"Have they started yet?"
The words slipped out in a light Yorkshire accent, oddly misplaced in the polished halls of Dortmund, Germany. Inside the Radisson Blu Hotel, where sleek German precision met luxury calm, the sound of English banter was almost alien. Staff in crisp uniforms stole cautious glances toward the conference room, where a crowd of men had gathered — not tourists, not businessmen, but footballers, filling the air with a kind of restless energy that didn't quite fit the walls around them.
The question hadn't been for the staff. It was for the room itself.
"Perfect time, man, they just starting now," someone called back as the television flickered to life.
The room shifted with excitement, boots scuffing against carpet, chairs dragged closer to the big screen.
"Dude, this match is insane already.""Bro, I'm buzzing — this is making me so pumped for tomorrow.""Two goals in the first half? Ridiculous, ridiculous."
The chatter layered over itself — half-analysis, half-boyish chaos. They weren't just watching; they were feeling the game in their bones, as if every sprint, every tackle was sharpening their own edge for tomorrow.
Then came the laughter.
"Let me talk, let me talk, let me talk!" one of them yelled over the noise, parodying the now-infamous training ground outburst.
Another voice fired back instantly, "Oi, shut up — let Kevin talk, lads! Kevin's the one stressing here."
The room broke into laughter, the kind that only came from teammates who'd sweated through too many training sessions, who knew each other's rhythms, habits, jokes, and frustrations like family.
Amid the noise, the man who'd asked the first question finally walked in. He didn't rush; he moved with the kind of laid-back ease that disguised a razor focus underneath. Without a word, he slid into an empty chair near the front.
His eyes flicked briefly to the screen — players in another stadium, another country, walking out to the roar of their fans. Then his gaze shifted sideways, landing on the teammate beside him. His closest mate in the squad. Raheem Sterling.
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly, a hint of amusement under his breath. His accent flattened the edges of the words, made them casual. "Why's Kevin so agitated?"
Sterling leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms before nodding at his mate."It's nothing, man, just jokes" he said casually, then smirked. "More than that—are you sure you can even keep up with the kid next round?"
Before the reply could land, another voice barged into the conversation, firm, deep, and commanding.
"Dude, we haven't even finished this round yet," came the interjection. It was Fernandinho, stepping in with the authority of the squad's elder statesman. His tone wasn't harsh, but it carried weight, instantly cutting through the laughter. "Dortmund are a tough team. We've got to give them their respect. And besides—this match isn't over either. We all know how dangerous Bayern can be two goals up is nothing."
The younger ones in the room quieted for a moment, the reminder of reality lingering in the air. But then a voice, softer, eager, broke through.
"Come on…" Phil Foden, sitting on the armrest of a chair near the screen, leaned forward with boyish conviction. "We should win Dortmund. That's not arrogance—it's holding ourselves to the standards we know we are. And looking at this game, Barça should have it in the bag too. Even the gaffer's already prepping for the next round, you can feel it."
A laugh burst out behind him, warm and infectious. Sergio Agüero."Someone's fired up," the Argentine chuckled, shaking his head with that signature grin.
Sterling immediately latched onto it. "Nah, nah, I get it. It's the media back home—they've already started comparing him to the kid. Fodes wants to prove himself now."
The room lit up with teasing."Oi, afraid your 'Wonderkid' title's slipping, eh?""Careful, Phil—King's coming for you!""Wonderkid title's on loan, mate—better renew it tomorrow!"
Foden could only laugh, shaking his head as his cheeks reddened. "Just wait, lads. When I score tomorrow, keep that same energy. Don't stop laughing then."
The room erupted again, players slapping knees, shoulders, and each other's backs — the banter bouncing around like schoolboys who happened to be Europe's best.
Amid the noise, Kyle Walker finally spoke, voice calm and unbothered."Even if what you lot say happens—the kid's a striker. It isn't even my role to match up with him."
And then, a familiar dry voice cut across the room."Thank God I can talk now."
Kevin De Bruyne had just walked in, towel draped loosely around his shoulders, eyes still sharp from training earlier. The players turned, waiting, knowing Kevin didn't waste words.
"Not so sure about that, Kyle," KDB said, raising a brow. "When you went to the bathroom earlier, we overheard the gaffer and his assistants. They were praising Flick's system… and Davies. Sounded like they were already planning for you."
A groan rippled through the room.
"That's dumb," someone muttered. "The kid was cooking Davies."
KDB held up his hands. "Don't shoot the messenger, lads."
Another chimed in: "Come on—it's Kyle we're talking about. Of course the coaching staff trust him to stop anyone."
"Yeah, man. Davies is good, but this is Kyle. Different animal."
The voices around him carried praise, but Kyle himself wasn't entirely listening. His eyes wandered. To the left, across the room, where the coaching staff stood quietly at the back. And in that glance, he caught it — an assistant coach, eyes on him, whispering, pointing subtly in his direction.
Kyle's jaw tightened. 'Guess it's true', he thought.
He shifted his gaze back to the television.
And just then, the camera cut to him. The boy. Mateo King. Jumping on the spot in the field, hair bouncing, face set in a grin that looked equal parts innocent and sinister. His body language screamed eagerness, the hunger of someone itching to carve the second half open.
Kyle's eyes locked instantly. He leaned forward in his chair, fire sparking inside him.
A slow smile spread across his face — not arrogant, but sharp, ready.He was getting fired up too.
He couldn't wait to face the kid.
....
Oblivious to the eagerness of a new rival already sharpening his gaze from a hotel room in Dortmund, Mateo King had no space in his mind for anything outside the roaring cauldron of Munich. The air inside the Allianz was molten — a hundred thousand throats pounding, shaking the steel and concrete as one word, one sound, rolled endlessly across the stands: "BAYERN! BAYERN! BAYERN!"
The noise was so thick it felt like the pitch itself was trembling. Red flags thrashed violently in the air, drums beat from the Südkurve, and even the away section, drowned in blaugrana, refused to yield, screaming their hymns back with desperate fury.
On the touchline, the benches had risen into their own frenzy. Hansi Flick, usually a picture of composure with his hands folded neatly behind his back, had shed his calmness entirely — barking at his men, fists pumping the air, the veins at his temple visible as he drove every ounce of energy into his words. Across from him, Ronald Koeman wasn't one to sit still either. The Dutchman leaned forward, tie askew, waving both arms like a conductor at war, his voice tearing through the chaos: "¡Una más! One more! Keep pushing!"
It wasn't just a match anymore. It was an orchestra of wills, both coaches throwing themselves into the flames, refusing to let their players even consider stepping back.
And in the middle of it, standing as if the world shrank down to the width of the grass beneath his boots, was Mateo King. His chest rose and fell with sharp breaths, every muscle primed, his senses overloaded by the ferocity around him. He didn't hear the commentators. He didn't notice the banners unfurling in the crowd. He didn't even feel the eyes of the English defender across the country who, at this very moment, was locked onto him through a television screen.
None of that mattered. Mateo was chained to one truth: this battle, right here, right now.
His gaze burned forward, straight into the storm of red pressing against him. Bayern's rebirth was clear — the sharpness in their movements, the bite in their eyes, the frenzy of players who had rediscovered their pride. Flick's men looked different now: hungrier, harder, like beasts uncaged.
But Mateo didn't flinch. His mind sharpened to a single blade's edge, cruel intent flooding every thought.
And then—
The whistle pierced the air.
A/N
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