Mateo had finally touched the ball.
It was electric.
His absurd speed—that freakish, almost unreal acceleration—had once again carried him past another player, blindsiding him before he could even think to pass.
Mateo, chest rising and falling with a controlled hunger, knew.
This was it.
The hat-trick.
The glory.
The stadium. The headlines. The legacy.
He was already thinking of the goal—already feeling the net ripple in his mind when—
CRACK.
A white-hot pain exploded across his skull.
Like a hammer swung at full force.
His entire body shut down.
He didn't even have time to scream.
His legs buckled, and just like that—
Mateo collapsed.
No dramatics.
No flailing.
He just dropped—lifeless—to the grass, hands instantly going to his head.
Garcia had punched him.
Flat. Out.
A closed-fist, blunt punch to the side of the head.
The crowd screamed.
And then chaos broke loose.
"WHAT THE HELL, GARCIA?!""ARE YOU CRAZY?!""YOU HIT HIM!""RED! RED! RED!"
Barcelona players charged.
Ferocious. Furious.
Several shoved him instantly, rage in their eyes.
Garcia stumbled back, raising his hands in panic.
"NO—no! I didn't—I didn't mean to! It was a mistake!""It was a reflex! I didn't—he got in the way!"
He was shouting.
Pleading.
But no one was listening.
The Barca players kept coming, pushing, yelling, surrounding him with a storm of anger.
Garcia's own teammates rushed in—arms out, trying to hold back the avalanche of bodies.
"Back off! BACK OFF!""We've got him—we've got him!""It wasn't on purpose!"
It didn't matter.
The whole place had scattered.
Players were grabbing each other.
The bench was on its feet.
Even coaches were starting to move.
The referee had seen it.
He had seen everything.
He stood frozen at the sideline, wide-eyed, the whistle limp in his hand.
He couldn't believe what he'd just witnessed—a flat-out punch in a football match. An attack.
He hesitated.
Too long.
Until the entire pitch descended into madness.
That was when he snapped out of it—sprinting into the fray, shouting for space, for calm.
"ENOUGH!""Get back!""Everyone, STOP!"
He started separating players, forcing bodies apart, arms swinging as he wrestled order back into the game.
Meanwhile, on the floor, Mateo lay still.
The pain in his head was sharp, throbbing. Like knives stabbing in and out of his skull.
He didn't speak.
He just held his head, breathing hard, the world around him spinning in chaos.
And then—
He heard a voice.
"Are you okay?""Can you continue?"
It was the referee.
The words barely registered.
Mateo didn't move. His fingers were curled tightly around his forehead.
Then he heard it.
"Bring the medic—"
But before the ref could finish—
"I'm fine. I'm fine," Mateo said, his voice strained but firm.
He forced himself up, his hands trembling, but his eyes burning with the same fire.
The referee stared at him for a second—longer than necessary.
"Are you sure?" he asked again.
Mateo nodded silently.
Still pressing one hand to his head, still wincing.
The referee looked at him.
Then nodded back.
And slowly brought the whistle to his lips—
PHEEEEEP!
He pointed to the spot.
Free kick.
But he wasn't done.
The referee turned slowly—methodically—towards the source of it all.
Garcia.
He was still surrounded by teammates, protected from Barcelona's fury.
But the ref wasn't stopping.
He marched straight into the circle.
No pause.
No hesitation.
And reached into his pocket.
A flick of the wrist.
A flash of color.
RED.
A bright, unmistakable red card.
The crowd exploded.
No one—not one person—argued.
Not Garcia's teammates.
Not Garcia himself.
The midfielder stood there, head down, hands on hips, chest heaving—not from running, but from shame.
The boos rained down like a storm.
Barça fans unleashed every curse they knew.
And as Garcia slowly walked off the pitch—alone, disgraced, and consumed by the roar of the angry crowd—he didn't look back once.
The once-hero of today's match had suddenly become the villain.
"Let me take it," came Pedri's calm but determined voice.
