Bayern bench as the teenager lifted his head, slashing a pass diagonally toward Sané.
Sané's first touch was violent, a whip to his left boot, pushing him past Lenglet. But Lenglet stuck in a leg, poked at it, the ball ricocheting loose. For half a second, chaos reigned.
And out of that chaos, Alphonso Davies surged.
He had already moved into the space he demanded earlier, the Canadian sprinting with lungs screaming, arms pumping. He pounced on the stray ball before Barça's back line could reset, his control crisp, immediate. Panic rippled through the Blaugrana shirts.
"¡Mátalo, mátalo!" shouted Piqué, voice cracking, throwing himself forward, but Davies feinted inside, then outside, leaving the veteran stumbling. Ter Stegen's eyes widened, the German keeper shuffling anxiously, bent low, anticipating the shot.
Davies let the moment breathe for half a heartbeat. Then he struck.
It wasn't just a shot. It was a cannon. His left foot carved through the ball, sending it screaming like a comet toward the far corner.
Ter Stegen dove — too early, too wide, his body arching wrong, overcommitted. His gloves slashed through air. The ball bent away from him, faster than reaction, ripping into the net with a thunderclap.
The Allianz exploded.
"DAVIES! DAVIES! OH MY WORD, ALPHONSO DAVIES! HE'S DONE IT! HE'S JUST WRITTEN HIS NAME INTO THE NIGTH BY NOTHING BUT PURE FORCE!"
"Unbelievable! Unreal! A goal from another planet! The Canadian has torn this game apart with one strike!"
The sound inside the stadium was animal. Roars turned into howls, fans crushed together in madness, shirts ripped from torsos, beer flying into the air. Grown men clutched their heads in disbelief, mouths hanging open. Children leapt onto their parents' shoulders, screaming into the night sky.
Barcelona's section fell silent, broken only by groans and heads buried into hands. Their voices, so strong minutes ago, now trembled with despair. "No… no, no, no," one fan muttered, tears in her eyes. "Not like this."
Davies didn't even bask. His eyes were wide, wild, burning with something feral. He sprinted straight into the net, yanked the ball from inside, and with a guttural shout of "ONE MORE! ONE MORE!" he pointed at his teammates furiously.
"This isn't done!" he roared. Sweat streaked down his face, veins bulging in his neck. "Again! One more!"
He charged toward the halfway line, the ball clutched against his chest like a weapon. The crowd thundered with him, every stomp of his boot against the grass like a war drum.
Bayern Munich would not accept a draw. Not here. Not in their fortress. To leave with parity would be a transgression, an insult. No — the Germans wanted blood, wanted glory. They had clawed back from the brink, and now, with four minutes left, hope burned brighter than ever.
History's quill was in motion, its ink red and white. This was Bayern Munich. And Bayern Munich does not forgive.
...
Pedri darted forward, lungs rattling, sweat sticking to his eyelashes. He'd seen Bayern's hunger — Davies already sprinting to place the ball on the halfway line, the red shirts buzzing, snarling for blood — and he knew Barça couldn't waste a second. Still, something in him tugged. He had to check.
He spotted Mateo.
Bent over, shoulders heaving like a furnace, the kid looked wrecked. Pedri's chest tightened. He veered to him, words already spilling.
"Dude, how are—"
But Mateo cut him off before the sentence could breathe. Slowly, shakily, he lifted one arm. His palm trembled, slick with sweat, but his thumb rose. A thumbs-up, bright and stubborn.
Pedri froze, stunned.
Mateo's hair clung to his forehead, sweat dripping down his chin, his body bent forward like he was on the edge of collapse. But there it was — a crooked smile, faint yet defiant, spread across his face as he held that ridiculous thumbs-up high.
Pedri's lips parted. Then he couldn't help it — a smile of his own broke out, even as his chest tightened with something sharp, almost painful. He exhaled, shaking his head.
"Foolish question, right?"
Mateo gave no answer, only kept smiling through the sweat and exhaustion. Pedri squeezed his shoulder once, gently, before turning away. He had his answer. He didn't need to ask again.
Mateo straightened slowly, breath ragged. His vision wobbled, edges blurring, the stadium's floodlights smearing like watercolor.
What am I doing?
He shut his eyes hard, shaking his head as if to rattle the dizziness out. He blinked until the blur sharpened. Then he stood tall, chest heaving, fists clenched.
Fuck this stamina.
A bitter laugh tried to crawl up his throat, but it came out as a cough. He cursed himself silently. He should've done more, pushed harder, not listened to the trainers when they warned him of overtraining his stamina drills, the German pressing machine. PSG had been chaos, yes — but this? This was war. A suffocating, endless war. And he was paying for it now.
