From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

"Fucking hell!"

The curse erupted from a thick-bearded man in a battered Messi jersey as thirty heads snapped toward the glowing television screen fixed in the corner of the rustic bar.

The small, smoky space was packed wall-to-wall — elbows brushing, voices clashing — filled with only the most passionate kind of souls: Barcelona fans too far, too sick, or too broke to travel to Paris, but who wouldn't miss this night for anything. They brought the Camp Nou atmosphere with them.

Cervezas clinked.

Plates of patatas bravas, jamón ibérico, and crusty bocadillos lay half-eaten on tables.

Old men with sun-scorched forearms leaned over wooden counters, and boys barely eighteen jumped out of their seats every time the ball flickered on screen.

Almost everyone wore the same colors — blaugrana, the stripes of belief.

And on the backs of nine out of ten jerseys: the number 10.

Messi.

That name wasn't just a player. It was a prayer. A badge of pride. A battle standard. Their general. Their caudillo.

Now, however, that pride was temporarily overwhelmed by pure, raging fury.

"What the hell is this idiot doing?" someone near the bar snarled, slamming his palm down on the table.

Another man shot up to his feet, turned toward the TV, arms flailing, his face red as fire:

"Lenglet! Lenglet, damn you! That's stupid!"

The wave of outrage rolled like a tsunami.

"You fool! You had him covered!"

"It's Mbappé, damn it, not some academy kid!"

The walls seemed to pulse with fury, frustration spilling over. Scarves were tugged down. Heads were thrown back. Some paced. Others cursed the heavens. One man even shouted for water and then tossed it over his face in disbelief.

It wasn't just anger.

It was the helpless rage of fans watching another European night slip through their fingers.

And it was just getting started.

At the center of the room sat a middle-aged man with thick eyebrows, silver streaks in his hair, and a scarf around his neck — worn like armor. He waved his hands furiously at the screen, shouting toward Lenglet's image like he could hear him.

"Always the same with you, Lenglet! Always! My God!"

The cry tore out from a frustrated fan near the front, his voice cracking with disbelief. He clutched his Messi scarf like it was a lifeline, eyes wide, face twisted in that mix of pain and exhaustion only football can bring. Heads around him nodded, some muttering, some openly agreeing.

One old man near the bar raised his arms and yelled at the screen like Lenglet could hear him:

"He does this every time! Every damn time!"

Another, not even bothering to look up from his beer, just shook his head and muttered:

"Put him in a PSG shirt already. At least then he'll stop costing us goals."

"Wait, wait," someone whispered suddenly from the side. "He's checking VAR."

That caught everyone's attention.

Silence spread like wildfire.

Eyes darted up. Mouths clamped shut. A hundred prayers were muttered under thirty breaths.

The middle-aged man's lip curled as he muttered, "If this were their boyfriends Madrid now, you'd suddenly start hearing some FIFA rule invented in 1903 on why it's not a penalty. Claro que sí…" He spat on the floor beside his stool in disgust.

The replay rolled.

Mbappé twisting.

Lenglet pulling.

Mbappé falling.

The old man stood, shaking his head slowly but clapping his hands together, trying to calm everyone, speaking to the room more than anyone in particular.

"Alright. Alright, guys," he said, trying to be the voice of reason in the chaos. "We've already scored two goals. Even if they score this penalty, we just need two more. Mateo's on fire tonight. Calm down. The kid is on fire."

The man beside him — a wiry younger guy with a man-bun — nodded eagerly.

"The kid is something else," he agreed. "He was good back in La Masía... but this? This is different. He plays like he's been at this level for ten years."

Then came a third voice — older, raspy, from somewhere near the back:

"They've given it." He said as a new round of curses went round the bar.

The announcement echoed from the bar's tiny speakers.

Penalty – Paris Saint-Germain.

Groans rose like a funeral dirge.

Some buried their faces in their hands.

Others slammed their beers down hard.

A few simply stared in stony silence.

Then — a flicker of hope.

Someone began to mutter.

"Ter Stegen... Ter Stegen..."

The chant picked up, slowly, hesitantly — as if even they didn't believe it. But hope is a cruel, beautiful thing.

Though no one truly expected a miracle, they still believed in one.

