The roar of the Allianz hung thick in the air, swelling and dipping like a living thing. Amidst it, two voices rose above the thunder.
Tony Jones, his tone climbing with the electricity of the night, called out over the cauldron:
"What a night, eh, Guy? Half-time now at the Allianz Arena—"
Beside him, Guy Mowbray almost laughed in disbelief, shaking his head as though words alone couldn't capture what they'd just witnessed.
"Thrilling, Tony. Honestly, the most exhilarating half of football I've seen in a long, long while. Back and forth, two heavyweights, two teams not giving an inch. Tactically sound, both of them—Barcelona with their measured counters and possession play, overloading that midfield with Busquets and de Jong dictating tempo, while Bayern… relentless as ever, pressing high, suffocating, their high line daring you to test it. And yet, here we are."
A pause lingered between them. The stadium rumbled beneath, a restless, unsettled chorus, before Tony found his voice again—now tinged with disbelief.
"Well, with all that, Guy, if you'd told me before kick-off that the scoreline would look like this, I'd have laughed you out of the building. Allianz Arena—the holy ground of German football, fortress of European dominance—and just forty-five minutes into the game, Bayern Munich… the treble winners, the current champions of Europe, are outpaced, outfought, outscored. Two-nil down at half-time."
Guy cut in, firm, measured, unwilling to let the scoreline tell the whole story.
"And to be fair, Tony, the scoreline doesn't reflect the match itself. Bayern have been ferocious, their press has worked, their chances have come. But—" he chuckled knowingly, "—that in itself is football, isn't it? You can follow the tactics, you can play your game, and still fall victim to utter destruction at the hands of pure, unfiltered Individual brilliance."
Tony's reply came sharp, almost poetic in its irony.
"And here's the irony, Guy. Bayern, their fans, this city—they are no strangers to it. They've dished this out countless times. Lewandowski has made a career out of breaking hearts with clinical moments. But tonight, they're tasting their own medicine. And what makes it sting even more? It's all been served up by a boy who isn't even old enough to own a driver's licence."
The two men laughed together, the absurdity of it hanging in the night air.
Guy teased, voice rising with a grin:
"Seventeen years old. Seventeen! Damn. Tony, let me ask—what were you doing at seventeen?"
Tony snorted with laughter, shaking his head.
"Don't set me up here, Guy. At seventeen I barely knew what I wanted to do with my life. Revision, exams, maybe sneaking out to the pub if I was brave. And yet here's Mateo King—by all accounts he should be registering for university courses, and instead he's tearing apart Europe's greatest footballing machine."
Their gaze drifted downward, past the glass of the commentary box, to the players spread across the pitch. The whistle had gone minutes earlier, yet its echo still lingered in the contrasting images below. Bayern's men trudged, heavy-legged, shoulders sagging, Neuer clapping weakly in a captain's gesture that failed to stir, Müller barking orders no one heard, Flick already vanishing down the tunnel, a streak of urgency swallowed by the dressing room shadows.
In stark contrast, Barcelona's side glowed with life. Alba and Busquets chatted with grins, Messi stood calm, impassive as a statue, and inevitably, all eyes—and cameras—found Mateo King. The boy skipped across the turf, literally skipping, arms outstretched toward the away end, bouncing like a child at a carnival. High in their corner of the stands, the Blaugrana faithful erupted. Their chant for him thundered, drums pounding, voices cracking with devotion, as though sheer noise could lift him to greater heights.
Tony's voice came again, laughter tugging at the edges.
"Well, no matter how I see him, Guy, he's still just a kid. Too bad for Bayern Munich he doesn't play like one."
Guy sobered, his reply shaded with warning.
"And that's the danger. Flick needs to work miracles in that dressing room. He has to reset, to find words to spark something, anything, in his players. Because at this rate, it feels like only a matter of time before Mateo King does the inevitable or by now should I say the usual… and gets his third."
Tony signed the half away, words resonating like a verdict.
"Half-time here at the Allianz Arena. The champions are on the ropes. Bayern Munich nil, Barcelona two. And all the talk is about the teenager—Mateo King. What a story. What a game. And we're only halfway through."
...
