"Its a disgrace… a big disgrace."
It had been two days since the electrifying match between Barcelona and Bayern Munich, yet the outcome—and everything surrounding it—hadn't left the mouths of the people. Especially in Spain, in Madrid, inside San Sebastián de los Reyes, the massive Atresmedia studio logo of El Chiringuito de Jugones shone proudly atop the building. This was not just any sports program; it was the biggest, most influential show in the country, the one that commanded attention, shaped narratives, and made fans scream at their screens from Málaga to Madrid, Valencia to Seville.
El Chiringuito de Jugones was known for its intense, no-holds-barred debates. Panelists shouted, interrupted, argued with relentless energy, and never held back. Strong opinions weren't just welcomed—they were expected, encouraged even, as if measured by the volume of one's voice and the sharpness of their critique. Every clip, every gesture, every incredulous gasp was designed to go viral, meticulously crafted for maximum impact. Every word and expression felt like it was made for the views, for the clicks, for the viral chaos, a carefully manufactured spectacle. It was as if Twitter had been given a late-night TV show makeover, and every pixel, every frame, screamed drama. And like almost every major sports outlet in Spain, their core obsession was Real Madrid and Barcelona, with every story, every segment, every frame circling back to the two biggest clubs not just in the country, but in the world.
Today was no different. The studio had pulled out their best guests, analysts, former players, journalists, commentators—everyone capable of adding fuel to the fire. The set already resembled a chaotic arena; a hellhouse of opinions and shouting, a tempest of passion turned into television spectacle. They had taken full advantage of the situation after the last match, and the topic on everyone's lips—on every fan feed, on every social media platform, on every café conversation—was the same one consuming all conversations: Mateo King. Or rather, Mateo King's audacious comment regarding the referee, which had ignited debates, tweets, and endless headlines across the nation. For El Chiringuito de Jugones, this was exactly what they thrived on: drama, controversy, emotion, spectacle.
"I mean… was he wrong though?" a voice cut through the tension, dripping with incredulity and a sharp edge of hostility.
"What exactly did he say?!" shouted another, leaning forward aggressively, fists pounding the desk for emphasis, the frustration in their tone barely contained.
The studio itself reflected the intensity of the discussion. The dark, glossy floor mirrored the low, moody lighting above, black as night but polished enough to catch the glow of the LEDs and screens. A large, curved central desk dominated the middle of the set, each panelist jostling for visual dominance, for airtime, for that brief moment to inject their voice above the chaos. Behind the host, a massive LED video wall looped clips endlessly: Mateo's goal, tweets about the match, flashes of penalty controversies, and other moments designed to remind viewers why they were tuned in, why the debate mattered. Accents of red, blue, and white lighting shifted subtly depending on the topic being discussed, bathing the studio in a theatrical glow that made it feel more like a late-night debate arena than a traditional newsroom.
Voices fell one after the other, overlapping, colliding, six out of seven panelists firing rapid critiques, questions, and accusations, while the seventh swung back and forth between disbelief and frustrated rebuttals. The air in the studio felt electric, thick with tension and energy, almost tangible through the screens—so much so that viewers could feel the pulse of every shouting match, the emotional highs and lows, the raw admiration, anger, and awe coursing through every frame.
Josep Pedrerol, seated firmly in the middle of the curved desk, finally raised his hands, trying to impose some semblance of order on the chaos that had engulfed the studio. His voice, calm but carrying an edge of exhaustion from trying to moderate the storm, cut through the overlapping shouts:
"Okay, okay… let's all calm down a bit."
For a moment, it seemed like the voices might lower, the tension ease slightly. But it was only a brief illusion. Carme Barceló, the calm, collected, widely respected Barça-leaning regular guest, immediately fired back, her measured tone replaced by sharp, unrelenting fire. She didn't wait for Pedrerol to finish, not a trace of patience in her voice, showing how even the usually unflappable host was already being pulled into the agitation of the topic:
"No, I'm serious! Was Mateo wrong though? Didn't we all watch the match? Why should we baby these refs who, time and time again, keep making silly mistakes? That was a clear penalty during the second half, and you didn't give it! Then you call a penalty against them in the dying minutes of the game over a soft challenge! Please… he didn't say anything wrong. It was 10 versus 12!"
Her words landed like thunder across the glossy black floor of the studio, bouncing off the low-lit walls, her frustration and righteous anger visible in every gesture, every flick of her hand, every tilt of her head.
Before the echo of her argument could fade, Juanma Rodríguez, the hardline Madridista, cut in sharply, his tone loud, accusatory, and laced with disdain:
"And why should he be the one to talk? Why must it be him?"
