While Mateo had zoomed off again, this time he wasn't alone.
Possibly the only player capable of matching his speed and explosive burst on the entire team was his teammate — fellow forward, Dembele. And unlike the first time, Dembele was ready.
The moment he saw Mateo steal the ball, Dembele took off. No hesitation. Pure instinct. But even as he ran, something rattled him. They had both launched at the same time. Same direction. Same purpose. And yet, as they approached the opposition box, something didn't add up — Mateo was ahead.
And the scariest part?
Mateo had the ball.
Dembele didn't.
Dembele wasn't the kind of player to brag, but if there were footballers faster than him in the world right now, you could count them on one finger. And here he was, sprinting full throttle without the ball — and still trailing a kid who had it at his feet.
It didn't make sense. It was insane.
Still recovering from the shock, Dembele looked up. The opposition's three defenders were no longer caught off guard. They weren't scrambling like earlier — they were ready. Braced. Alert. Positioned like statues of tension.
Dembele turned his eyes to Mateo, yelling at the top of his lungs.
"PASS!"
He waved frantically, signaling he was there — prepared. Two of them could take on this defense, and he was ready to do it.
His shouting shifted the atmosphere.
One of the defenders, originally about to join his teammates in closing down the wonder kid, stopped in his tracks. He glanced toward Dembele, his instincts flaring. If he ignored him, and a pass came through...
Disaster.
He backed off instantly, choosing to guard space — trusting his teammates to contain Mateo.
The other two defenders, seeing one of their own pull back, tightened their stance. Their vigilance doubled. If it came down to a one-on-two, they'd rather die than let him through.
Mateo kept running, eyes locked straight ahead. But as he sensed the shifting shape of the defense, he turned slightly — following the screaming voice on his right.
There. He spotted Dembele.
The defender marking him hadn't fully recovered position. A pass right now and Dembele, with his speed, would be clean through on goal.
The defenders saw it.
As Mateo turned his head, a singular thought exploded in all their minds:
"He's going to pass it."
Instant reaction.
The defender who had peeled off raced to block the passing lane.
The other two slowed — hesitating just slightly — preparing to adjust to wherever that pass might go.
Mistake.
Mateo, already looking forward again, had seen it. That pause. That tiny shift in body weight. He pounced.
He knocked the ball ahead — not gently. It was a kick, a blast, pushing it between the defenders like threading a needle with dynamite.
Then he bolted.
He ran. Hard. Furious.
A blur of limbs, speed, and determination. Like a bullet fired through a tightening alley, he tore forward, aiming to slice between them before the gap snapped shut.
The Huesca defenders were tall, strong — a rare breed in a league that prized finesse. But they weren't fools. Veterans. Partners for years. They saw it unfold in real time.
Mateo's touch had been fast — but they reacted faster.
As the ball passed between them, they slammed their feet into the ground. Braced. Shoulder to shoulder. Creating a wall of muscle and timing.
They didn't need to stop him. Just slow him. Just block him. That's all it would take.
Ten meters from the box. Too far for a penalty. Too far for fear.
Messi wasn't around anymore. Even if it turned into a free-kick — who cared?
If Mateo went down, it would be nothing more than a blocking foul. Maybe not even that.
Their conviction steeled as they clenched the gap tighter.
Dembele, still sprinting forward, had been expecting the pass. Wide open, he'd been waiting.
But when he saw Mateo kick and go — solo — his arms flew up in disbelief.
"Fucking hell! Pass the ball! Fuckkkk!" he shouted, frustration exploding from his chest into the cold night air.
It wasn't just Dembélé—everyone had reacted. The fans were screaming, not in joy but in furious disbelief. On the bench, Koeman looked like he'd swallowed a blade. His face was red, his fist clenched.
"This is the problem with young players," he thought, cursing inwardly. "So inexperienced. Fuck!"
He had already mentally checked out of the match after they'd gone two goals down. But then Mateo happened—his run, his burst, the sudden injection of hope. And hope in football… it was cruel. Now it felt worse than being two-nil down. "We could've tied the game."
The commentators weren't spared either.
"Mateo has stolen the ball again—he's gotten the ball!"
"Can he make another solo run? He's off—wow! Look at that speed!"
"Are you seeing this? The opponents can't even keep up!"
"But wait, the defenders are ready this time. Two are on him. Guess that's it."