On screen, Mbappé began his slow walk toward the spot.

The bar quieted again, everyone still, eyes glued to the screen.

Glasses stopped clinking.

Forks paused mid-air.

In Spain, in a small tapas bar lit by neon signs and flickering hope, a nation held its breath.

The penalty was about to be taken.

And it wasn't just a shot from 12 yards.

It was a shot at momentum.

A shot at belief.

And somewhere, quietly, they whispered again…

"Come on, Marc."

The bar in Barcelona was silent.

Not quiet — silent.

A deathly, soul-crushing silence that fell like a curtain the moment Mbappé began his run-up.

Their hearts were pounding now — pounding like drums before execution.

Please. Please, Ter Stegen. Just this once. Please save this.

It was a prayer whispered under dozens of breaths.

A hope that gripped them, thin and fragile, but real.

Mbappé took two strides. The stadium on TV roared.

He swung through the ball.

Top right.

Like a blade slicing through the chest of every fan watching.

Ter Stegen had jumped the right way — his body stretching, arms flailing desperately — but he was always just a fingertip short.

The net rippled.

And just like that, the hope died.

"...Great," muttered one of the fans at the bar in Spain, his voice flat, his soul ejected.

Another rolled his eyes, took off his scarf and laid it on the counter like a funeral offering.

No one shouted anymore. No one cursed. There were no more insults. Only exhaled grief.

And it wasn't just in Spain.

In the storm-drenched streets of Lagos, Nigeria, dozens of Barcelona fans stood crammed under zinc-roofed viewing centers, huddled in sweatshirts and plastic chairs as rain leaked through in trickles.

They had roared with joy at the first two goals.

Now, the rival fans — Real Madrid jerseys gleaming under neon bulbs — howled with laughter, clapping, pointing.

"small pressure and you guys have leaked one!"

"Its Mbappe you think he would catch his pen 3 more jor"

A boy with a Messi jersey clenched his fists in his lap. The rain had soaked his hair to his scalp.

He wasn't even cold.

Just... numb.

And it wasn't just Nigeria.

Thousands of kilometers away in Seoul, it was nearly 3:00 AM.

The city outside was asleep, but in a narrow basement bar lit by the blue glow of a projector, a small pocket of Barcelona fans had gathered.

Some had work in two hours. Others had lied to their partners just to sneak out.

But nothing would stop them from watching this match.

Now, they sat there, their ramyeon bowls untouched, their soju glasses half-full.

No one moved.

On the screen, Mbappé was doing his iconic arms-crossed celebration, chin raised, smirk wide.

The silence in the room was broken only by the quiet, crushing whisper of a girl in a Busquets shirt:

"Is this... going to be another sad night in Europe?"

No one answered.

Because deep down, they were all wondering the same thing.

Was history repeating itself?

Another painful night.

Another cruel reminder that glory in Europe never comes easy.

And somehow, always — always — slips through their fingers.

And it wasn't just the fans who felt that.

Mateo stood there, frozen in the middle of the pitch, drenched in sweat. He wiped his forehead with the bottom of his jersey, dragging it up to reveal his stomach, his chest rising and falling with every breath. His eyes, heavy and dazed, were locked on the scene ahead — Mbappé and the PSG players, all wheeling away in celebration, pointing to the sky, hugging near the corner flag like they'd just won the whole tournament.

Then, out of nowhere—

WHAM.

A shoulder slammed into his back. One of the PSG defenders — Kimpembe — stormed past him, deliberately barging into his side. Mateo stumbled forward, nearly falling.

"Hey!" he snapped, spinning around, eyes wide in disbelief. But the defender didn't look back. He was already halfway to the others, arms raised, screaming triumphantly.

For a split second, Mateo just stood there.

Alone.

The noise of the stadium blurred. His heart pounded in his ears. That little bump, that little moment — it did something to him. Shoved more than just his body. It rattled his mind.

He had scored the fastest goal in Champions League history. He had ignited a dream. But now?

Now PSG had clawed one back. The crowd had shifted. The Parisians were singing again. And that nagging little voice had returned, whispering things it shouldn't.

"Maybe it was just luck. Maybe you're not ready. Maybe this is too big for you."

His fists clenched at his sides.