From the opposite side of the table, a roar erupted—Jota Jordi, the fiery voice of the Barça faction, veins standing out on his neck, practically shouting across the studio:
"Cause they asked him the fucking question! The interviewer asked him! Did you not see it?!"
As the intensity surged, a cold, condescending voice broke through—Tomás Roncero, representing the Madrid perspective, his words dripping with disbelief and outrage:
"And so, because they asked him, should he then disgrace the referee? Mind you, the referee is from the Spanish federation—the same league Mateo plays in! He just disgraced the whole federation!"
Cristóbal Soria, a devoted Barça supporter, slammed his hand against the desk, leaning forward with clenched fists, his expression a mixture of exasperation and indignation:
"Why shouldn't he disgrace them? Must it always be them, every single time? The calls they make are the ones disgracing the federation, not a 17-year-old kid who aired the grievance done to him and his team! Why must the players always be the only ones who can't express themselves?"
The debate raged on, voices overlapping, gestures sharp, faces flashing anger, disbelief, and frustration, as if the energy of the entire nation had been condensed into the confines of the glossy, low-lit studio.
Edu Aguirre, brought in as the voice of reason to balance the Barça supporters, finally opened his mouth, his tone calm but firm, cutting through the cacophony:
"No one is saying the players shouldn't talk. But like Juanma said, it shouldn't be him. I mean… come on, this is a kid who has barely played twenty matches in his career. What right does he have to even speak about matters like this?"
Carme began to interject with a sharp, "Well—" but Edu didn't hesitate, cutting her off immediately, relentless in his delivery:
"And this isn't the only time! It's the same kid who supposedly has an issue with Sergio Ramos—a man who has literally won everything in world football, his actual national team captain for Christ's sake! I mean… what are they teaching them over at their academy to even talk back to someone of that level?"
Tomás then added, with thick disdain in his voice,
"And did you see his interview with La Sexta? I mean… the sheer arrogance of the kid!"
Before the conversation could settle, Jota Jordi cut in sharply, frustration and indignation coiling through his words:
"Here we go! You guys should say your true intentions, 'cause I don't know how a kid having confidence in his ability has suddenly turned into arrogance!"
Cristóbal Soria's voice rose again, a mixture of confusion and exasperation, gesturing wildly with his hands:
"And why are we even changing the topic altogether?"
As Cristóbal began to speak, Juanma Rodríguez intercepted him mid-thought, his voice controlled but cutting through with sharp precision:
"'Cause it's all connected! The kid… as talent, sure. But to go far in this game, you need more than talent. He needs to put his head down, win a couple of trophies… then he can talk. That's the advice I have for him."
Jota Jordi's face turned red, veins standing out on his neck as he practically screamed across the studio, his voice raw with disbelief and frustration:
"Advice??? What are you even talking about?!"
He leaned forward, hands slamming the desk, eyes blazing as if daring anyone to contradict him. The intensity in his voice made the air feel heavier, charged with the energy of a debate about to ignite further.
Carme Barceló, quick to interject, cut him off before he could continue, her tone sharp yet precise, carrying the weight of facts and passion alike:
"An hat-trick in his debut. An hat-trick in his first match in the Champions League. Another hat-trick in the next round of the Champions League against Bayern Munich. Scoring a third consecutive goal in the Champions League, becoming the youngest ever to do that, beating Kylian and Erling at just seventeen years of age. Youngest goal scorer in both La Liga and the Champions League, and for Spain, twenty-nine goals and eleven assists in fifteen games across all competitions this season. The kid is good, and he knows it. Having confidence isn't the same as being arrogant."
Her words hung in the air for a moment after she finished, leaving a brief, almost fragile silence. But the Madrid side of the table was not going to be outdone. Tomás Roncero leaned forward, voice sharp and unwavering, cutting through the pause with judgmental finality:
"Confidence with no trophy is pure arrogance."
Jota Jordi's eyes widened, lips tightening in indignation as he shot back immediately, almost shouting over the others:
"It's literally his first season!"
Juanma Rodríguez, never one to let an argument slide, leaned in, voice firm, eyes narrowing slightly as he pressed the point:
"That's exactly the point! It's his first season, and every time we hear about him in the media, it's one issue or another. I mean… isn't his idol Messi? Shouldn't he try and emulate him?"
Cristóbal Soria, not willing to let the narrative go unchecked, cut in sharply, hand raised to stop Juanma mid-sentence, frustration dripping from every word:
"Ooh, stop that crap! Don't give me that. We are not about to pretend here that Messi being humble has stopped the media—or even you guys—from coming after him!"
