From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

Anti-Football.

It wasn't a phrase handed out lightly — it was a label, a mark of disdain whispered across press rooms, shouted in dugouts, and quietly agreed upon by millions of fans. It described a way of playing that felt almost like the rejection of football itself: ultra-defensive, grimly practical, cold in its calculation.

It wasn't about the ball. It was about what you did to stop others from using it.

Teams branded with the term shared certain traits — low blocks parked deep inside their own half, minimal possession, maximum disruption. Time-wasting. Tactical fouls. Elbows, late challenges, feigned injuries. The art of frustration dressed up as game management. For the purists, it was heresy. For the pragmatists, it was just another way to win.

The style didn't start with him, but it was José Mourinho who brought it into the mainstream spotlight — the man who once said, "If you control what the opponent does not have, you control the game." During his early Chelsea days, and later more infamously at Inter Milan, he made defending fashionable again. Defensive lines held together like military formations. Results above romance.

But where Mourinho was theatrical and clinical, others took it further.

Diego Simeone gave it steel at Atlético — emotion and blood and grit.

The Italian league made it doctrine — Catenaccio reborn in modern form.

And then came José Bordalás — a man who arrived in La Liga not just to borrow from anti-football's toolbox, but to sharpen its weapons and build something of his own. When he took over Getafe in 2016, few could predict the transformation. He didn't hide from criticism. He embraced it. He polished it.

"If they call it ugly, then let them know it's effective."

Bordalás' Getafe became a masterclass in disruption. Not just physical — brutal. Not just cautious — calculated. His side were feared not for what they could do with the ball, but for how little they allowed anyone else to do.

Other coaches spoke in frustration:

"They're the most aggressive and unpleasant team in La Liga. This is not football."

"Anti-football is when one team has no interest in playing, only in destroying."

"Getafe didn't come to play football."

"You feel powerless when the game stops like this all the time. It's legal, yes, but it's not the football we love."

"This wasn't a match. Today's product was a disgrace."

Those were just a few of the opinions that had echoed around La Liga since José Bordalás and his Getafe side began making headlines for all the wrong reasons.

Last season, they racked up an eye-watering 704 fouls in the league alone, shattering the previous record of 483. It wasn't just a statistic — it was a statement. In a competition that prided itself on grace, ball control, and elegant passing triangles, Getafe were the wrecking ball in a room full of violins.

And this season? Somehow, they were on track to break their own infamous record. Through 31 games, they'd already committed averaging over 18 fouls per match, with a grand total of just 20 goals scored. A team that looked allergic to the ball, embracing the "take it, we don't want it" mantra with pride.

Yet no matter how ugly or frustrating it looked — it was still within the rules. No law broken. No line officially crossed.

And Ronald Koeman, standing on the touchline of Camp Nou with arms crossed and jaw tight, understood that better than most.

He hated it, but he respected the danger of it.

Koeman knew what this kind of match meant. He'd watched it happen over and over. Barcelona — regardless of generation, coach, or roster — had always wrestled with one consistent problem: low blocks and rigid, disciplined, deep defenses.

It didn't matter whether it was Inter in 2010, Chelsea in 2012, or Juventus in 2017. Even Atlético Madrid, under Simeone, had done it time and time again.

Barça's DNA — fluid, expressive, high-possession play — was often smothered by teams who had no interest in playing football on Barcelona's terms.

And Getafe were the embodiment of that.

Koeman hadn't forgotten what happened earlier in the season either. A humiliating 1–0 defeat at Getafe's Coliseum Alfonso Pérez — despite 79% possession — had stuck in his throat. It wasn't just about the loss. It was the manner of it. They were choked out of the game, not by brilliance, but by disruption.

So this time, he'd planned carefully.

His starting XI reflected his intent: Messi and Mateo — two players capable of breaking lines with dribbling, movement, and manipulation of space. Two players comfortable with the ball under pressure, able to draw in defenders and open up small cracks. Griezmann was added not just for his work rate, but for his intelligence in exploiting space those two might carve open.

As Koeman watched the game unfold from the sidelines, he leaned forward slightly. His eyes followed the ball as it rolled toward Mateo, isolated near the flank with one Getafe defender closing in fast.

"Come on..." Koeman muttered under his breath.

