2–4 on the night.
6–5 on aggregate.
Five minutes to go.
And not a single soul could look away.
Popcorn burned in microwaves. Dinner sat untouched on stoves. Drinks had gone warm in shaking hands. Around the world, men and women alike sat on the edge of couches, kitchen stools, pub stools, beds—holding in their breath, their tears, even their bladders. No one dared miss a second. Not now. Not with everything hanging on the edge of history.
One goal.
Just one more goal, and FC Barcelona would be through to the quarter-finals of the Champions League. Not because they had dominated both legs—but because of a rule as beautiful as it was cruel:
Away goals.
Barcelona had scored five.
Paris had four.
Simple. Brutal. Poetic.
The Barca fans knew it. Felt it.
Old ones. Young ones. Everyone in between.
The old ones—the ones who'd seen La Remontada in 2017, who lived through that wild night against PSG, who carried those memories like medals on their chest—were wide-eyed now, glassy-eyed. Their lips trembled with whispers:
"Are we about to witness it again?"
The new fans? Maybe they hadn't been watching football back then. Maybe they'd been too young to remember. But now, they were on their feet, toes curled into carpet, nails digging into anything they could grab—knowing, sensing why the elders never stopped talking about that night.
This—this—was why.
And somewhere in the future, they could already hear it. Imagine it. The next generation of fans arguing online:
"That comeback? It was overrated."
And they'd all reply,
"You had to be there."
Because they were here now.
Living it.
Heart pounding with it.
Sinking into the drama of it.
Across editing bays in Catalonia, club media teams—hands hovering over keyboards, video timelines half-prepped—froze. No more typing. No more trimming clips. They'd finish the edit later. Right now, they were fans again. Football fans. Watching a game that felt like it was being written by the football gods themselves.
And in Switzerland, far from the roaring Parc des Princes, in the quiet high-rise headquarters of UEFA...
The president sat with others, a monitor glowing before him.
He wasn't speaking. No one was.
His eyes were locked on the match.
But his hand rested beside him. Upon a touchscreen.
It wasn't a tactics board.
It wasn't live stats.
It was numbers. One number in particular.
132,000,000 viewers.
And counting.
Roughly 132 million viewers.
And that was just the official count—not even including the millions more watching from bootleg streams, Discord servers, TikTok mirrors, or shady sites with ten pop-ups per second.
This was no longer just a Champions League Round of 16 fixture.
This was the most watched Round of 16 match in the competition's history.
More than Manchester United vs. Real Madrid.
More than Liverpool vs. Bayern.
More than even the clashes of Messi and Ronaldo in their prime.
It had surpassed the Super Bowl.
And suddenly, football fans across Europe had their new favorite weapon—another gem to slide into arguments with Americans about whose "football" was the real global game.
"Super Bowl did what again? That's cute."
"Our Round of 16 just pulled more."
The sheer viewership alone had become a cultural talking point.
Apart from the occasional World Cup final, a few El Clásicos at their peak, and maybe a couple of Copa Libertadores finals with entire nations watching from rooftops—this was one of the most viewed matches in the history of the sport.
And UEFA knew it.
The lights in their control rooms stayed on long into the night.
Analytics teams worked overtime.
Smiles were shared behind closed doors.
Whatever fans said about corruption or bias or rigging, this number—132 million—was gospel.
And while the football world marveled, in truth, this moment was born from contradiction.
Because for years, fans had screamed into the void:
"Football is dying!"
"The magic's gone!"
"It's all robotic now!"
They complained of passionless stars and overcoached automatons.
They said players no longer bled for the shirt.
Too many matches.
Too many passes sideways.
Too much VAR.
Too little chaos.
Too few streetballers, too many runners.
"Bring back the days of Ronaldinho, of Totti, of Pirlo… back when football had soul."
But through all the online rage and pub talk fury, the executives atop the game had remained unmoved.
Because one thing always shut down the noise:
The views.
The numbers never lied.
In fact, in their private reports, the trend was clear.
There were more people watching now than in the so-called golden era.
More than when Messi and Ronaldo shared a league.
More than when Zidane headbutted Materazzi.