Juanma, known for his harsh criticism of Messi on countless occasions, coughed lightly, hiding a flicker of embarrassment, muttering under his breath:
"I'm just saying…"
Carme Barceló's tone softened slightly, yet her words carried the weight of reason and conviction:
"Whether the kid is silent or he talks, as long as he plays well for a top club like Barça, there are many who would come for him. Why should he try to please people who would never be pleased instead of him simply being himself?"
The argument didn't end there. El Chiringuito de Jugones was notorious for its drama-filled segments, and today was no exception. The discussion continued relentlessly, circling back to Mateo, no matter how much it deviated to other tangents. Every exchange, every rebuttal, every sharp retort added fuel to the fire, keeping viewers glued to the screens as the debate spiraled, emotions escalating, voices overlapping, and the studio thrummed with the intensity of passion, pride, and unabashed fury. Both sides refused to yield, while more and more viewers tuned in, drawn to the spectacle of the storm that Mateo King had unwittingly ignited.
While the segment was going on back as both sides went back and forth in Barcelona, the topic of discussion on most sport magazines, talk shows, and posts, Mateo found himself in his own situation, far removed from what was going on.
He let out a long, drawn-out sigh, his chest rising slowly as he slumped slightly in the chair, the sound echoing faintly off the pristine white walls. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the sterile, almost blindingly clean surfaces, the polished floor, and the neatly arranged furniture, each detail emphasizing the starkness of the space. Another sigh escaped him, deeper this time, carrying the frustration that had been building ever since he woke up. His shoulders slumped further as he pressed his hands lightly against his knees, trying to shake off the impatience that tightened his jaw.
As he exhaled for the second time, a calm, deliberate voice came from beside him:
"You know why we are here."
Mateo turned slightly, recognizing his uncle immediately. There was a weight to the voice, the quiet authority that came with experience and patience, yet at this moment, it only added to Mateo's agitation.
"But I have already told the club I'm fine. This is just a waste of time," he replied, his voice taut with annoyance, each word clipped and precise, as if he were trying to push back against the invisible pressure in the room.
His uncle didn't answer. He didn't even glance up from the phone in his hand. He continued pressing, swiping, scrolling, his motions precise and unhurried, almost ritualistic. Mateo felt the tension coil tighter in his chest, his agitation growing with each deliberate tap of the phone. He shifted slightly in his seat, the sterile chair squeaking under him, his impatience mounting in the oppressive silence.
Even though Mateo had been allowed to continue the match against Bayern after the tackle against Neuer, it didn't mean the club was done with him regarding that incident. The very next day, the moment he stepped onto the training ground, he had been asked to report to the medical staff before touching a ball or joining any drills. There, he spent the next hour undergoing tests, scans, and assessments, machines whirring and sensors beeping, his body prodded and measured in ways he had done countless times before. He missed a massive chunk of the training session, watching from the sidelines as his teammates ran, passed, and sprinted without him.
But it hadn't ended there. This morning, once again, he had been instructed to visit the Hospital de Barcelona, the team's official hospital partner, for an even more intensive checkup. Every test, every scan, every measure was in case the Gamper Medical Institute had missed something. The club was not taking any chances with him. Every detail was scrutinized, every muscle, tendon, and ligament evaluated, the staff leaving no stone unturned.
Mateo knew it was all done out of care, showing how important he really was to the club, but even so, losing part of training for this a second time made him frustrated. Coupled with his dislike of the hospital—the cold, antiseptic smell, the whirring machines, the sterile surfaces—the 17-year-old superstar was deeply uncomfortable. Then, paired with the fact that this was actually meaningless—he knew his system had already healed him fully—it all felt utterly pointless, a repetition of motions that achieved nothing.
He sighed again, letting the breath escape in a long, quiet exhale as he thought to himself, 'i cant exactly tell them that my system healed me though.' Another sigh followed, slower this time, heavier, as he leaned back slightly in the chair, trying to make himself comfortable against the rigidness of the medical office.
Reaching for his phone, he tried to pass the time, scrolling absentmindedly through apps, flicking between screens, letting his eyes rest on the familiar glow. But even that small distraction failed to lift the weight pressing down on him. As he scrolled, his thoughts turned inward, quietly critical: 'damn im a loser.'