Mateo turned to take on his man. The first defender lunged — Mateo's touch looked sloppy, heavy. But somehow, he squeezed through, slipping the ball past his marker. Another Getafe body was waiting immediately — shoulder first — but Mateo dipped low and slid by him too.

It was clumsy, not elegant. But it was progress.

And then came the third body — no intent to tackle, just to destroy. A heavy boot cleared the ball and flattened Mateo in one brutal motion.

"Foul! Foul, ref!" Koeman shouted, his voice sharp with disbelief.

But no whistle came.

The official, standing a few yards away, merely gestured for play to continue.

Koeman exploded, barking words in Catalan that weren't meant for television. One of his assistant coaches tried to calm him — "Mister, careful. The fourth official's watching." But Koeman waved him off with a glare and stomped back toward the bench.

He glanced up at the clock — 15 minutes played.

Already, he couldn't remember the last time the ball had reached Barcelona's defensive third. Getafe were listed in a 5-3-2 on the lineup sheet, but on the pitch, it looked like a 10-0-0.

Koeman's eyes darted back to Mateo, who was picking himself off the grass again — his fifth time going down already. Koeman winced. Yes, Getafe were rough. But he couldn't shake the thought:

"He's not looking sharp. It's not just them… something's off with him."

On the field, Barça prepared for a throw-in. The ball was quickly tossed to Mateo again near the sideline. He caught it under pressure, a defender charging in from behind. Mateo held off the challenge, turning his body, searching for an outlet.

He found it — or thought he did.

A quick pass across the grass… intercepted.

Koeman shouted instinctively. "Come on!"

But before Getafe could counter, Jordi Alba darted in like a ghost, reclaiming the ball with a sharp tackle.

Koeman turned to his bench, clapped his hands sharply, and shouted instructions in Catalan and Dutch:

"Compact lines! Push higher! "Mateo, look before the pass! Don't wait for the press, force the angle!"

The game was beginning. And Koeman knew they were already deep in a dogfight.

He sat back in the dugout, arms folded, jaw tight. His eyes narrowed at the pitch as the ball zipped horizontally from Alba to Busquets, then back to Piqué. Getafe's players barely twitched—no press, no pressure, just a 10-man blockade inside their own half. Koeman hissed under his breath, his face tightening in irritation.

Then his eyes shifted slightly—just a glance, really—but it landed on Mateo.

What's going on, kid? he thought.

From the outside, Mateo looked fine. Focused. Active. But the rhythm was off. Koeman could feel it. Something was bubbling under the surface.

And as the minutes dragged on, the struggle grew clearer. The game was a chessboard, and Getafe were playing not to win—but to prevent losing.

17th Minute

It started with Pedri. Positioned between Maksimović and Arambarri, he dipped his shoulder and twisted free of the first marker. Djené stepped forward, late. Pedri darted around him too.

He didn't hesitate. A quick inside foot pass found Messi.

Leo took one silky touch with his left, rode a clumsy challenge from Olivera, skipped past Aleñá's half-hearted swipe, then leaned into his body, opening his hips.

A channel of light opened—Messi took it.

He whipped a curling shot, effortless and sudden.

CLANG!

Off the bar. The sound echoed like a bell across Camp Nou.

In the commentary booth, Andrés Marín's voice broke in, full of tension.

"Barcelona are probing, but Getafe's shape remains frozen like a Roman phalanx. No one stepping out. It's a fortress."

Miguel Ángel Román replied in awe.

"They don't press… they simply exist in position. This is classic Bordalás—designed to suffocate, not to chase."

23rd Minute

Still, no Getafe attack. Ter Stegen hadn't touched the ball in nearly ten minutes. The ball remained in Getafe's half. The crowd was beginning to stir—out of boredom more than tension.

Mateo dropped a bit deeper, offering for Busquets. He received, pivoted smoothly, then rolled it to De Jong. The triangle began.

Mateo. De Jong. Pedri.

Pedri didn't hesitate. He spotted Griezmann peeling off Etxeita's shoulder. A delicate chip.

Griezmann ran onto it cleanly and fired low across the face.

David Soria reacted, flung himself to his left—

Saved.

The rebound spilled.

Messi didn't wait.