But then—

a sound. A voice. No, several. Yelling. Fierce. Urgent. Not angry — powerful. Lifting.

He turned.

It was Messi.

The captain wasn't walking. He wasn't sulking. He wasn't lowering his head.

He was shouting.

His arms were wide, gesturing, commanding, urging the team together. His voice cracked like a whip, like thunder.

"¡Vamos, vamos! We don't drop our heads here! You hear me? This is our match. We've scored two — we can score two more! Fight with me! For each other! For the badge!"

The other Barça players turned toward him, drawn in like iron to a magnet.

Mateo stared at the legend. At his captain.

This wasn't the Messi people saw in interviews — quiet, reserved, soft-spoken.

This was the warrior.

The heartbeat of the team.

The man who had carried Barcelona through miracles before.

Mateo felt it. A pulse. A fire. A sudden tightening in his gut, in his chest. His breath steadied.

"No," he whispered under his breath, to himself. "Don't give up."

He clenched his fists tighter.

"It's when you give up that you lose."

He slapped both cheeks lightly, hyping himself up.

"Let's go, Mateo. Let's go."

The referee blew the whistle.

And just like that—

The game resumed.

Parc des Princes roared like a beast unchained as the referee's whistle cut through the night air. The match had resumed with the fury of a storm. The ball rolled, and chaos followed.

Barcelona pressed first—Pedri, slick and sharp, turned with a subtle shift of weight to leave Verratti trailing. He played a quick one-two with Dest before feeding the ball into Mateo King's feet. The 17-year-old whiz was alive. He spun Kimpembe with a sharp Cruyff turn, shifting the ball with his left, then darting forward. It was electric.

The Paris defense scrambled. Marquinhos barked orders. Gueye dropped deep. But Mateo was dancing now, skipping over Paredes' late challenge, shoulder fainting Kurzawa into stuttered steps. The teen cut inside.

"Here he goes again!" Peter Drury shouted. "The boy is flying, fearless!"

A step-over. Then a lightning-quick nutmeg on Florenzi.

"That's outrageous!" Beglin gasped. "He's carving through them like butter!"

Mateo opened up for the shot just outside the box—

—but Verratti came flying back, sliding in to knock the ball off his boot at the last moment.

"Last-ditch defending from Marco Verratti. Just enough!"

The ball bounced free—Pedri recovered it. He nudged it wide to Messi.

Everything paused. Time seemed to tilt.

Here he was—Messi. The architect. The conductor.

He glanced once. Then again. Then, left foot. A pass. So perfect it felt whispered by angels.

It split PSG's backline like a scalpel, curling behind Kimpembe. Alba latched onto it, pulling it back first-time into the box.

Mateo again. First touch, clean. He whipped his boot back—

Blocked by Marquinhos!

The PSG captain screamed at his line to wake up.

"Barcelona are suffocating them," Beglin said. "They're playing with rhythm and fury."

PSG tried to settle. Verratti and Gueye exchanged passes, but Barcelona's press was manic. Busquets lunged. De Jong cut off passing lanes. Even Umtiti stepped high.

Then it happened. A pass too slow. Pedri intercepted it. Quick outlet to Messi. The magician turned. Draxler tried to press—Messi waltzed past him like he wasn't there.

He slipped a ball behind the midfield line to Mateo—on the run.

King was off again.

He dragged the ball with his studs, then flicked it over Gueye's challenge. Charging now at Kimpembe. Left, right, then inside.

"Mateo King—like a young Henry with Messi's touch!" Drury cried.

He dropped his shoulder, burst through, and suddenly it was just him and Keylor Navas.

He opened his body— Placed it—

Navas dove. Fingertips. Save!

The ball ricocheted off his gloves and spun wide.

"Keylor Navas!" shouted Beglin. "That's world-class!"

Mateo dropped to his knees, hands to his face. That was it. That had to be it.

All around him, players bent, panting. Pique was shouting instructions. Mbappé, on the other side, was shaking his head, sweat flying off. Moments earlier, he'd skinned De Jong with a flash of pace, cut inside Umtiti and nearly equalized, but Ter Stegen had denied him with a point-blank reflex save.

Mbappé wasn't done.