His phone was, for all intents and purposes, boring. His friends and teammates, both from La Masia and the first team, were most likely training right now, fully immersed in drills, passing, and sprints that he could only imagine. Aside from them, his contacts were limited—mostly family members and the occasional connection, like the La Masia gatekeeper or Sarah from the media team. With no one to talk to, his boredom deepened. He swiped from app to app, each scroll revealing either unwavering support for him and the club or pointed, biting insults, the monotony only reinforcing the isolation he felt.
Quickly leaving that space of inactivity behind, Mateo thought again, almost muttering under his breath: 'i need an hobby.'
Thankfully, at that moment, the door finally opened, breaking the monotony and putting Mateo out of his misery. A voice came through the doorway, calm but deliberate: "Sorry I'm late." Mateo and his uncle, almost instinctively, lowered their phones and straightened slightly, subconsciously adjusting their posture, as if even the smallest shift in body language could communicate readiness or patience.
The doctor stepped fully into the room, moving with measured precision. He was middle-aged, his appearance composed and professional, a calm authority that contrasted sharply with the sterile whiteness of the room. In one hand, he held a neatly stacked bundle of files, while the other hand gently brushed across the edge of the desk as he approached. He seated himself with deliberate care, placing the folders in front of him with methodical precision.
"Sorry, was gathering your results from the lab," he said, his voice calm but efficient.
Mateo's uncle, Andrew, offered a small, knowing smile, the kind that conveyed patience and understanding all at once. "It's not an issue, doctor," he said lightly, his tone courteous but carrying that subtle undercurrent of familiarity one had with a professional he trusted.
The doctor, focused on the files, didn't lift his gaze immediately. He responded quietly, methodically, "Morales." Andrew, ensuring he heard correctly, repeated the name, "Morales?" The doctor's eyes flicked briefly toward him, a silent affirmation, confirming that, yes, Morales was indeed the name.
After a few meticulous minutes spent scanning the files, examining X-rays, MRIs, and other imaging tests, Dr. Morales finally looked up, a slight, reassuring smile forming on his face. "Well… good news," he began, his tone carrying the calm authority of someone who had seen it all, "it seems there is no issue anywhere. Everything is good… honestly, too good. You had a match when, again?"
Mateo, still slightly slouched in the chair, replied almost automatically, "Two days ago."
The doctor's eyebrows lifted subtly as he gave a small chuckle, "Exactly. I even watched it, by the way. Congratulations."
Andrew leaned forward slightly, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand. "About the results…", he prompted.
Dr. Morales flipped through the folders with careful precision, pausing on a few pages. "Oh, right. What I was saying is… after a match like that," he began, his voice steady and informative, "we usually expect some level of muscular fatigue. The tests we ran—MRI scans, ultrasound imaging, joint flex analyses, stress tests, ligament integrity checks—allow us to evaluate everything from the knees, hamstrings, quadriceps, lower back, tendons, and even micro-tears that sometimes aren't visible during normal training. We look for inflammation, overuse, any subtle sign of fatigue, or lingering strain from high-intensity activity." He paused briefly, scanning Mateo's reactions. "But from what I'm seeing here… your muscles, ligaments, tendons, joint fluid levels… everything is perfect. No overuse, no micro-tears, no lingering fatigue. You are in peak condition. Honestly, better than what we would expect from someone after such a demanding match."
Mateo offered an awkward smile, the faintest chuckle escaping him. His mind briefly flicked to his system—the reason he could ensure he would always maintain peak condition whenever he stepped onto the Camp Nou pitch. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself the small internal victory, a quiet acknowledgment of the system's effect as Dr. Morales finished his explanation and gave the implicit clearance for them to leave.
Stepping out of the clinic and into the muted hum of the corridor, Mateo exhaled deeply, releasing the tension he had been holding for hours. He let out a massive sigh, the sound echoing slightly against the pristine, white walls. "Finally," he muttered, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and that subtle hint of triumph threading through his voice.
Andrew, moving with the calm efficiency that had always characterized him, slid into the driver's seat with careful precision, seatbelt clicked into place. "Make sure to buckle up," he said casually, his eyes on the road, voice steady but carrying the faintest trace of amusement at Mateo's visible relief.
"Yeah," Mateo replied simply, still carrying the weight of the day on his shoulders, his own seatbelt clicked in. The uncle-nephew, agent-client duo, hit the road, the streets of Barcelona slowly coming to life around them as the morning light reflected off the polished pavement, the city stretching awake while Mateo finally allowed himself a moment of calm.
While they were driving, the conversation drifted naturally between topics, mostly casual but threaded with undertones of planning and anticipation. Andrew leaned back slightly and said, "Do you remember the man you said you met after your interview with La Sexta?"