Amidst the lengthy shock and explanations pouring from the commentators, the cameras swept across the Allianz Arena, capturing scenes that words alone struggled to hold. The Barcelona fans—those few thousand who had travelled all the way to Munich—were anything but subdued. What had happened the last time they followed their team into hostile European territory? That humiliation had been a scar, yes, but not one that could break them. If anything, it had hardened them. For these supporters, devotion wasn't conditional. Supporting Barça surpassed broken pride, surpassed pain. It was the lifeblood they carried.
Front and center, caught on the giant jumbo screen, three fans summed up that spirit perfectly. Two couples, arm in arm, Mateo King's jersey stretched proudly across their backs, screamed at the top of their lungs as their hero jogged toward the tunnel. Between them, their friend Isaac—head in his hands—shouted too, though half in frustration at himself. He had skipped the last away game after the disaster in Paris, telling himself never again, but tonight proved him wrong. Tonight, he would have given anything to have been in this section of pure euphoria.
Despite being smaller in number, outnumbered ten to one by the Bavarian sea of red, the Barça supporters thundered louder. Their songs swirled around the arena, drowning out the frustrated murmurs of the home faithful. They invented new rhythms on the spot, fresh chants, new refrains with Mateo's name woven in, and every time his image flickered onto the screen, their voices swelled. Meanwhile, the Bayern fans stood stiff, grudging, watching others out-sing, out-jump, and out-dance them in their own house.
And this phenomenon stretched beyond the terraces. It mirrored itself behind the dressing-room doors.
Inside Bayern's locker room, the silence was heavy. Faces hung low, jaws clenched, boots being unstrapped with violent tugs. Hansi Flick had already stormed in ahead of them, disappearing deeper into the coaching space, leaving his players in the quiet heat of frustration.
Across the hall, though, in Barcelona's locker room, the mood could not have been more different. The air was alive with laughter and teasing, the very reflection of their fans outside.
"Did you see how I cut through them?" one player burst out, still half out of breath, grinning like a schoolboy as he replayed his own moment of glory. "Boateng didn't even know where I went!"
Another shot back immediately, the room breaking into chuckles. "You think that's something? Messi wanted to kill Müller out there with that feint!"
The room erupted with more laughter, and the focus shifted instantly.
"What about Mateo and Davies?" someone chimed in. "That was brutal. Pure speed. Poor Davies still looking for his boots."
A chorus of howls followed, and another voice teased: "Well, why wouldn't he go all out? The seventieth minute's coming, and we all know what happens then."
Mateo, perched on the bench with his shirt sticking to his skin, lifted his head immediately, voice sharp with mock defiance:
"I can last longer than that!"
The room froze for a split second, then someone leaned over with a smirk:
"What—seventy-five minutes?"
"Tha's still five more minutes!" Mateo fired back, grinning wide, his tone boyishly defensive.
The whole room exploded with laughter now, boots banging against the floor, claps echoing against the walls. Smiles were everywhere, the tension gone, replaced by joy.
Inside the away locker room, Barcelona's players were all smiles. The noise bouncing off the walls wasn't just chatter—it was pure joy, unfiltered release. They all knew football wasn't kind enough to let you believe a two-goal lead meant safety. Every one of them had been in games where two goals disappeared in the space of five minutes, where control turned to chaos in a blink. But right now, despite that knowledge, despite knowing nothing was secured, the ecstasy of the moment drowned out the nerves. The adrenaline, the glow of the first half—it was just too much to resist.
Even Ronald Koeman, usually stoic and sharp-eyed, couldn't help but smile. A wide, almost uncharacteristic grin pulled at his face as he stood slightly apart with his assistants. He remembered clearly what this locker room had been like when he first walked through its doors. Back then, the atmosphere was suffocating. Heavy. Every corner carried tension. The veterans sat in silence, their shoulders weighed down not just by defeats but by the ghosts of teammates who had been shipped away—friends gone, bonds broken. Koeman had felt like public enemy number one in those early weeks. No matter his position as head coach, at a club like Barcelona the players, especially the veterans, carried influence beyond the pitch. They were powerful, untouchable, and he? He had felt like an outsider in his own team.
But now… now it was different.