More than the nights of Kaká gliding past United in 2007.
Now. Right now. This match.
That was why La Liga's president rarely blinked when told he was "ruining the league."
That was why he dismissed the critics who screamed about destroyed identities and empty stadiums.
He had the stats. The charts. The graphs.
When the dust settled, and the whistle blew, and the ball was kicked, people still watched.
And this match—Barcelona vs PSG—was their proof. Their golden ticket. Their validation.
Sure, in the build-up, the conspiracy theorists had come out in droves.
Fans talked about how UEFA always gave Barcelona the rub.
About how Paris always choked against them.
About shadowy officiating and suspicious decisions.
"Rigged," they said.
"Corrupt," they tweeted.
"Fixed," they posted under every highlight.
But now—here it was.
The highest viewed Round of 16 game in history.
No gimmicks. No Hollywood scripts.
Just a ball, a pitch, and a goalpost that had been shaking all night.
And while the brands—Barcelona, PSG, UEFA, the Champions League itself—all played a role in creating this coliseum of attention…
It wasn't just about the names.
It wasn't even about the rivalry.
No, the reason why 132 million tuned in...
Why popcorn burned and toilets were ignored...
Why streets in Spain, Nigeria, Brazil, Indonesia, France, Egypt, Argentina, and India all went quiet...
Was because of one simple thing:
Goals.
"I'd rather win 1–0 than 5–4," José Mourinho once famously said, arms folded, voice as cold and calm as a man who had seen a thousand battles.
"Goals win matches. But defenders… defenders win championships."
A line as old as time. A tactical gospel passed down in locker rooms and boardrooms.
And yet—on nights like this—nights under the Paris floodlights, that old belief gets challenged.
Because yes—defense might win you trophies.
But goals?
Goals win hearts.
Goals win headlines.
And most importantly…
Goals win viewers.
A 4–2 thriller wasn't just a scoreline.
It was a declaration of chaos, a symphony of emotion, a masterpiece painted by studs and sweat and shouts.
The kind of game that draws in the casuals and glues the purists to their seats. The kind that crashes servers and breaks record books. The kind that defines a generation of fans.
But more than that… more than watching the ball ripple the net over and over again, there was one thing the world loved even more:
When stars score goals.
Because stars are not just players.
They are myth-makers. Heartbeat-raisers. The reason little kids in faraway cities wear jerseys with names they can't yet pronounce. The ones who live under a heavier spotlight, with a heavier name on their back—and yet, in the biggest moments, lift the whole weight with a flick of the boot.
That's what stardom is.
And tonight?
They showed up.
For those who had hyped up the clash between Mateo King and Kylian Mbappé…
For those who debated their legacies, their pace, their purpose…
This was the night they had waited for.
Because both had delivered.
Not just moments.
Not just flashes.
Goals. Two each.
Mateo King ⚽⚽
Kylian Mbappé ⚽⚽
And now—add to that tally: Lionel Messi ⚽⚽
Six goals, three names.
A trident of talent so overwhelming that it overwhelmed the match itself.
Messi. Mbappé. Mateo.
Three names.
Three forces of nature.
Three 'M's.
And suddenly, all over social media—from X (Twitter), to Instagram stories, to TikTok edits with anime soundtracks blaring behind footage—one trend ruled the world:
#MMM
Top of the charts. Number one worldwide.
The stars had turned up—and they had not disappointed.
And in the midst of that brilliance, a quiet thought kept returning to many fans across the globe.
"If only Neymar were here…"
A whisper among the faithful. A lament among romantics.
The Brazilian, once the king of this same Parc des Princes, missing from this masterpiece.
What could he have added? What chaos, what trick, what samba magic?
But for over 70% of the 132 million people watching live across the world—the answer came swiftly.
"What do you mean you miss Neymar?" they replied, their voices rising above tweets and forums.
Because at that exact moment—the 86th minute of the match—he appeared.
Not the Brazilian himself.
But something that looked a lot like him.
A blur in Barcelona blue. A teenager with fire in his boots and freedom in his veins.
That 17-year-old kid.
Mateo King.
Right there on the left flank, a PSG defender swarming him—and yet, with the arrogance of youth and the technique of a wizard, he didn't panic.