"No—look! Dembélé is with him! All he needs to do is pass and he's through! Could Barça be about to equalize?"
"Ahhh, no! He didn't pass! What is he doing?! He's kicked the ball right into the middle of the defenders—is he trying to take them both on? That's—"
"Incredibly reckless! Such a waste of a golden opportunity, no—"
The commentator stopped mid-sentence. His eyes bulged. His breath caught. His mic picked up nothing but the groan of a grown man struggling to make sense of what he was witnessing.
"Uhhh—aaaahhh—MY GOD!"
Mateo didn't pass.
And he knew why.
Because this time—this time—he could feel it in his legs. The power. The spring. The surge.
He took a massive step forward, his boot digging into the Camp Nou turf so deep that a clean print was left behind, the kind you only see in replays. Then—bang!—he exploded.
The space between the two defenders was tight—tight enough that if he wasn't perfect, he'd get sandwiched. As he rushed forward, the defenders responded with ruthless precision. They planted their feet, lifted their shoulders, and closed in—shoulder to shoulder, two concrete slabs trying to crush the gap.
Mateo could feel them, feel their skin brushing his, the heat of their bodies as they tried to close him in. He could smell the turf, the sweat, the moment tightening like a noose around him. But he didn't hesitate. With terrifying speed, he squeezed through the narrowing alley, brushing against the defenders' arms like a bullet threading through two buildings.
The defenders reacted a split second too late. Their attempt to close the space had created a slingshot—and Mateo blasted through it.
They both stumbled. Both fell. Their own momentum and Mateo's sheer force had knocked them down. They skidded on the turf like broken puppets.
To the camera, it looked like Mateo floored them. And that image—him slicing through like a blade, leaving two giants in his wake—set off an explosion in the stadium. The aesthetics were violent, poetic. It was the kind of football that fans lived for. It was football as war, as art, as religion.
Fans screamed. They howled. The sound was so intense it felt like the entire Camp Nou was about to climax from the sheer ecstasy of it all.
Commentators lost control:
"OH MY GOD! WHAT DID I JUST SEE?!"
"MATEO IS THROUGH—I REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL—MATEO IS THROUGH THE DEFENDERS! HE IS GONE, GONE, GONE!"
"WHAT ARE WE WITNESSING? THIS IS—THIS IS NOT NORMAL!"
"ONE-ON-ONE WITH THE KEEPER! IS THIS THE MOMENT THE 17-YEAR-OLD SAVES THE PRIDE OF THE CULÉS?!"
Behind him, the two defenders were now part of the scene—like extras in the background of an action movie, lying on the floor, watching the hero disappear into glory.
Mateo was at the edge of the box now. The goalkeeper Fernández had already charged out. Their eyes met—two warriors. For a split second, it was like lightning passed between them. then
Mateo smiled.
Fernández didn't fall for the same trick twice. He remembered the chip from earlier, the one that had sent him tumbling to the ground, and he wasn't about to let that happen again. This time, he stayed up—focused, determined, his arms stretched wide as he slowly crept forward, a predator waiting for his prey to make the first move. He was calculating, watching every shift of Mateo's body, waiting for him to blink.
But Mateo didn't blink. He was cold, calculated. In one smooth motion, his leg swung like a pendulum, the ball gently guided with his right foot as his body faked left. The illusion was perfect—too perfect—and for a split second, Fernández committed. He lunged to his left, stretching every muscle in his body to cover the space, his arms flailing desperately through the air.
But the ball? It wasn't there.
Mateo, with ice in his veins, calmly passed it to the right, sending the ball gliding past the goalkeeper's outstretched arms, just beyond his reach. Fernández was already committed, his body twisting in mid-air as he realized the split-second too late that he'd been outmaneuvered. He crashed to the ground, his hands still stretched out in an attempt to stop what was inevitable.
And all he saw, as his body hit the turf, was a blur of garnet and blue.
The number 36 on Mateo's back seemed to mock him, growing smaller, further, further with every step Mateo took. Fernández, frozen in place, could only watch as the young prodigy—like a force of nature—moved away from him, cutting through the grass like a comet streaking across the night sky.
And then—
"GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!"
The Camp Nou erupted.
The net shook.
Fernández was on the floor, eyes wide, arms frozen mid-dive. All he could do was watch as Mateo wheeled away, arms outstretched, drowning in the noise, a kid turned god under the floodlights.
A/N
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