His eyes drifted to the center of the room, where laughter exploded again. There was Mateo—at the heart of it all. Alba had his arm wrapped around the boy's neck, roughly messing his hair, while Pedri stood on the other side, poking Mateo's ribs until the youngster squirmed with protest, his grin betraying any attempt at seriousness. Around them, the rest of the squad watched, chimed in, laughed. No walls, no divisions. Where once the veterans had clustered on one side, their backs practically turned on the rookies, now there was no line separating youth from experience. They were one group. One team. Talking. Smiling. Living the same moment together.
And Koeman knew—this was Mateo's doing.
The fans outside might think of Mateo King only as the dazzling forward, the kid tearing defenses apart and lighting up the Camp Nou. But here, inside these walls, his impact was already so much bigger than goals or assists. He had become the glue. The bridge between the seasoned men and the rising boys. A source of joy, of belief. He had shifted something intangible but essential.
Koeman caught himself smiling even wider, and for a moment, the coach let himself indulge in the thought: This atmosphere… yes, this, I could get used to it.
But almost immediately, the smile slipped. His mind snapped back. He wasn't like them. He couldn't let himself get intoxicated by it, couldn't be swept away by the glow of the moment. He was the head coach. He knew better than anyone—matches weren't won at halftime. Not against Bayern Munich. Not with just a two-goal cushion. A great spot though it was, Koeman knew exactly how fragile a two-goal lead could be.
Koeman cleared his throat, pressing a fist briefly against his lips to cough into his hand. The room, which only seconds earlier was filled with laughter and playful shouts, slowly hushed down. One by one, heads turned in his direction, boots scraping softly against the tiled floor as the players adjusted themselves to listen. The aura shifted—not tense, but attentive, like students waiting for the words of a teacher they respected.
Koeman let his eyes scan the room. For a brief second, the corners of his lips curled into a smirk. "First things first," he began, voice warm and steady. "Is Mateo's legs still attached? Or do we need to sub him before the second half starts?"
The room erupted in laughter, whistles and chuckles echoing against the lockers. Mateo himself threw his head back, rolling his eyes dramatically as Alba smacked him on the shoulder. "Still running, coach!" Mateo shouted back, which made the squad laugh even louder.
But Koeman's tone changed. The humor melted, his voice dipping into a steadier, deeper register. The players straightened in their seats instinctively. "This is good," he said firmly. "This is very, very good. But listen to me now—this is not finished. Two goals up against a team like Bayern… that means nothing if we don't finish the job."
The words hung heavy. His assistant coaches at the back nodded. Koeman stepped forward a pace, planting his foot down with intent. "You feel this right now—the joy, the energy, the belief in this room? Do you want to feel it again at the end of ninety minutes?" His voice swelled, commanding. "Then you cannot ease off. You cannot give them an inch. They are the champions of Europe. The treble winners. They are used to crushing teams the moment you blink."
From the back of the room, one of the players, grinning nervously, muttered, "Boss, are you trying to scare us?" The locker room chuckled, easing some of the tension.
Koeman allowed himself a half-smile but shook his head slowly. "No. I'm trying to show you what you're capable of. Look around. Look at each other. You've put the mighty Bayern on the ropes. You have shown the world what Barcelona still is. And if you want the world to remember, then you finish this fight."
His voice rose now, growing sharper, filled with that mixture of steel and fire only a manager can summon. "Don't think about their trophies. Don't think about the Allianz crowd. Think about this badge on your chest, think about the trust you have in each other. Out there—fight for it! Fight for every ball, every inch, every second. Do not let them breathe. Do not let them believe. You have a chance tonight to carve your names in history!"
The players were fully locked in now, eyes wide, some nodding, some clenching fists against their knees.
Koeman drew one last deep breath, his voice dropping for gravity, then roaring out with all his force: "LET'S GO! VISCA BARÇA!"
The room exploded. "VISCA BARÇA! VISCA BARÇA!" they shouted in unison, pounding lockers, stamping boots, the away locker room transformed into a thunderous cauldron of adrenaline. Their chant wasn't just noise—it was a war drum, a vow, the Spanish side rallying as if they were already marching into the battlefield to finish what they had started.
Across the hall, the mood could not have been more different.