Mateo's mind immediately flickered back to that odd encounter—the man, mid-40s, sharp suit, slightly eccentric in demeanor, who had handed him a card without much explanation. Mateo remembered the look in his eyes, calculating yet oddly sincere. He remembered giving the card to his uncle, explaining everything the man had said and the strange context in which he had appeared. But as soon as that memory surfaced, Mateo's focus snapped back to the immediate reality—the upcoming match against Bayern Munich, the high stakes, the pressure that never seemed to lift.
"Oo, yeah… forgot about that. So… is he legit?" Mateo asked, turning slightly to glance at Andrew.
"Yeah, he is," Andrew replied, a calm certainty in his voice, "and looks like he actually does work for Fabrizo."
Mateo nodded slowly, digesting the information, then tilted his head slightly and asked, "Hmm… so what did he want?"
Andrew shrugged without looking away from the road, fingers lightly tapping the steering wheel, "Not sure. I'm meeting with him this Sunday. By then, I'll know what he wants."
Mateo's eyebrows shot up slightly, a faint flicker of surprise in his expression. "I thought you didn't want to get close to journalists and all?"
Andrew gave a faint smile, his eyes still on the road but his mind clearly working through several layers at once. "That was when your contract issue hadn't been decided. I didn't want any variables. But now, if we really want to do this, we need to start building our connections. A link to a journalist like Fabrizo is highly beneficial."
As he spoke, Andrew's thoughts drifted to the bigger picture. For a long while now, he had been calculating, strategizing, realizing that friends in the media could be invaluable—not just for publicity, but for influencing awards, transfers, negotiations, contract extensions, and even salaries. While he hadn't known all the inner workings of the football industry before, he was learning at an astonishing pace. He had already begun assembling a personal team to support Mateo's meteoric rise: a physio dedicated to his recovery, a social media manager to shape his image, a nutritionist to optimize his body, an accountant to manage finances. Mateo's dream was clear: to reach the pinnacle of world football. And Andrew, as his uncle NO as his agent, was determined to do everything in his power—and beyond—to make it happen.
"Okay, then," Mateo said, leaning back in his seat, "we can talk about what they want after the meeting."
Before he could finish, his eyes caught a sudden flood of movement. Outside the car, a crowd had gathered at the gate of the Gamper Institute. People holding fliers, cameras, and phones pressed forward, craning to get a glimpse, some lightly tapping on the tinted windows of Andrew's car. The scene felt chaotic, alive with energy, a mix of anticipation and the rowdy excitement that always seemed to follow Mateo after interviews. Andrew, maintaining his calm, turned toward the gate that now slowly opened, signaling them through.
"Seems they already know my car," Andrew said, a faint chuckle in his voice as he navigated through the throng.
Mateo let out a low, resigned sigh, glancing at the faces pressing close. "It's the interview… they've been more rowdy ever since it happened."
Andrew's tone softened slightly, almost apologetic, as he said, "Sorry about that. Maybe you can… cool down on."
Before Andrew could even finish, Mateo cut in, a confident smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Please, uncle… it's gonna take way more than that to scare me."
Andrew steadily pulled up to the front of the building, ready to drop Mateo off, the engine humming quietly as the crowd's excitement surged behind them.
As Mateo was coming down the steps, Andrew spoke up, his voice calm but carrying a note of reminder. "That reminds me, your mom mentioned something about you not being able to visit your grandmother. She and your dad should already be reaching there around now," he said, glancing briefly at Mateo as he adjusted his watch.
Mateo opened the door, ready to step out, his hand lingering for a moment on the frame. "I already told her I can't make it, especially now," he said, his tone even but carrying the weight of responsibility. He shifted slightly, brushing past the thought of missing family time as he continued, "The gaffer wants us to go a day early to Villarreal for the next match, so we are leaving this evening."
Andrew nodded, a faint smile breaking across his face, though his eyes remained focused, serious as ever. "Okay then. Make sure to stay safe and rest plenty," he said, the concern in his voice unmistakable despite its quiet delivery.
Mateo closed the door behind him, the familiar click echoing slightly in the hall. "No problem, journey merc. Bye," he said casually, a hint of lightness in his voice as he waved briefly before turning.
Without pausing, he moved straight toward joining the team for training. The online criticism, the media chasing him from one headline to the next, the endless debates over his last match—it all existed, but for Mateo it was simple: job's not done. His focus was sharp, unshaken, his mind already on the next challenge, the next game, the next victory. Up next: Villarreal.
A/N
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