He was running riot now. Down the left wing, Dest could barely keep up. The Frenchman's acceleration was scary. One moment he was jogging, the next—boom. Past two players, threading a cross in. Icardi met it with a diving header—

Ter Stegen parried.

And the game went again.

It was hellfire and heaven combined. Midfielders colliding like cymbals. Paredes crunching into Busquets. Alba chasing Draxler. Florenzi and Kurzawa overlapping but being tracked to exhaustion.

By the 45th minute, both teams were gasping. Both benches were on their feet.

And then—one final chance.

The seconds were dripping down. But the man who defined time was on the ball.

Messi.

Dropping deep like he always did when the world was on fire. He drifted through the middle third like a ghost, the ball tied to his boots. Gueye lunged—missed. Verratti tried to stay on his feet, to anticipate the twist—but Messi twisted twice.

The slalom was effortless. The moment? Electric.

The pitch opened before him like a blooming flower.

A rainbow of options. Alba sprinting wide. Pedri shadowing between the lines. Mateo up front, isolated but ready—hungry.

Messi's eyes scanned once, twice—then he picked it.

A perfectly weighted ball slipped into space.

Mateo.

The youngest on the pitch. The one everyone talked about before the whistle, and the one they were all watching now. He took it in stride, heartbeat roaring in his ears. The roar of the crowd dimmed. The cold Paris air didn't matter. Only the moment did.

He drove forward.

One touch.

Two.

He cut inside with the third—Kimpembe stretched, mistimed, gone.

One defender left.

He didn't wait.

A split-second decision. A breath—

Then the strike.

Low. Clean. Inside of the right foot. Aiming for the bottom corner with every bit of control and instinct his La Masia upbringing had carved into his bones.

The Parc des Princes froze.

Keylor Navas dove.

Time stretched.

His glove extended fully—gravity seemed to stall—

Palm.

Contact.

Fingertips. Just enough.

The ball skidded wide of the post.

Mateo stopped.

No rebound. No miracle.

Just that hand. That save.

He stared for a heartbeat—

Then collapsed to his knees.

His legs couldn't carry the weight anymore. The blades of grass beneath him pressed into his skin through the fabric. His hands dug into the turf. Chest heaving. The cold sting of earth meeting exhaustion.

And then—

FWEEEEEE!

The referee's whistle pierced the night.

Halftime.

No goal.

No fairytale finish to the first act.

Just breathless lungs and a stadium torn between chaos and relief.

Mateo didn't rise immediately.

He looked up at the night sky, eyes wide. Not in despair—but in disbelief. That close. That close to something massive. The silence inside him was louder than the crowd. The echo of Navas's save burned behind his eyelids.

The battle had just begun. And he knew now… nothing would be given.

Everything had to be taken.

Parc des Princes – Halftime.

The Barcelona players walked off the pitch slowly… broken, breathless, battered.

They weren't limping from injuries—they were limping from truth. The weight of a brutal first half. One of the most chaotic halves of football they'd experienced.

The silence was deafening.

Mateo walked with his head down, arms limp, sweat sticking his jersey to his back. The brilliant first 20 minutes felt like a distant dream now. He had missed a sitter. Navas had stolen a goal. Mbappé had punished a mistake.

He felt human again.

They all did.

Behind him, Messi walked in silence, occasionally glancing around the stadium—like he was memorizing this place. A place where they needed to make history.

Peter Drury's voice echoed from the commentary box.

"You dream of matches like this. You pray they never happen to you. 2–1. A war in boots. A half that leaves you breathless. And still… another 45 minutes to go."

Jim Beglin added with gravity in his tone:

"It's not just a match anymore, Peter… it's a reckoning."

Barcelona Away Dressing Room.

The door swung open.

Mateo was the first in.

"Agua, agua," one of the kit staff offered, bottle extended. Mateo shook his head, breath still uneven, and slumped onto the bench. He leaned forward, forearms on knees, eyes staring into nothing.

One by one, the rest followed. Piqué, Busquets, Alba… Messi. No music. No jokes. No noise—just tired limbs and unspoken regrets.

Lenglet walked in last. His voice cracked the silence.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "That penalty… I'm sorry."

Koeman didn't wait.

"This isn't time for sorry, Clément."