But there was no time for regret.
He lifted his gaze to the sideline.
Koeman was watching. His manager's face was tight, shadowed with worry. Dembele was already warming up, jogging with crisp, sharp steps near the touchline. The change was ready.
Mateo's jaw clenched. His chest burned, but his spirit screamed louder.
No. Not yet. I have to stop this. I need to be here.
He waited until Koeman's eyes locked with his. For a heartbeat, the stadium noise seemed to fade, just the two of them across the grass. Mateo raised his hand high again — no hesitation, no wobble this time. His thumb lifted once more, sharp, certain. His eyes burned like fire.
Koeman's expression flickered — uncertainty, doubt, a question he couldn't voice.
Mateo's glare answered it. I'm not leaving. I'm here. I'm fine.
And so he turned, jogging back toward the center circle. Every step heavy, but every step defiant.
Davies was waiting. The Canadian, still shaking with adrenaline from his goal, stepped into Mateo's path, eyes blazing.
"Take it! Come on, what's wrong with you? Start the game!" His voice cracked like thunder. Behind him, Müller was clapping furiously, barking, "Los, los, los!" and Sule shoved lightly at Mateo's shoulder.
Red shirts crowded him, suffocating, hungry. Their urgency pressed into him, almost physical.
Mateo's lips curled. Without a word, he yanked the ball out from Davies' grip, clutching it tight as he stepped forward. Their eagerness could scream in his face — he wouldn't yield to it.
High above, in commentary, the words tumbled out, breathless:
"Dembele sits back down! The change is off! Koeman… Koeman trusts the kid! But Mateo looks utterly drained. You wonder if that trust is blind faith or something more. Well, whatever it is — he's staying on, and Barça will restart with him."
Mateo stood on the halfway line, the ball beneath his boot. Around him, Bayern's players leaned forward, twitching, snarling, their eyes glowing with the hunger to end this, to take everything.
He turned once, just slightly, and saw his teammates behind him. Messi, calm but deadly. Pedri, eyes sharp. Alba wiping sweat from his brow but nodding firmly. Busquets, composed, ready. They were exhausted, yes, but their fire still burned. He felt it.
The referee's whistle shrilled.
Mateo nudged the ball back, straight to Messi's waiting foot.
His thoughts carved through the roar of the Allianz, clear and simple.
Let's die here.
...
When you are about to die, they say the body summons its last reserves. A burst of energy, raw and primal, tearing through the exhaustion. Soldiers have felt it on battlefields, runners on the last hundred meters, boxers on the twelfth round.
And tonight, under the deafening roar of the Allianz Arena, Mateo King felt it too.
His body was burning, lungs collapsing, legs screaming. Every muscle told him stop. But he didn't. A sudden flood of adrenaline surged through his veins — not mercy, not relief, but fury. His body was dying, yes, but his soul refused. He ran.
And passing the ball had not been the end.
Barcelona sparked to life. From Busquets, calm and poised, shifting past Kimmich's outstretched leg, to Pedri, skipping between shadows, to Alba tearing down the left flank — the ball zipped and darted like electricity. Bayern pressed with iron teeth, but Barça bent without breaking. A tackle from Kimmich? Sidestepped. Pavard lunging in? Rolled away. Each pass was a statement: we're still here.
And the commentators, swept in the tide, could barely contain themselves:
"Bayern may have equalised, but it's done nothing to break Barcelona's rhythm. They're still passing, still moving, still daring… oh Messi, Messi, Messiiii—"
The words broke into a shout as Lionel Messi picked up the ball near the halfway line.
Müller slid in, missed, and lay sprawled in the grass, face contorted. Messi glanced at him only once — then clenched his teeth, eyes blazing.
The kid is killing himself for us. Crawling on empty legs. What am I doing? I'm the captain. This is my dream. This is my moment.
His heartbeat thundered. His jaw tightened.
I am Messi.
Then he exploded forward.
Alaba lunged — dropped. Hernández stepped in — left for dead. Bayern's fortress, Bayern's high line, Bayern's certainty — shattered under his feet. He tore through them like a storm, the ball glued to his boot, defenders sliding off him as if they were made of paper.
Behind him, Mateo saw it and ran. Pedri too, sprinting into space. Griezmann, Alba — they abandoned their stations, gambling everything on one belief: he'll find us.
And Messi did not betray them.
He glanced up once, the tiniest flick of his eyes. Neuer loomed far away, waiting, crouched like a panther. The crowd shrieked, the pressure suffocated. But Messi, grin tugging at his lips, whispered to himself, who says there's no chance? If there isn't one, I'll create it.
Then he slipped the pass forward. Not wide. Not safe. Into the channel. Into trust.
Into Mateo.