With Messi out and all the usual free-kick takers indisposed, the duty should have gone to Dembélé—who was here and ready. But Pedri's serious expression made Dembélé simply nod in agreement. Truthfully, Dembélé didn't want the responsibility. Besides, the free kick was way too far from goal for a direct shot; it was smarter to hang forward, ready to capitalize on any second ball.
Mateo, who had just stood up, was about to sprint forward to wait for the delivery when Pedri stopped him.
"Are you really okay?" Pedri asked, concern softening his tone.
Mateo smiled slightly, nodding.
"Yeah, I'm good."
Pedri's grin widened.
"Good. I have a plan, and you're going to help me execute it."
The young midfielder took his position by the ball.
Pedri's stance was reminiscent of a certain Portuguese legend—poised, focused, ready.
Today had been rough for him. From misplaced passes to careless touches and losing the ball far too often, Pedri hadn't been at his best. But watching Mateo—a player even younger than himself—burst onto the field, electrifying the stadium with two solo goals and an equalizer, had reignited something inside him. The stadium's electricity was infectious, and now Pedri was ready to feed off it.
He glanced up.
The crowd was still roaring, their voices raw with anticipation.
To the side, he spotted the referee raising his whistle.
Straight ahead, his teammates and opponents jostled—Piqué and a defender pushing each other near the edge of the box.
Dembélé was sneaking off to the far right, eyes flicking to someone.
Pedri followed his gaze and found him—the kid he'd planned this with—standing just a bit away from the chaos, calm and ready.
Pedri smiled again.
Then, like a cue in a perfectly choreographed play—
The whistle blew.
Pedri stepped up to the ball. The stadium held its breath.
With a deep breath, he struck — and the ball exploded off his foot with crazy power, a thunderclap of sound ringing through Camp Nou. Every eye followed it as if hypnotized.
"Look at that strike!" the commentator shouted, voice rising with awe. "You can almost feel the ball scream!"
The ball curved wildly in the air, spinning with a furious swerve that made the defenders scramble. Players bumped and collided, each trying to adjust as the ball dipped sharply toward the left wing.
All eyes turned in unison.
There, on the left flank, Mateo stood like a statue, muscles tensed, eyes locked on the descending ball.
"Come on, come on…" Mateo whispered under his breath, watching the ball drop onto his leg.
It landed with a slight wobble, threatening to bounce away, but Mateo wrestled it under control, barely—a flicker of trouble—then steady.
Suddenly, without missing a beat, the Huesca players rushed him like a pack of wolves, desperate to close him down.
But Mateo was already gone.
His legs exploded into motion, crazy speed propelling him forward, the defender closest to him gasping as Mateo pulled away, leaving a sizable gap.
Meanwhile, back in the box, the Barcelona players raised their hands, shouting for the cross they expected.
Mateo glanced up, seeing the hopeful faces in the box.
He closed his eyes, braced himself, and kicked.
But what happened next stunned everyone.
Instead of the expected cross into the penalty area, the ball zipped low—not inside the box, but just outside it.
The Huesca defenders' jaws dropped as they abandoned the box, scrambling toward the ball.
And there — standing already there — was Pedri.
The stadium fell into a hush so deep it felt like time stopped.
The commentators exploded.
"What?! Pedri's already there? Impossible!"
"Look at those defenders — they're panicking!"
Pedri took control, the ball glued to his feet.
The defenders surged toward him, closing fast.
Pedri wound up, as if ready to shoot from there.
The defenders froze, tense and alert — every muscle ready to block the blast.
But then — their eyes lifted from the ball to Pedri's face.
They saw his grin.
A slow, knowing smile that made their blood run cold.
Instead of firing a shot, Pedri performed a slick skill move — pushing the ball forward with his second foot, a perfectly weighted pass sliding sharply to the right side.
The defenders stuttered, confused.
"What… what just happened?"
From behind Pedri, like a shadow slipping through a crack, came a blur — Mateo.
The defenders' eyes widened in disbelief.
"Mateo…"
Mateo, who had passed to Pedri, hadn't stopped running. His heartbeat echoed Pedri's words from earlier:
"After you pass to me, just come back — I'll pass it right back to you. Just make sure your shot goes in, eh striker?"