He pounced, tapping the ball into the net.

Camp Nou exploded.

Hands in the air. Voices rising. Drums thudding in the South Stand.

"There it is!" Marín shouted. "The pressure finally punches through! And it's the magician again—Lionel Messi!"

Román laughed softly. "You force them to live in their box, eventually they suffocate. Messi is oxygen in a vacuum."

The Barcelona players surrounded him. Pedri slapped his back. Griezmann raised his fists to the crowd. Mateo arrived a moment later—hands clapping, quick smile—high-fived Griezmann… but his eyes were elsewhere.

32nd Minute

But even a goal down, Getafe didn't change.

Still deep. Still compact. Still uninterested.

Koeman couldn't believe it. "They're playing a 5-3-2 on the sheet," he muttered to his assistant, "but this is a damn 10–0–0."

Barça continued to knock, looking for the crevice.

Alba. Busquets. Lenglet. De Jong.

De Jong picked out Mateo between the lines and zipped in a sharp one-two.

Mateo trapped it well—finally. A quick feint left, then a pass back to De Jong, and he peeled off into the box as a decoy. De Jong, with no time to wait, opened his body and let fly from distance.

The shot bent low and wicked—just wide of the far post.

Román whistled softly. "That's inches away. De Jong almost made it two."

Marín added, "And credit to Mateo—he may not be sparking, but his movement there pulled defenders. That shot doesn't happen without him."

35th Minute

Dest pushed high, overlapping on the right to pull Olivera out of shape. Pedri noticed. A disguised through-pass carved behind the Getafe line—but it was a shade too strong.

Mateo sprinted after it, just a foot away.

Damián Suárez body-checked him with veteran timing—legally enough to avoid a whistle. Mateo stumbled forward. Didn't fall. But the frustration was mounting.

Koeman clenched his fists.

His touch is heavy. His eyes are a second late. He's not fully here yet.

A moment later, Messi picked the ball up near the right touchline. Without warning, he danced past Cucurella, slipped it through Arambarri's legs, and curled in a cross from the outside of his boot.

Mateo leapt—but again, he was off. Too early. Too high.

The ball floated harmlessly wide.

"He's not calibrated tonight…" Román said quietly. "Every moment's just half a beat off."

Marín nodded. "Messi's doing the heavy lifting now. But you know Mateo—one flash, and he flips everything."

38th Minute

Barcelona had just seen another attack fizzle out—Pedri, caught in a dead end, passed backwards to Busquets, who swung it across to Alba. Again. Predictable. Getafe's wall didn't budge.

But then, Getafe did something they hadn't done all game.

They ran.

It started with Maksimović, intercepting Alba's delayed pass. In a flash, he laid it off to Arambarri, who thumped it forward with a snap of his boot. Jaime Mata peeled off Piqué's shoulder, holding the line just long enough before racing down the left. Cucurella charged alongside him, screaming for the switch.

Camp Nou's volume jolted—not from celebration, but alarm.

"Counter! They're breaking!" Marín's voice spiked.

Román snapped in: "Their first venture forward—and they come like wolves!"

Ünal joined the charge, giving Getafe three in the final third for the first time all night. Piqué sprinted back, desperate to cut off the line. Lenglet shifted to cover. Ter Stegen stepped off his line.

Cucurella received the switch, slowed Dest down with a feint, and then slipped it across the face—

But Busquets had tracked back.

A perfect slide. A scuffed clearance, but enough to kill the move.

Groans mixed with applause. The moment died before it bloomed.

Román exhaled. "They waited thirty-eight minutes to come alive… and still, Barça snuffed it out."

Marín chuckled. "That might've been the only time tonight Ter Stegen's heartbeat went up."

44th Minute

Barcelona recycled possession after another half-clearance. Pedri again had the ball, trying to inject rhythm, but Getafe's defensive shape refused to bend.

The midfielders looked irritated now. De Jong waved for more movement. Griezmann flared his arms in frustration after dragging Damián Suárez wide to no avail.

And Mateo—quiet for much of the half—received the ball near the right corner of the box.

He turned.

One touch. Two.

Then, he saw him.

Messi, floating toward him with a jog that always looked casual, but never was.

Without hesitation, Mateo threw a backheel behind him.

It clicked.