He invited the pressure.
Then—flicked it away.
A quick sombrero over the defender's foot. A casual backheel as he turned, a shuffle, a sway, and a whipped pass split the line—
Straight to Griezmann.
And Barcelona were breaking again.
Fans leapt to their feet.
But millions online, across phones and flat screens, weren't even watching the ball anymore.
They were pointing at the screen.
At that boy.
That flick.
That flair.
And they said—
"Isn't that Neymar right there?"
For the Barcelona faithful—those who had watched Neymar dance in Blaugrana for years—the thought came not as a whisper, but as a stunned collective echo:
"Since when could he play like this?"
They had watched Mateo King grow. Week by week in La Liga, they had charted the rise of the 17-year-old prodigy. From those blistering sprints down the wing in February… to the deft, laser-precise long balls he began pinging around a week or two after… to the uncanny chemistry he developed with Messi in the training videos shown.
Each match wasn't just another appearance. It was another unlock.
Another evolution.
Another ability revealed.
And tonight—under the Paris lights, with the world watching—he had revealed something else.
Something not entirely new, but deeply familiar.
Something… Neymar-esque.
The flair. The audacity. The unpredictable movement. The feints that broke ankles and the vision that split defenses.
Neymar had once carried Barcelona to their first Remontada. That night had been his opera. His peak. His madness.
And now—though Neymar was gone—his essence felt alive again.
Not in body.
But in this boy.
This teenage force with braided hair and deadly feet, who wore the badge not with the weight of pressure, but the freedom of destiny.
Mateo King.
And it wasn't just the Barcelona fans who felt it.
No—even more vividly, it was the PSG fans.
The ones who had loved Neymar through his highs and forgiven him through his lows.
The ones who wore his name on their back and defended his theatrics as passion.
Tonight, many of them had arrived ignorant of Mateo King. Maybe they'd caught a few highlight reels, read a tweet or two, heard whispers from La Liga.
"He's fast," they said.
"He's got a cannon of a shot."
"13 goals in 5 games? Kid's hot right now."
But what they hadn't expected—was this.
This level of craft.
This show of flair and control.
This kind of silk and fire—on their pitch.
Because even if Neymar Jr. wasn't playing tonight…
His spirit was.
And as the chants roared around him, as the game cracked open, as tension mounted in every breath, even Neymar himself—seated high in the Parc des Princes stands—sat in silence.
A complicated silence.
A pair of heavy braces clung to his knees.
He looked down at his legs.
Then looked at the pitch.
At him.
Mateo.
The noise faded. The chants disappeared.
All Neymar heard… was his own breath.
And a thought, buried so deep it felt like a wound.
"What am I doing?"
It didn't matter—not now. Not tonight.
For the Paris fans packed into the stadium, Neymar was invisible.
He sat beside stars. VIP guests. Former teammates.
But no one looked his way. Not once.
Because all eyes, all minds, all hearts were on the field.
And all they could think—
"Just a few more minutes. Please. Hold on."
They had seen the firepower of Barcelona. They had seen the pressure, the elegance, the cruelty of their attack.
And now, they prayed.
To gods, to fate, to anything—
That their defenders could survive it.
But as they hoped for mercy…
One soul in the stadium wished them only ruin.
And that soul…
Was Mateo King.
Mateo felt the weight of the game crushing down on him, his lungs burning, his jersey soaked with effort and hope. Then, the ball came his way—a loose pass ricocheting off a PSG shin—and instinct kicked in.
He darted forward to claim it, heart pounding.
But before his second touch, the force came.
A barge. A shoulder. A snap of pressure from Danilo Pereira.
Mateo staggered, tried to stay upright—but his legs gave way. The contact wasn't brutal, but it was enough. He collapsed to the pitch, hands skidding across the grass.
Boots thudded beside his ribs.
The defender didn't even glance back.
Danilo stepped right over him like a ghost stepping past a shadow.
"Hey! Hey, ref!" Mateo shouted, voice raw, hands flaring upward. He spun on the ground, eyes locked onto the official.
No whistle.
Just a glance.