The Bayern locker room was larger, modern, polished in design—but at that moment, it felt suffocating. Dim. The silence was heavier than any chant. A tossed water bottle from Joshua Kimmich still lay against the far wall, a mute testament to his frustration. Thomas Müller sat rigid, jaw tight, eyes burning but unable to find words. Neuer leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, sighing again and again, each one deeper than the last, as if the weight of his captaincy pressed harder with every breath.
Alphonso Davies, usually the spark of youthful energy, sat hunched with his head low, biting his lip, his frustration written all over his face.
Hansi Flick stood at the center of it all. Contrary to what many might have expected—a burst of rage, a rallying cry—he was stone-faced. His arms folded, his eyes sharp, cold, watching his players one by one, measuring the broken rhythm of their spirits. The silence stretched long. Then finally, with chilling calm, he opened his mouth, his words slicing through the room like a blade.
"Is this it?"
The words hung in the air like a whip crack, stunning the entire locker room into silence. Not one pair of eyes dared to blink as Hansi Flick, calm-faced no longer, cut through the heavy atmosphere with ice and fire in equal measure.
"Are you all a bunch of sore losers? Is that it?"
The sting in his voice was deliberate, meant to pierce pride as much as ears. The veterans of Bayern, men who had scaled the highest peaks of football, stiffened at the insult. These were warriors who had lifted trebles, conquered Europe, and stamped their dominance across the game. For all his brilliance as a coach, Flick had been here just over a year. Many of them had lived battles long before him. And so, as his sharp words echoed, there was defiance in the air—silent but heavy. The players did not take kindly to being spoken down to, even by their own gaffer.
Joshua Kimmich's jaw tightened as his hand crushed the plastic of his bottle, water dripping to the floor like scattered nerves. His lips trembled, burning with the need to lash back. He had heard enough—his pride, his loyalty to the badge, his own sense of worth demanded it. But before he could, an assistant coach broke the silence.
"Sir, I don't think this is the—"
"We are who we are!" Flick snapped, cutting him off without hesitation.
The interruption froze the room. The assistant was left wide-eyed, words swallowed, and the players themselves were shaken—not by the aggression, but by the words themselves. Their head coach had just recited the club's sacred motto.
"We are who we are… That is the motto of this club, isn't it?" Flick pressed on, his cold gaze sweeping across the room. "Tell me, then—what does it mean? Who are the players of Bayern Munich? The generals, the champions, the standard-bearers of this empire? Since when did 'We are who we are' translate to cowards? To downcast heads? To sore losers drowning in self-pity?"
The tension broke when Kimmich finally snapped. His voice cut through like a sword:
"That's enough, gaffer!" he barked, springing to his feet. His veins flared with anger, with pride, with history. "I've been in this club for years. You don't get to tell me what our motto means!"
Müller immediately stretched out a hand, his voice low, trying to soothe the fire. "Josh, calm down—"
But Flick didn't let him finish. His hand shot up. His voice boomed again.
"Then show it!"
The command stunned them. The silence that followed was heavier than before, all eyes locked on him as if trying to process what had just been demanded.
"Conquerors," Flick said slowly, his tone now laced with conviction, "do not lose themselves after a single defeat. But you… after years of winning, winning, winning—one single loss and you crumble like this? Is that who you are? A team so spoiled by triumph that a stumble breaks you?"
His words sliced into them, each phrase brutal and raw. His voice deepened as his chest rose and fell with fire.
"I know you. Every single one of you. I know what you're capable of. Barcelona are no easy target, I won't insult them—but I know what you can do to them. Maybe the victories have been too frequent. Maybe, yes, maybe we needed this moment. Maybe we needed the reminder that nothing is handed to us, that every crown must be fought for."
His fists trembled now, his hands vibrating with contained rage. His breath was sharp, his eyes burning.
"But this?" He shook his head with disdain. "This I cannot accept. This—I despise. I will not tolerate shame in our home. Not here. Not in Munich."
His voice exploded now, a roar that rattled the walls:
"So crush them! Tear them apart! Leave nothing! Because I know—you are capable of this. You are Bayern Munich!"