His voice was sharp, controlled—like flint sparking against steel.

"This is time for serious. You want to apologize? Don't do it again. Learn. React. Fight. Be present."

He stepped into the center of the room, voice rising.

"Look at yourselves. Look at them."

"They're not better. They're just hungrier. Faster. Meaner."

He spun, locking eyes with each player. They weren't kids—they were champions. But they needed reminding.

"For this next half… I want fire. I want blood. I want goals. We score one—we go again. Two? We go again. No scoreboard. No fear. Only forward."

He turned toward Griezmann.

"Antoine," he said, voice calmer. "You're coming on."

"You'll play just behind Mateo—CAM. Shadow him. Draw markers. Open space. Preserve his legs. He's been running the width of the pitch all half. Buy him breath. Let him explode when it matters."

Griezmann nodded, already tightening his laces.

Koeman turned to Mateo.

"Mateo," he said firmly, "shift wider. Use Griezmann. Read his space, not just your own. Pull Kimpembe and Florenzi. You've got them on edge already. Now kill them."

Then—silence. A hesitation.

He looked at Messi.

Their history loomed like a shadow between them. They hadn't always agreed. Koeman had been the coach who let Suárez go. That wound never fully healed. But tonight wasn't about history.

Tonight was about survival.

Koeman took a breath… then spoke:

"And you, Leo…"

He paused, almost struggling with the words—then letting them come.

"Enough of this deep playmaking. I need you up front. Mateo's legs are young, yes—but he's not a machine. You know this game. You've read it a thousand times. No one needs to tell you what to do."

Messi gave a small nod. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Koeman looked around the room. He saw men—not boys. Fighters. Legends. Warriors waiting to be unleashed.

And then—he let the match burn through him.

"You remember what they did to us at the Camp Nou? 4–1? In our house? In our cathedral?"

"Well now we're in their house."

He pointed to the walls.

"Let's paint it blue and garnet. Let's show them that Barça doesn't bow. Barça doesn't break. We respond."

"Let's give them a bigger beating than they gave us. Stadium for stadium. You want revenge? Earn it. You want glory? Take it."

"Now GO OUT THERE—AND MAKE THEM REMEMBER WHO WE ARE."

The silence shattered—

"VISCA BARÇA!" he roared.

The room erupted.

"VISCA BARÇA!" they echoed, rising to their feet, fists clenched, hearts thumping.

Mateo stood up, shirt still clinging to his chest, fire reborn in his eyes. Messi stepped beside him. Griezmann cracked his knuckles. The second half loomed.

And they weren't walking out as survivors anymore.

They were marching back as soldiers.

The air in the tunnel was thick with heat, sweat, and tension.

Floodlights buzzed above. Boots tapped on the concrete floor like war drums. The Barcelona players stood to one side, PSG on the other. Some bounced in place, loosening legs. Others stared dead ahead, locked in their own zones.

And there, side by side—Mateo King and Kylian Mbappé.

Their first meeting. One, the crowned prince of Paris. The other, the teenage prodigy threatening to steal the light.

Mbappé glanced over at the younger player, then leaned slightly, his breath cool, calm, laced with heat.

"Three more goals, eh?" he muttered, low, just enough for Mateo to hear.

Mateo blinked, confused.

"Huh?"

Mbappé didn't repeat himself. He smiled faintly—cocky, assured.

"This match? You're not winning. I am."

Mateo's face shifted. He wasn't scared—but something inside him snapped. A fuse, a pride, a voice screaming no.

"I don't think about winning or losing," Mateo answered coolly.

"I only think about what I'll do next… and what I'll do next… is burn your defense alive."

Mbappé smirked, raising an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

Mateo leaned in.

"You want to stop me? You'll have to kill me."

"Because if I see space, I run. If I see fear, I explode. If I see the goal… I don't miss twice and i have already missed once already."

Mbappé's eyes narrowed. For a second, there was silence. Just breathing. Just two gladiators exchanging prophecy.

Then—the referee stepped between them, whistle in his hand.

"Alright! Let's go! Second half!"

The players surged forward onto the pitch.

The crowd roared back into life.

And so it began—

Not just the second half…

But a rivalry the world would never forget.

A/N

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