A cold, dismissive glance from the referee, before he turned and jogged toward the midfield.
The crowd murmured. Some groaned. Others roared. But the play went on.
Mateo lay there for a beat longer, jaw clenched, fury bubbling beneath fatigue. He sat up and looked toward the digital board at the side of the pitch.
86:03.
Four minutes left. Maybe five or six with stoppage.
"Four more minutes, eh?"
He exhaled.
"With this much talent? That's enough for everything. Or for nothing at all."
And it was true. With players like Messi, Mbappé, and himself—four minutes wasn't time. It was chaos waiting to happen.
Even after two goals, Messi was still possessed.
He hadn't stopped moving. He hadn't dropped intensity.
In the 87th minute, he collected the ball just outside his own half. Di María was closing in. Rafinha stepped forward to double. But Messi didn't even blink.
He twisted between them with a shimmy of the hips, rolling the ball to his left, flicking it to his right—then breaking through with a brutal turn past Danilo.
"Oh my goodness, Lionel Messi…" Beglin gasped.
"He's rolling back the years! Look at him go!" Drury added, rising in tone.
Messi surged forward. Kimpembe stepped in—faked one way, Messi darted the other.
Edge of the box now. Dagba was scrambling to cover.
Messi hesitated. Body faint. He pulled it wide, dragging the ball across.
Marquinhos lunged in desperation.
And just as Messi looked to shoot—bam.
A body to the back.
Messi crumpled.
The entire Barça bench exploded.
"Penalty! It's got to be!" shouted Beglin.
But the whistle never came.
The referee ran.
Play on.
The stadium shook with conflicting screams.
Koeman flailed his arms in disbelief, shouting toward the fourth official. Messi slammed his palm to the grass and looked up in stunned silence. Ter Stegen shouted from his box.
Commentators struggled to grasp it.
"Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable," Peter Drury echoed, almost breathless. "How is that not a penalty?"
Two minutes later, Messi again.
Only this time, no solo.
This was orchestration.
He dropped deep, received from Busquets, then turned on a dime and sprayed a pass to Pedri.
Pedri's first touch was velvet. He skipped forward and threaded a perfect ball to Griezmann, who took one touch and instantly flicked it down the channel to Mateo.
Mateo caught it near the edge of the box.
A defender closed in.
He didn't hesitate.
A backheel—audacious, pure flair—found Messi again.
One touch to settle, then Messi angled it to his left boot and curled a venomous shot toward the far post.
A moment of silence.
Then—
BOOM.
Navas flew like a panther. Gloved hand stretched high. Fingertips met leather.
Saved.
The Parc erupted.
"Keylor Navas again!" Jim Beglin shouted.
"Don't let the scoreboard fool you," Drury added, in awe. "Navas has been a wall tonight. That's another stunning save to deny the magician."
Mateo, hands on knees, shook his head with a crooked grin.
Messi walked away biting his lip.
The ball wasn't in.
Not yet.
But something in the air crackled.
The feeling that the night wasn't finished just yet.
90:00
Four minutes had evaporated like steam in Paris air. And now, time itself was bleeding.
Barcelona poured forward like a flood breaking its dam.
Pedri was everywhere, ghosting between the lines. Alba flying up the wing, overlapping, screaming for a switch. Busquets anchored the storm with calm passes that disguised urgency. Messi? He was floating—left, right, middle—pulling strings with fire in his feet.
They were chasing fate.
But it wasn't just Barça.
Kylian Mbappé didn't rest. No, he was still hunting. Still prowling for blood. Still chasing his third.
The hat-trick.
90:11
Griezmann received a square pass near midfield. One touch—too loose.
Di María lunged in.
The steal.
Then came the lightning.
Di María didn't hesitate. He bent the ball around Busquets with a long, arcing pass.
And then?
Mbappé.
Gone.
Rocketing past De Jong, past Umtiti. His acceleration was madness, blistering.
He had no angle.
He didn't care.
The Frenchman cut in, looked up, and lashed it—first time—no touch to steady, just instinct.
Ter Stegen didn't even flinch.
WHACK.
The ball cannoned off the post.
It shook the frame.
The sound echoed through the Parc like a death knell.