Mateo caught the ball just outside the box, eyes flicking to the open space.
The defense was out of position — a perfect shot waiting.
Without hesitation, Mateo struck with fierce determination.
The ball slammed off his right foot like a whip cracking through the air.
This is as easy as shooting in training, Mateo thought.
The soccer ball arced beautifully — a blazing cannonball soaring toward the upper right corner.
The goalkeeper, Fernandez, lunged desperately.
But the ball was too close, too fast.
No time to react.
Goal!
Camp Nou erupted.
The roar was deafening, shaking the stadium to its very core.
The scoreboard lit up:
88th minute — 3 to 2
In just eight breathtaking minutes, Mateo had scored a hat-trick — staging an unforgettable comeback.
Eight minutes that rewrote the story of the night at Camp Nou.
Barcelona fans — and even rivals who had tuned in hoping to witness failure — all whispered one name, almost in disbelief:
"Mateo."
The name of the 17-year-old had become legendary in a single night, as millions watched him blaze across the pitch with fire in his eyes.
Mateo, who hadn't even allowed himself to celebrate his first two goals fully, now let out all the frustration he had been bottling up.
He screamed and shouted, heart pounding, arms raised in wild jubilation.
Beside him, Pedri and the other Barcelona players joined the chorus — their voices echoing through the stadium like a victorious anthem.
The roar of the crowd seemed to lift them higher, as if the very air crackled with electricity.
Meanwhile, on the sidelines, a different scene unfolded.
There stood Messi — the greatest player to ever grace the pitch — alongside Koeman, both screaming and celebrating with pure joy.
Their passion was contagious, their smiles wide with pride.
But opposite them, the Huesca bench was a landscape of desolation.
The head coach, with eyes like cold steel, stared blankly at the Barcelona players still reveling in their victory.
He had come into the game resigned — certain defeat was inevitable.
When his team scored those two early goals, hope had flickered faintly in his chest.
For 80 long minutes, that hope had burned bright, driving his team forward.
Now, watching the final scenes, he saw that hope crushed beneath the roaring crowd's thunder.
His gaze fell especially on Mateo — the young star who had ignited the entire comeback.
And in that moment, he thought quietly, almost poetically:
Hope kills.
It breeds in the faintest light, only to consume those who dare to believe.
A bitter truth, wrapped in beauty
"Fweeeeeet!" The referee's whistle sounded signalling an end to the game
The game is over — Barcelona 3, SD Huesca 2.
But the celebrations didn't end with the final whistle. On the pitch, the Barcelona players were still cheering, embracing, shouting in joy as the Camp Nou crowd sang the team's anthem with pure passion and pride. The energy was electric, the night alive with the magic of victory.
And then, over every screen broadcasting the match, a voice boomed — the legendary commentary that perfectly captured the moment:
"And there it is — the final whistle blows! Camp Nou erupts as Barcelona secures a massive three points in an unforgettable night of football. What a comeback! What a battle! What a celebration!"
"With Messi, the greatest player ever, leading the charge, alongside two 100-million-plus signings lighting up the pitch and countless stars dazzling the crowd, tonight all eyes belonged to one name — a 17-year-old who stole the show and captured the hearts of millions."
"Mateo has just announced himself to the world. This young phenom embodies everything — blistering speed, raw power, exquisite skill, and an unbreakable spirit that refuses to quit."
"How does Barcelona find another shining star in their ranks? Tonight, a legend was born right here on this sacred turf — a star who if continues like this will burn bright for years to come."
"The future of football looks dazzling, hopeful, and alive with promise. Mateo. A name that will echo through stadiums and memories, a name whispered in awe and excitement for generations ahead."
As the crowd's cheers faded into a roaring crescendo of applause, the magic of this night lingered, etched forever in the history of the beautiful game.
A call by the commentators tonight, just like the ones that once hailed Messi's brilliance on the greatest stages during his breakout— now heralding Mateo's rise. A promise, a prelude, a premonition of the legendary feats yet to come.
Mateo has Arrived.
A/N
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