The pass spun perfectly into Messi's path, gliding across the grass like silk.

Román gasped, "Beautiful link-up—Messi has space—"

Leo didn't slow.

One touch forward, then he wrapped his left foot around the ball and launched a golpe de alma—a soul strike. The ball soared in a violent arc, rising and dipping in the same motion, heading straight for the top right.

David Soria leapt—full stretch.

Fingertips?

No.

CLANG.

Again, the crossbar.

Again, silence followed by collective shock.

"¡OH! THE BAR AGAIN!" Marín screamed.

Román's voice softened into awe. "That was a wordless wave of magic. A letter to the gods. And the bar... denied it."

Mateo, standing frozen at the edge of the box, stared at the frame still rattling. His backheel had created that.

He should've felt proud.

But he only sighed.

45th Minute — Halftime Whistle

The referee blew the whistle.

Barcelona 1. Getafe 0.

That was the half.

Marín let out a breath. "Well… that's the end of the first act, if you can even call it a match. Getafe haven't launched one single real attack."

Román added, "Had Messi scored that last strike, it would've been a perfect conclusion to a one-sided storm. But even with just one goal, he's been from another realm."

Marín continued, "And Mateo King? Not his strongest half, to be honest. He's had flashes. Movement, effort. That last pass was class. But something's missing. Like he's stuck in second gear."

Román nodded. "He's not bad—but he's not Mateo yet. Let's see what Koeman does at the break. And maybe—just maybe—Getafe might actually play football in the second half."

Players' Tunnel — Halftime

The players began their slow walk toward the tunnel. Some were muttering. Some silent. The Getafe squad didn't look tired—they hadn't run enough to be.

Pedri rubbed his temples as he walked beside Busquets. "It's like passing into quicksand," he mumbled.

Griezmann chuckled darkly. "They don't defend with shape… they defend with apathy."

Alba looked over. "They're not even trying to win. Just spoil."

Mateo, at the back of the line, walked with his head bowed slightly. The noise of the crowd faded behind him as he stepped under the concrete overhang. The fluorescent tunnel lights washed over his face.

He sighed.

Guess I need to solve this thing first.

Then he walked inside.

Inside the Camp Nou Locker Room – Halftime

The air was thick with heat and tension. Steam wafted from heat pads and half-drained water bottles lay scattered across the floor. A few players leaned back on the benches, heads tilted toward the ceiling. Others massaged tired thighs or swapped drenched shirts for dry ones.

Ronald Koeman walked into the center of the room, clapping loudly.

"Good job, boys! Good job!" His voice carried authority. "I know you hate playing like this, believe me—I do too. But you've done great. We're already one goal up."

He pointed at the whiteboard, where a hastily drawn Getafe shape was sketched like an iron wall.

"They want to waste time? Then let's waste it for them. Let them run. Let them chase ghosts. They want to stay deep? Fine. We slow the tempo. Side-to-side. Shift them until they have to move. Then, when they get impatient and step out, we punish them."

He grabbed a marker and circled key areas. "Frenkie, you keep rotating through the half spaces. Busi, always offer that short safety net. Alba and Dest—keep your width. Wait for the third man runs."

Then he turned toward the forwards.

"Leo, you keep dragging them. Antoine, I want you floating between their lines—make them guess. Mateo..."

Silence.

Koeman blinked.

"Mateo. Mateo."

Still no reaction.

He raised his voice. "Mateo!"

Mateo King jerked his head up, startled like a kid woken from a dream. "Yes, gaffer!"

Koeman squinted. In that moment, he didn't see the star striker. He saw the teenager. The kid under the noise. Under the pressure. The striking boy genius who hadn't smiled properly since kickoff.

Maybe he needs rest after that whole paris debacle, Koeman thought. Thought he was over it.

He sighed.

"I'm going to pull you this half. You don't seem all there. It's okay—"

"No!" Mateo's voice was urgent, standing up before Koeman finished. "No, gaffer, please. I know I haven't been my best, but I promise—I'll fix it. Just give me a bit more. I need to do this."

His fists were clenched, his brows furrowed. His eyes weren't pleading out of fear. They were pleading from need.