The rebound came tumbling out.
Lenglet didn't wait—he lunged in and booted it clear with all his soul, sending it skyward.
Gasps around the stadium.
Jim Beglin exhaled hard. "He's trying to kill it—Mbappé nearly shattered the miracle with that hit!"
Peter Drury's voice was hushed, reverent:
"This was it— the moment to end it all. And he created it from nothing. That's what frightens you about Kylian Mbappé."
"That's a monster," Beglin muttered. "He's not just a player—he's an apocalypse waiting to happen."
And then—
The camera cut to the fourth official.
+2.
"Just two minutes?" Peter Drury echoed in disbelief. "Two minutes to settle destiny?"
The Barcelona bench erupted.
Koeman flailed his arms wildly.
Umtiti turned to the ref, shouting with both arms out:
"What? Two? What about the injuries? The subs? The delays?!"
Piqué was in the official's face.
Busquets yelled in Spanish:
"¡Mínimo cinco! ¡Cinco minutos mínimo!" (At least five! At least five!)
But the referee stood firm.
His whistle cut through the noise like a blade.
"Play!"
He waved them off like swarming birds.
Mateo King stood still.
His eyes scanned the pitch. His lungs were pulling air like it was iron.
This was it.
The noise, the doubt, the unfair time—it didn't matter.
Messi's voice sliced through the moment:
"This isn't done! We have three minutes— use it!"
He didn't shout as a captain.
He shouted as Messi—as Barcelona.
Then louder:
"Win the ball! NOW!"
The players snapped back into form like soldiers.
Because despite Lenglet's desperate clearance, the ball had fallen to PSG.
They had it.
And Barcelona needed it back.
90:29. Two minutes to go.
The ball belonged to Paris.
And with it, the miracle that millions had been whispering about was slipping—slipping through the hands of Barcelona. Just one more goal and they would do it. Just one more.
But now…
They were chasing shadows.
Still, the Barça players didn't quit. Not now. Not this close.
Two minutes?
They would give it everything. Heart, lungs, legs, soul—everything.
The atmosphere was electric. Deafening.
The fans in the stands were up on their feet, screaming—some chanting, some just screaming incoherent prayers into the sky.
The commentators were nearly yelling into their mics.
"Barcelona need the ball—this second. They need it now!" Jim Beglin barked.
"One moment can flip it," Peter Drury added, voice taut. "One interception. One spark."
Pressure.
Colin Dagba, taking the throw-in for PSG, clutched the ball like it was made of fire.
He stood on the touchline.
A wall of boos and whistles roared from behind him.
Barcelona players had pressed forward like hyenas, closing in.
Dagba hesitated.
Then… he tossed it short to Danilo.
The Brazilian flicked it back calmly.
Paris weren't rushing.
Why would they?
Each second drained was gold.
Then came Paredes.
A one-two with Rafinha.
Back to Paredes.
Then to Di María.
And now—Di María held it.
He scanned. You could see his chest rising fast. Feet shifting. Sweat dripping.
Three Barça players started darting in like arrows.
Di María turned—no lane.
He looked left—no help.
He looked behind him.
Safe.
Wasting time.
Yes.
Back pass.
But then he heard it—
"Pass it! Pass it!"
Mbappé.
Loud.
Urgent.
He was open.
Di María didn't hesitate. He tried to feed the ball to his teammate one more time—just to ease the pressure, to make it Paris' final touch.
The pass rolled.
Clean.
Perfect.
Until—
A streak of black and gold flashed across the frame.
A blur.
A thief.
"Oh my goodness—P-Pedri!" Peter Drury gasped, voice cracking. "Pedri has intercepted it! Intercepted it clean! Barcelona—Barcelona have the ball!!"
00:59 seconds left.
"Run, boy—RUN!" Koeman yelled from the stands.
The crowd noise turned animal.
Pedri didn't even stop to think.
He exploded forward.
The ball clung to his feet like it was wired to him. No stutter. No hitch.
Just glide.
One PSG player lunged at him—Pedri turned his body ever so slightly, and whoosh—gone.
Another flew in from the left—he chopped inside with his right foot and sent him sliding off into the grass like a ragdoll.