The room was no longer heavy; it was shaking with adrenaline, the air alive again. Kimmich, Müller, Neuer, Davies—every one of them looked at each other, the fire returning, the blood boiling.
"Are you prepared?" Flick bellowed.
The players shot to their feet as one, eyes blazing, fists clenched. And then, from deep in their throats, it erupted in unison:
"PACK MA'S!" (Bavarian for "Let's do this!")
The Bavarian cry shook the walls—"Let's do this!"
For the first time since he'd stepped into the room, Flick's lips curled into a smile. It grew, wide and sharp, a smile that belonged to a man who had just awakened his army.
"This," he said, voice firm and proud, "this is the team I know. The monsters I know I have Pour this rage on your victims let Barcelona know this is the lion's den."
His grin widened into laughter, into power.
"As your coach, let me carry my own weight as well. Now listen up—I'll tell you our tactics for the second half. Do it to the best of your abilities, and I promise you—" his voice sharpened into steel— "we will be the victors when the whistle blows."
...
"And we are back!"
Tony's voice burst alive the moment the cameras returned to the pitch, his tone carrying both relief and anticipation.
"I swear, Guy, that was the longest fifteen minutes of my life," he laughed, almost breathless. "No substitutions from either side, which tells you everything—you get the sense that both managers trust what they have out there. Oh, I cannot wait for this second half. My heart's racing already!"
Guy chuckled beside him, but even his words carried a nervous energy. "Yeah, Tony, it's strange, isn't it? Just a normal halftime interval, but it feels… heavier. The noise, the tension—it's everywhere. Buckle up, because if the first half gave us fireworks, the second could be an inferno."
The stadium roared like a living beast, fans on both sides raving, chanting, screaming as though the restart was more than just a whistle—it was a call to battle.
Down the tunnel, Mateo King adjusted his shirt, the rush of adrenaline already tightening his chest. But then… something made him pause.
He slowed his stride, his gaze drifting toward the Bayern Munich players lined up in the opposite hallway.
They were different.
Not a single smirk, not a single word exchanged between them. Just silence. Focus. Each man straight-backed, eyes fixed forward as if they'd sworn an oath to the pitch. Their boots struck the concrete in perfect rhythm. It was less a football team and more an army marching toward war. Not one of them even spared a glance across at Barcelona.
Mateo frowned, unsettled, before reaching out and tapping the shoulder of the boy in front of him.
"Hey, Pedri," he whispered, his voice low but urgent. "Don't they look… different to you?"
Pedri glanced sideways, caught the steel in Bayern's stance, and gave a little nod. His reply was calm but sharp.
"They look fired up," he admitted, eyes narrowing slightly.
Mateo opened his mouth to say more, but Pedri cut him off with a determined shake of his head.
"But it doesn't matter. Let them be fired up. We just play our game… and win this."
For a moment, Mateo fell quiet. He stared again at the German giants, reading their body language—their clenched jaws, their rigid posture, the strange, dangerous unity pulsing through them. Their spirit wasn't broken, not at all. If anything, it looked reforged, sharper than before.
Still, Pedri's words rang true.
Just play your game.
The referee's voice cut through the tunnel like a blade, ordering both sides forward. In an instant, the corridor thundered alive—boots pounding, voices clashing, the air itself charged with battle.
Mateo's lips twitched into a grin, slow at first, then darker, sharper, until it looked more like a promise than a smile. Wicked thoughts spiraled through his head like smoke rising from fire—merciless, unrelenting.
So… they've found their spirit again? he thought, eyes narrowing as Bayern marched ahead with renewed swagger, their old arrogance stitched back into every step. Good. That just means I get to break it twice.
There was no fear in him. No hesitation. What sat on his face wasn't joy or playfulness, but something far more unsettling—the cold curve of a boy who'd already chosen violence.
Football was cruel.
And tonight, Mateo King was its cruelty made flesh.
The whistle was waiting.
The stage was set.
Barcelona vs Bayern—
The second half begins.
A/N
If you want to read 25 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
patreon.com/David_Adetola
Thank You your support is greatly appreciated thank you all
I've also created a Discord channel to make communication easier, where I'll post updates, cover/character pictures for all my books, and more. Here's the link:
https://discord.gg/BTem945sz