Koeman hesitated. Coaching young stars wasn't like coaching pros. You couldn't just treat them like gears in a machine. Confidence was everything. If he shut this down now, what would that seed?

Doubt.

Koeman opened his mouth to speak, but someone beat him to it.

"Let him play, boss." Griezmann spoke first, casually tying his boots. "It's not like those Getafe guys are doing anything up front anyway."

"Yeah," said Pedri, nodding. "We've got control. If anything, he's drawing defenders just by standing. That last assist was clean."

Alba added from the far side, half-smiling. "Let him cook. If Mateo's saying he's ready, then he's ready."

Laughter rippled through the room.

"Wait—did Alba just say let him cook?" someone called out. "Alba, you've been hanging out with the kids too much!"

"That TikTok generation is getting to you, viejo," another teased.

Mateo grinned, stretching his legs out beside Pedri.

"Mateo, Pedri—take it easy on him," Sergi Roberto chuckled, nodding toward Alba. "Man's fragile. He's not built for Gen Z warfare."

The room burst into laughter again, boots clattering on the tiled floor, the air light and buzzing with pre-match energy.

A few more murmurs followed—quiet, but unified.

Koeman exhaled through his nose and gave Mateo one last look.

Koeman rubbed the back of his head, glancing around as laughter bubbled in the room.

"Okay, okay," he said with a mock sigh, gesturing toward Mateo, "seems you're popular, ehn, kid?"

A few of the players chuckled. Even Alba grinned and nudged Pedri. The tension lightened, if only slightly.

Koeman's face straightened again, voice firm. "But listen—I'll leave you on. Just know, if I don't see you back in the game, really back, I'm pulling you off. Deal?"

Mateo nodded quickly. "Deal, coach."

Koeman turned his head toward the far side of the locker room. "Dembélé—warm up. You might come on later."

Ousmane Dembélé, who had been sitting against the bench sipping his water, stiffened slightly. He gripped his towel harder than expected before nodding quietly. "Yes, gaffer," he muttered, standing up.

Koeman clapped once again.

"That's that. The rest of you—you've been doing great. Keep doing what we talked about. Stick to the structure, don't lose your heads, and remember—they need to come at us now. That's our chance."

The players were nodding, focused. Laces were tightened, wrist tapes checked, and boots tapped against the floor. The atmosphere shifted again—halftime was over. War resumed soon.

Mateo, meanwhile, sat quietly, elbows on knees, eyes scanning the floor but not really seeing it.

He wants to sub me.

Can't even blame him.

What am I even doing out there?

And then, without warning, the strange translucent line appeared again—the system—hovering just above his vision like a holographic whisper:

[Ronaldinho's Superstition Belief Acquired]

This gift links your state of mind to symbolic rituals.

When you adopt a personal lucky charm and wear it during a match, you will enter a state of perfect focus.

Your mind will become immune to external distractions—real life anomalies or distractions or problems, crowd noise, pressure, doubt.

Find your charm. Believe in it.]

Mateo blinked.

So... belief? That's it? I just need to believe in something?

He glanced around the locker room, slowly scanning the faces. Piqué laughing with Alba. Busquets tapping instructions to Pedri on his shin pad. Messi, seated quietly near the wall, as usual, breathing slow, eyes closed.

Then Mateo's gaze landed on Griezmann—slightly sweaty, tying his boots, head tilted with quiet focus.

Mateo leaned over. "Grizzy," he whispered.

Griezmann looked up. "Hm?"

"Got a rubber band?"

Griezmann's brow furrowed slightly. "A rubber band? What for?"

"Just need it. Hair's bugging me," Mateo lied smoothly, tapping the top of his head.

Griezmann gave him a skeptical look, then reached into his side bag, pulling one out. "You're not even wearing your hair out today."

"I know," Mateo said, grinning weakly. "Just in case."

Koeman's voice cut through the locker room again, louder now.

"Alright, team! It's time. Let's get back out there. Remember—we don't chase this game, we own it. Patience, pressure, purpose. They'll break before we do. You dictate the pace!"

Players began moving toward the exit tunnel. Laces got final tugs. Wrists were rolled. Shirts pulled down.

Griezmann handed Mateo the black rubber band. "Here."

"Thanks, man," Mateo said quietly.