Marquinhos was coming.
No time.
Pedri didn't need it.
He released the ball early—angled it out wide—
Messi.
Lionel Messi.
Black and gold.
Head up.
The ball sticking to his boots like it feared being taken from him.
He caught it in stride.
Didn't break rhythm.
49 seconds left.
And he ran.
Like the story still had one more page.
Like it was still waiting for a final chapter.
The moment Pedri stole the ball and turned upfield, Mateo King was already moving. Instinct? Maybe. Or just raw will. His lungs were screaming. Every muscle in his legs burned. He could barely feel his calves anymore. His arms pumped more out of habit than strength.
"I'm tired... God, I'm tired."
But tired didn't matter. This was football. This was war. He'd played a single full match before, sure, but since that whirlwind second debut, this might as well have been his first full ninety. A full 90 at the Parc des Princes. In the Champions League. In the last two minutes. And he was still running.
He glanced at the scoreboard as he ran.
2-4 on the night.
6-5 on aggregate.
Seconds left.
Every heartbeat was a countdown.
"Griezmann being my shadow today... it saved me." Mateo thought. "I have just enough. Just enough left to kill them."
So he lit the fuse.
He exploded forward—not like the first half, where the legs were light, no. Now it was like dragging a dying engine through a thunderstorm. But the goal was ahead. And his soul was lit. He sprinted like a man chasing legacy.
On the right wing, Lionel Messi danced. One defender tried lunging in desperation.
Messi cut him—cruel, clean. The defender spun, his body collapsing to the turf like a broken door blown off its hinges.
Now ahead of him—three more.
The PSG bench screamed.
"STAND HIM UP!"
"DON'T DIVE!"
"HOLD YOUR LINE!"
Kimpembe, Danilo, and Marquinhos all zoned in. Their boots scraped into the turf like lions preparing to pounce. The wall of bodies in white and blue moved as one.
Messi didn't blink.
He scanned. Brain racing faster than any sprint. He could go. He could try to dribble. He's done it before—he's made statues of defenders on this very pitch. But then, just as he shifted weight to his left, something flickered in the corner of his eye.
Mateo.
Charging. Two defenders shadowing him. One already tugging at his arm. But the look—
Messi caught it.
Not a plea. Not a call.
A fire.
Grit, blood, purpose. Determination so pure it pierced the noise. "I'll make it count," that look said. "Trust me."
Messi hesitated.
He remembered all the times he'd passed in big moments. Trusted teammates. Been let down. Faces blurred through his memory—missed chances, wasted magic.
But not this time.
Messi clenched his jaw. His breath calmed. And in that single sliver of a second—he made his decision.
He went forward.
A blur. The GOAT at full throttle.
"He's taking them on!" Peter Drury shouted, voice rising. "Lionel Messi—into the heart of the resistance!"
"Three players—THREE!" Jim Beglin yelled. "They're screaming at each other!"
"Come on then!" Marquinhos roared on the pitch, chest out.
Feet pounded the ground like war drums.
This was no longer just a match. This was a reckoning. And it was about to reach its climax.
And then Messi moved.
A stutter-step—barely a twitch of his left shoulder—and three PSG players bit.
He froze them.
It was wizardry in real time.
A step-over with his right. A drag with his left. Bodies lunged, legs reached, but they grasped at phantoms.
And in that sliver of space—Messi saw it.
Mateo.
He wasn't open. Not really. One defender was in front of him, another tight on his heels.
But Messi didn't need space. He needed vision. And in a blink, he delivered it.
The pass came—carved like a blade through silk. It wasn't just a through ball. It was a spell. A curving, fast, whispering ball that danced across the grass with venom and intention, bending like reality itself was tilting for a miracle.
Mateo saw it the moment it left Messi's foot.
It was coming hot—spinning, alive.
Mateo took off.
He could feel the defender breathing behind him. Another slid ahead, trying to intercept. The pass seemed too quick, too slick. But Messi knew that too. He counted on that defender lunging in. The ball whipped just under the sliding boot, clipped by the faintest graze. But still it curled—wobbled, yes—but it still spun true, bouncing awkwardly toward Mateo.
