The Banned Prodigy: From Blacklist to Ballon d’Or

"Akun's got the feet. It's his brain that needs checking..."

Carloni's voice barely hid his irritation. On the sidelines, the tension was growing even with a comfortable 2–0 lead. Argentina was cruising, but Aguero's latest stunt had everyone shaking their heads.

"You don't celebrate an assist by demanding your teammate get a red card," Carloni muttered under his breath.

"I can ask the team doctor to test Aguero's IQ after the match," Aimar joked, deadpan.

Carlos actually paused to consider it. Aguero, oblivious to the coaching bench's exasperation, trotted back to the halfway line.

2–0.

A cushion on the scoreboard, sure. But everyone on the bench knew the real reason Argentina's rhythm was clicking wasn't Akun or even Messi. It was Romeo Teixeira.

---

Across the field, in the Chilean technical area, coach Jorge Sampaoli was boiling.

"Is Aguero out of his mind?!"

He'd nearly snapped the teeth off his own jaw with how hard he was clenching them. From where he stood, that no-look backheel assist by Romeo to Aguero had been humiliation disguised as brilliance.

"You see that? He's mocking us. This kid is humiliating my team on a world stage."

His assistant, calmer and sharper in moments like this, leaned in.

"Coach, this isn't about ego. We need a tactical response, now. Romeo's dictating the tempo."

He pointed toward the midfield, where Romeo was gliding between lines like he had a map no one else did.

"His press resistance is elite. Ball control, timing, positional sense — top tier. He's not flashy, but everything clicks when he's on the ball. Messi's finally free to operate higher. Di María doesn't have to drop deep anymore. They're balanced."

"And his off-ball movement?" the assistant added. "It's textbook Busquets. Always two steps ahead. Blocking angles, baiting traps. He doesn't just defend — he predicts."

Sampaoli gritted his teeth.

He hated this. Hated admiring the opposition. Hated knowing that the kid wearing number 8 had tilted the entire field with just intelligence and tempo.

And worst of all?

He was only 19.

"Separate him from Pastore," Sampaoli snapped. "Those two are too synced. You break that link, we slow them down."

"Sure, but if we commit numbers to that, we leave Messi and Di María one-on-one."

Sampaoli didn't respond. He didn't need to. His twitching jaw said it all.

This wasn't a tactical dilemma anymore.

This was war.

---

On the field, Romeo could feel it.

The pressure. The targeting. The shift in Chile's energy.

Every time he touched the ball, two bodies closed in. When he got past one, the next came barreling through. They didn't care about the ball anymore — just about cutting him down.

The referee? Letting a lot slide.

Romeo's left shoulder took a hit. Then his thigh. Then his shin got clipped from behind.

Thud.

He hit the grass again, mud scraping his forearm.

Another shoulder barge. Another late kick.

Romeo stood back up, barely flinching.

But he could hear the bench behind him.

"He can't take too many more of those," Aimar said, concerned.

"He's too light. If they keep chopping him down, he'll break before halftime," Carlos added, eyes narrowing.

Carloni shook his head. "We're up two. We can pull him if we need to."

That sentence had barely left his lips when Romeo was shoved off the ball again, this time hard enough to spin him midair before he crashed onto the turf.

The ref blew the whistle, but didn't reach for his pocket.

Romeo stayed down, one hand gripping his ankle, the other clenching turf.

Across from him stood Charles — tall, rugged, a classic enforcer-type midfielder — sneering.

"Get up," he spat. "Didn't touch you, princess."

Romeo glared but stayed silent, focused on breathing through the pain.

Charles wasn't done.

"You flopping piece of—"

Before he could finish, Messi was already in his face.

The Argentine captain, calm to a fault on most days, shoved Charles so hard he stumbled backward.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Messi's voice was raw, his fury unchecked. "Don't you touch him again."

"Who do you think you are?" Charles barked. "The guy who missed a penalty and cried like a baby?"

Wrong move.

Aguero lunged forward, chest-to-chest with Charles, ready to explode.

"You got something to say? Say it to me."

His voice shook with rage. "You cheap-shot our midfielder again, I'll break you in half."

Both benches emptied. Players swarmed. Coaches screamed.

Di María dove into the fray—not to fight, but to shield Romeo, standing over him like a bodyguard as the scuffle erupted.

"BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"

The referee sprinted into the chaos, pulling cards from his pocket like a blackjack dealer on tilt. Yellow after yellow flashed through the air.

By the time the melee cooled, the air was thick with adrenaline.

Romeo sat up, breathing hard, ankle sore but not broken.

Messi crouched beside him, hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

"I'm good," Romeo said through gritted teeth. "Still got both legs."

Messi helped him up.

"They're coming for you now," he said. "Play smart. I'll drop deeper to link up."

Romeo nodded, swallowing the anger.

He wasn't going to win this game with emotion. He was going to win it with clarity.

"Leo... maybe we don't need to break them. Maybe we just let them break themselves."

Messi's eyes flicked up, curious.

"Keep talking."

---

Sideline.

Carlos leaned over to Aimar.

"Messi's mad. Really mad."

"Good," Aimar said. "We've never lost when Messi's mad."

---

Romeo's ankle still throbbed.

But his vision was clearer than ever.

He started drawing pressure intentionally, baiting defenders to chase. Then he'd flick the ball just in time to Messi or Pastore, pulling Chile's shape apart with every pass.

It wasn't about flair. It was about rhythm.

Three-touch. One-touch. Turn, open body, release. Repeat.

He kept dropping into spaces where Chile couldn't foul without getting punished.

A one-two with Di María left three defenders for dead.

A through-ball cut open the midfield — again.

Every pass felt like he was dragging a knife through their structure.

And behind him, Messi had gone cold-blooded.

He wasn't yelling anymore. He wasn't pushing.

He was moving like a ghost in red and blue boots — silent, surgical, lethal.

Then came the moment.

Romeo drew three men, twisted left, feinted right, and rolled the ball behind his standing foot.

It skipped across the pitch like it was heat-seeking.

Messi didn't even look.

He knew.

He was already running before the ball left Romeo's foot.

One touch.

Bang.

3–0.

The stadium erupted.

Romeo didn't celebrate.

He just turned toward Charles.

And smiled.

---

End of First Half.

The scoreline didn't tell the full story.

Romeo had been chopped down, insulted, targeted, almost injured.

And yet, somehow, he'd only gotten sharper.

Carloni watched from the touchline, arms crossed, the hint of a grin on his face.

"That," he whispered to himself, "is a proper No. 8."

---