As he turned toward the tunnel, he slid the band onto his left wrist and stared at it for a second. Just a cheap, stretchy circle of rubber.

But in his mind—it was a talisman.

A charm.

And as he tightened it one last time, he exhaled slowly and thought:

This better work.

Marín's voice returned over the stadium hum, cool but expectant.

"Second half begins here at the Camp Nou—Barcelona leading by just a goal. Neither manager has made a change, which says a lot."

Román followed, his tone laced with irony.

"Yeah, José Bordalás probably thinks 1–0 down is still right on track. And Koeman? He's clearly trusting his XI to unlock more space if Getafe ever dare to push forward."

Marín chuckled.

"That's a big 'if'. But for now—let's get back to it. The chess match continues."

Meanwhile in the VIP Box

Up in the high glassed enclosures of the stadium, Andrew sat in silence.

He wasn't smiling.

Unlike most of the executives sipping wine around him, his mind wasn't on the pitch—but on the boy wearing number 36. Mateo King.

The first half hadn't been kind to the kid.

Andrew's eyes flicked briefly to the row of Barcelona suits just ahead. President Laporta sat chatting with his sporting director and two others—heads close, voices low, their faces unreadable.

What are they whispering about now?

Andrew's jaw clenched slightly.

Second thoughts? Doubts about the deal?

He sighed.

Well… whatever they're discussing, my job doesn't change. I'm here to secure the best future possible for Mateo. Whether that's in this stadium or not.

He folded his arms across his chest. Unlike Mateo, he felt no particular attachment to Barcelona. No club was sacred to him—only opportunities.

Back on the Pitch

Mateo stood near the halfway line, rolling his wrist once.

The black rubber band Griezmann gave him stretched snugly over his skin.

He looked down at it and exhaled.

"Belief," he whispered. "Belief."

Then—FWEEEEET!

The referee's whistle cut through the noise like a blade.

Mateo's head snapped up.

Across the halfway line, Jaime Mata stood over the ball. The second half had officially begun. Getafe's kickoff.

And then—without hesitation—Mata nudged the ball straight back… and booted it.

A deep, aimless clearance into the far corner of Barcelona's half.

The crowd groaned.

Ter Stegen raised his hands in disbelief. Alba turned toward the ref. Piqué slapped his thigh.

"¡Vamos, hombre!"

"Come on!" Alba shouted, spreading his arms wide.

Getafe had opened the half not with an attack—but with a cynical attempt to gain territory and maybe force a set piece. No intent. Just disruption.

Frustration sparked again.

Mateo simply shook his head.

He turned and began jogging back into his shape, shoulders bouncing lightly as his cleats clipped the grass.

Let's do this then, he thought.

Second half. Start over. With belief.

"Well… if the first half was slow, then this second half is practically crawling."

"Barcelona with 90% possession this half. Ninety. But what are they doing with it? Getafe haven't moved. It's like playing against a row of parked buses."

Marín let out a dry chuckle. "And Barça, for all their movement, seem content to just… tap around them. Circles and more circles."

Román added, tone rising with exasperation, "This isn't football, it's shadowboxing. No punches thrown. No one even in the ring."

But then his voice changed—sharpened.

"Wait. Doesn't seem like it'll stay that way. Look—Mateo King… he's up to something."

Mateo...

He stood wide on the left. His boots kissed the sideline. The ball rested against his sole, gently pinned.

Two Getafe defenders stood just ahead, neither engaging. They stayed at arm's length—compact, reserved. Their body language screamed: we're not coming.

Mateo narrowed his eyes.

"Still?" he muttered.

He glanced up at the scoreboard screen.

65:02.

Seriously? They're still playing like this?

He heard a clap behind.

"¡Eh!" Sergio Busquets raised both hands. Calling for the recycle pass.

Mateo exhaled through his nose, sarcasm leaking into his tone.

"Pass back again?" he whispered to himself.

His body turned. Shoulder angled. He shifted weight—ready to return it. Safe. The default option. But then his gaze flicked down.

His wrist.

Griezmann's black rubber band glinted faintly under the stadium lights.

A silent whisper passed through him.

I can do this now.

His teeth gritted.

"One goal isn't safe."

And then he moved.

A quick feint. Hips dropped. He sold the pass backward. The defender bit—half a step.