This was it.
One shot. One moment. One heartbeat.
Mateo barely had time to think. He didn't stop to settle. As the ball skipped up, he flung his body sideways and brought his right leg over it.
A flick.
An audacious, instinctive, outrageous flick—like Neymar against Villarreal in 2015. The defender in front of him had over-committed, and the ball floated—floated—over the PSG man's head, as if time slowed just to watch it.
Mateo twisted with it, his back arching, his chest rising, every muscle in his frame coiled.
The ball was dropping.
Mateo didn't wait.
Left leg rising.
He struck.
A left-footed volley—pure, clean, thunderous.
The ball spun off his boot like a missile, angling down and skipping off the turf once. A cruel bounce—just enough to dip.
Navas saw it.
He moved.
He flew.
Fingertips stretching.
He reached.
The ball kissed his glove—
—and kept going.
The sound—clink—off the inside of the post.
And then…
Net.
The back of the net exploded like it had been punched by a god.
Mateo didn't move.
He stared.
He watched the net tremble, the goal frame shiver, the white nylon snap from the sheer force of the strike.
The stadium?
It shattered.
Peter Drury's voice cracked under the weight of the occasion.
"Would you believe this? WOULD YOU BELIEVE THIS?! Mateo King—seventeen years of age—has just torched Paris!"
Jim Beglin couldn't even speak straight. "How? HOW is this happening again?!"
The camera panned.
The Parc des Princes was broken.
Some PSG fans were frozen in disbelief. Others had their heads buried in their scarves. Flags had dropped. Cigarettes burned to the filter untouched. Entire rows sat slumped. The voices of 40,000 Parisians had been turned to ghosts.
On the pitch, PSG players were crumbling.
Marquinhos had dropped to his knees.
Kimpembe was bent over, hands on his thighs, gasping.
Di María had both hands on his head, jaw open, his mouth mouthing a curse.
Navas stared blankly at the goal behind him, as if betrayed by the laws of physics.
And just beyond it, somewhere between madness and myth—
Mateo King was running.
But not to the away fans.
Not to the Barça bench.
No.
He ran to the lions' den—straight into the stand of PSG ultras. Into a storm of whistles, insults, middle fingers. The Parisians howled in rage.
And Mateo loved it.
He sprinted—fists clenched, veins pulsing, blood roaring. He slid to a stop just outside the touchline, arms open, chest heaving as the fury rained down on him.
But he didn't flinch.
He stared into their eyes.
The eyes of Les Parisiens—the mighty French faithful. The same people who once marched in the streets and started revolutions. They who had guillotined kings.
Now they watched one rise.
And Mateo? He was unmoved. Cold. Composed. Crowned in fire.
He raised his hand. Slowly. Deliberately.
The fans hurled slurs. Plastic bottles. They raged. But Mateo's hand rose anyway.
Palm flat. Fingers together. Straight to his forehead.
Like a soldier at attention.
Like a prince accepting fate.
Like a conqueror saluting his defeated foe.
It was the pose that would become iconic in the years to come. That would later belong to a young Englishman. A midfielder wearing white.
But this wasn't 2023.
This wasn't Jude Bellingham.
This was 2021.
This was Paris.
And this was the night Mateo King conquered it.
As he stood there—backlit by the boiling lights, framed in smoke and stunned silence—his arms lifted higher, and the world seemed to freeze.
"Let them scream. Let them curse. Their noise is their fear. I see it. In their eyes. They know."
He turned, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.
"This goal… this celebration… this moment—belongs to history."
And then, for a second, time bent—
Peter Drury breathed it in.
"Psg, two... Barcelona, FIVE!"
"SIX-SIX on aggregate."
The screen blinked:
🕒 92nd minute — Mateo King
📚 A page written in flame.
Peter Drury's voice dropped to a whisper that echoed through eternity:
"The King has spoken."
"And Paris… kneels. Mateo king gets his hattrick."
A/N
IF YOU WANT TO SEE THE GOAL AND THE CELEBRATION (WITH A PIC OF HIM DOING IT ITS ON THE PATREON WHERE YOU CAN SEE IT FOR FREE
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