The teenager burst into the lane like a bullet. His chest heaving, legs wobbling, but he ran. Behind him, Alphonso Davies chased, words spilling with his breath.
"You're weak! You're tired! Stop! I'm here!"
But the more Davies screamed, the further Mateo ran. In Davies' eyes, he looked finished — but the kid refused to slow. Each step widened the gap. It wasn't Davies giving chase anymore — it was Davies giving up.
Go. Go. Go.
The words pounded in Mateo's skull with each stride.
The stadium blurred, the defenders melted away. All that existed in his vision was the ball rolling ahead of him and the looming figure of Neuer.
Go. Go. Go.
Every ounce of himself burned — lungs torn, muscles shredded, his soul pouring itself into the sprint.
And above, the commentary crackled, disbelief flooding their voices:
"You asked why Koeman kept him on? Why he refused to sub him out? This is why! Mateo King, chasing history! He's on for a hat trick at the Allianz Arena! What a game—what a game What a time to be alive!"
Mateo didn't hear them. He was locked in a trance, eyes locked on the ball, legs moving as if powered by something greater than him.
Go. Go. Go.
The high line was dead. The defense split open. The teenager was free.
But Neuer — Manuel Neuer — was also coming.
The Allianz gasped as the picture cleared: Mateo versus Neuer. A race collapsing into a duel. The German giant, still somehow as quick as ever, hurtled out of his box, gloves outstretched, eyes unblinking. Mateo's heart stuttered—there was no room for a shot, no time for finesse. Only instinct.
Now. Now or never.
They met like two trains colliding. Neuer's frame crushed through him, his knee grazing Mateo's thigh, his chest slamming his shoulder. But before the impact folded him, Mateo's foot twitched—just the slightest flick, the faintest chip, a touch born from nothing but faith.
He didn't see it. He couldn't. His body collapsed under the weight of the collision, his cheek hitting grass, sweat and spit smearing into the turf. His ears rang, his lungs refused air. He stayed there, face buried, body lifeless.
And then—sound. A roar so deafening it shook the earth. It wasn't noise, it was an explosion, a tidal wave of disbelief and ecstasy that swallowed the stadium whole.
Mateo's eyes widened against the ground. His chest heaved once, twice. He turned his head, slow, trembling—and there it was. The net rippling, the ball lying inside like a secret whispered into history.
Tears welled instantly. He didn't even try to stop them. He cried into the grass, hot tears burning his sweat-stained cheeks. He had done it. Somehow, against Bayern, against his body, against the great Manuel Neuer—he had done it.
And then he saw them. His teammates—Pedri sprinting with his arms open, Messi screaming with clenched fists, Griezmann, Alba, Busquets—charging at him, their faces twisted with joy, disbelief, love.
He knew. He knew he had scored.
The stadium quaked, a roar cutting through the cold Bavarian night, yet above it all the commentary thundered into living memory.
Guy Mowbray's voice broke with disbelief.
"HE HAS DONE IT! HE HAS DONE IT! MATEO KING HAS DONE IT! A HAT-TRICK—A HAT-TRICK AGAINST BAYERN MUNICH! Forty seconds after the restart—just forty seconds after Bayern had dragged themselves back—the boy has ripped it all apart again! He has broken the dam!"
Beside him, Tony Pulis could only half-shout, half-gasp.
"It's impossible! It's simply impossible!"
But Mowbray was already surging higher, his words almost lyrical, every syllable heavy with history the TikTok edits would go wild with this one.
"Barcelona… Barcelona have never beaten Bayern here. Barcelona cannot—has not—toppled the treble team. A kid cannot come to the Allianz, the cathedral of the champions of Europe, and score three. A kid cannot drag this broken Barça side back from the brink. A kid cannot silence Germany itself.
That's what they said. That's what they told us. Barça would crumble, Bayern would feast. They told us it was written."
He paused, his voice suddenly thundering with a force that shook the very air:
"WHO DECIDED THAT?!
Who wrote it in stone? Who told you it couldn't be done?!
MATEO KING DECIDES THAT! He just tore the script into pieces! He just did it!"
The words hit like a hammer, echoing over the stunned Allianz Arena, as though Mowbray himself had refused football's fate.
"What are we even talking about anymore? What are we witnessing?!
The time—look at the clock—the time is only eighty-six minutes and forty seconds! Forty seconds after Alphonso Davies' worldie, the boy has answered. The boy has screamed back. Mateo King…
MATEO KING HAS JUST SILENCED GERMANY!"
A/N
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Thank You your support is greatly appreciated thank you all
I've also created a Discord channel to make communication easier, where I'll post updates, cover/character pictures for all my books, and more. Here's the link:
https://discord.gg/BTem945sz