Mateo pounced.

His right foot tapped it forward, cutting inside. Then came a blur—he twisted the ball with his left, dragging it back under him and slicing between the gap.

The first Getafe defender missed his tackle completely.

Mateo spun around the second, barely brushing his shoulder. The ball danced at his feet—tight, rapid touches, like it was glued there.

"Yes—yes—YES!" he shouted internally as he burst into the half-space between their lines.

From the stands came a roar—not from a goal, but from the sudden movement.

"¡MIRA MIRA MIRA! Mateo's going—he's GOING! Look at him go!"

"Now it's alive! He's just split Getafe apart! Like a knife down paper!"

Two more Getafe players charged toward him—Aleñá and Maksimović scrambling out of shape for the first time all match.

Mateo looked up. Ahead—there it was.

A wall of navy-blue Getafe shirts. A forest of legs.

But now, behind him, something shifted.

Messi sprinted forward. Pedri called for the ball. Alba surged down the flank.

Barcelona had come to life.

Calm down, Mateo thought, chest heaving. You can do this. Just believe… believe.

And with that—he took his next step.

The rubber band was tight around his wrist.

Mateo King burst through the midfield line like a match struck on stone.

Aleñá came flying in from the left. The Getafe midfielder readied himself to lunge—but Mateo dipped his shoulder, stopped, then rolled the ball with his studs, faking right, exploding left.

But Aleñá didn't back out. He clipped Mateo—weight on his hip. The contact was heavy.

Mateo staggered—but didn't fall.

The ball still at his feet.

He gritted his teeth, shoved through, and drove past him.

One down.

Then Maksimović stepped up. Fast. Sharp.

Mateo flicked the ball inside with the outside of his boot—a wicked little touch—and twisted his hips. The Getafe man reached out—

Too late.

Two down.

The Camp Nou gasped.

🗣️ Román (Commentary):

"¡Qué locura es esta! Mateo King is carving them—he's carving them wide open!"

Now Djené came charging—shoulders squared, the enforcer. Mateo's eyes narrowed.

He stabbed the ball forward again—this time a soft flick with the inside of his boot, almost caressing it around Djené's right leg.

Djené swung. Missed. Mateo spun.

Three.

He could see it now.

Between the chaos, the goal finally revealed itself like a rising sun.

The keeper.

The frame.

The crowd.

Mateo surged toward the ball, chest pounding. He reached it. Took the final touch to set his body.

But—

His right boot barely grazed the ball.

A misstep. Not enough weight. His drag-back didn't catch.

The ball rolled.

Too far.

"No. No. No—no!" he muttered, eyes widening, sprinting to recover it.

But before he could even reach out again—

BOOM.

A defender, sprinting back at full speed—Etxeita—slammed into him like a freight train.

Mateo flew.

Crashing to the ground, just outside the penalty box.

🗣️ Marín:

"¡OHHHHH! DOWN GOES KING!"

🗣️ Román:

"That's a brutal challenge—right outside the line! Inches! INCHES from being a penalty!"

The referee's whistle blew. The crowd roared. The Camp Nou surged in volume.

But on the bench…

Koeman had been standing the entire run, tense, fists clenched.

"Come on… come on…" he murmured.

Then—

"Arghhh!"

He slapped the air in frustration as Mateo fell. So close. So damn close.

Still… the free-kick was in perfect Messi range. He nodded. Silver linings.

Then he heard it.

From the pitch.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

Koeman blinked, startled.

He turned to see Mateo.

Still on the ground, banging both fists against the grass, screaming. Not in pain—but rage. Frustration. Boiling, pure, unfiltered emotion.

The camera caught it all.

The fans—tens of thousands—rose to their feet. A chant broke out from one corner. Some applauded. Others shouted his name.

But Mateo was still shouting, veins bulging in his neck, face twisted in anger.

He'd wanted that goal.

He needed it.

Koeman's face tightened.

He didn't hesitate.

He turned to his assistant.

"Tell Dembélé. He's going on."

Mateo was still on the grass, fists pounding into the turf, the screams of frustration clawing out of him with no filter. His chest rose and fell like a man in a storm. The ball… the goal… all of it had been right there.

De Jong jogged toward him, crouching beside him.

"You alright, man?" he asked, calm but concerned.

Mateo shot up with fire in his voice. "Of course not! The fucking ball just slipped past me! What the fuck is this?!"

He kicked the air, hands shaking.

The Getafe players were walking back into position, but Mateo wasn't done. He turned and shouted toward them.

"You think this is football?! Huh?! Parking a damn bus for ninety minutes?! This is trash—this is NOT football!"

Damián Suárez snapped back. "You better calm down, chico."

"Calm down? You call this professionalism? This is coward shit!" Mateo fired, veins in his neck straining.

Some Barça teammates rushed in, trying to hold him, calm him. Alba, Pedri, and even Piqué stood between him and the Getafe defenders.

"Mateo—chill! It's not worth it!"

Then came the sharp whistle.

The referee marched up, firm, controlled. "Mateo! Mateo!"

He didn't respond at first.

"Mateo!" the ref shouted again.

"What?!" Mateo turned, fire still in his voice.

"You've been subbed off. Please leave the pitch so we can resume."

Time paused for a moment.

Mateo's eyes darted to the sideline. There was Dembélé, jogging up, stretching.

Then to the fourth official's board—green for 11… red for 36.

His number.

A single word slipped from his lips.

"Fuck."

He didn't speak again. He didn't look at anyone.

As he trudged toward the sideline, the Camp Nou crowd gave him an ovation. Teammates clapped for him.

He didn't lift his head.

Just before stepping off the pitch, he yanked the rubber band from his wrist—the one he'd begged from Griezmann—and flung it to the grass.

"Useless shit," he muttered.

At the touchline, Koeman approached him with a hand on the back.

"You tried, kid. Don't let this get to you. Go rest. Don't worry."

Mateo didn't reply.

He didn't even hear it.

On the bench, players shuffled, trying to make space. A few handed him bottles of water, pats on the shoulder. Others whispered to him—words of encouragement, of comfort.

He sat.

Still.

Eyes on the pitch but mind far away.

Then—

ROARS from the stadium.

The bench stood in unison, shouting, clapping. Koeman jumped up with both fists clenched, screaming toward the field.

"What a freekick! Dios mío—Messi is insane!"

Mateo blinked.

He looked up.

And saw it.

Messi, arms wide, sprinting toward the corner flag, teammates chasing him in celebration.

Mateo stared.

And then—

He smiled.

A quiet, tired smile.

"Good for them," he thought. "2–0. At least we're winning this game."

75th Minute

Getafe finally broke out of their shell.

They began pushing forward, throwing more players ahead of the ball. Cucurella clipped in a dangerous cross. Jaime Mata rose high for it.

Ter Stegen reacted instantly.

A world-class dive.

Fingertips.

SAVE.

The Camp Nou breathed again.

87th Minute

It was over before Getafe even realized they were open.

Dembélé, fresh and fast, intercepted a lazy midfield pass and exploded forward like a bullet. He cut through two defenders, spotted Messi in front.

Slipped the pass through.

Messi didn't even take a touch.

One strike. Bottom corner. Goal.

Hat-trick.

Game sealed.

3–0.

On the bench, Mateo was clapping again. Laughing even. The bitterness in his chest wasn't gone, but the joy of football was fighting its way back in.

Messi lifted the match ball in the air, waving to the fans.

Player of the Match.

Another clinic.

Mateo grinned through the ache in his chest.

But even in the midst of celebration, a voice whispered in his mind.

"I need to solve this. Before the next game."

He looked down at his wrist.

Empty now.

He closed his fist.

Whatever was broken… he'd fix it.

Because next match?

He needed to be himself again.

A/N

If you want to read 20 chapters ahead with daily uploads and to support me subscribe to my Patreon below There is also a picture of how mateo looks like posted and later there would be votes and all on the site some you wont need to pay to vote but you can if you want to support me thanks

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Thank You your support is greatly appreciated thank you all

Also for Bonus chapter if we can get 150 power stones within the next 24 hours i would post a new chapter

Also i want to apologize for taking a very long break somethings happened to me so i went but now im back and without bonus chapters i would maintain a weekly suply of 5-6 chapters

Also P.S the next few chapters are slow burn to give mateo a more personal feel and not just seem robotic thank you