Spain vs Greece – March 25, 2021 (5–1, Spain Wins)
Spain vs Georgia – March 28, 2021 (4–2, Spain Wins)
Spain vs Kosovo – March 31, 2021 (3–1, Spain Wins)
Just as the analysts had scribbled on their whiteboards, just as the fans had murmured in casual certainty, Spain rolled through their March fixtures with methodical precision. Three matches. Three victories. A clean, unsurprising sweep.
Domination.
It was the only word that fit.
Luis Enrique's men had made a habit of dissecting their opponents, not with flamboyant flair, but with a cold, surgical sharpness that echoed Spain's philosophy from a decade ago. Their wins weren't chaotic upsets. They were inevitable. Like clockwork.
With those three back-to-back victories, Spain had practically placed both feet into the gates of the 2022 FIFA World Cup. The math was now comfortably on their side.
With 16 points, a top-two finish in Group B was no longer a distant possibility—it was nearly guaranteed. Sweden, sitting behind them, still clung to a mathematical thread of hope. If Spain somehow stumbled, if they could pull off a perfect run, they could steal the top spot, forcing Spain into the dreaded playoff gauntlet.
But that was unlikely.
Very unlikely.
All Spain needed was one more victory. Just one. One more matchday where they could paint the scoreboard with their superiority, and first place would be sealed.
And fate had a poetic twist in mind.
Spain vs Sweden.
November.
A match to decide it all.
While the Spanish fans, and indeed the footballing world, had expected the national team's dominance in the group, there was something—someone—that had taken them by storm.
A story that no analyst's graph or expert's prediction had foreseen.
It wasn't Sergio Ramos' leadership.
It wasn't Ferran Torres' blistering form.
It wasn't Dani Olmo's orchestrated brilliance.
No.
The true surprise wasn't the team.
It was the boy.
The 17-year-old teenager who had stepped onto the pitch and rewritten history with each touch, each sprint, each merciless goal.
Mateo King.
A name that had exploded into every living room, every headline, every digital feed across Spain. While the world had anticipated Spain's victories, nobody had been prepared for him.
Not at this level.
Not this soon.
Match Statistics — Mateo King
Greece (March 25, 2021) — 45 Minutes Played
Goals: 3
Assists: 0
Big Chances Created: 1
Dribbles Attempted: 9
Dribbles Completed: 7
Crosses: 3
Shots on Target: 4
Touches in Opponent's Box: 11
Georgia (March 28, 2021) — 50 Minutes Played
Goals: 1
Assists: 2
Big Chances Created: 3
Dribbles Attempted: 6
Dribbles Completed: 5
Crosses: 5
Key Passes: 4
Shots on Target: 2
Touches in Opponent's Box: 14
Kosovo (March 31, 2021) — 45 Minutes Played
Goals: 0
Assists: 2
Penalty Won: 1
Big Chances Created: 2
Dribbles Attempted: 15
Dribbles Completed: 11
Crosses: 4
Key Passes: 5
Touches in Opponent's Box: 13
Records Broken by Mateo King
Youngest Player to Debut for Spain (All-time).
Youngest Goal Scorer for Spain (All-time).
Youngest Player to Start a Competitive Match for Spain.
Youngest Hat-trick Scorer in a World Cup Qualifier (All-time).
Most Dribbles Completed in the European Division World Cup Qualifiers (Ongoing Campaign).
And the list just kept going. And going.
It was almost absurd—like someone had switched the difficulty level to "Beginner" for Mateo King, yet the world was playing on "Expert."
In just 140 minutes of football for the Spanish National Team, Mateo had produced stats that looked forged: 3 matches, 140 minutes played, 4 goals, 4 assists. A teenager rewriting history before the ink had even dried on his call-up letter.
The numbers didn't just shake fans into a frenzy—they detonated through every office, newsroom, boardroom, and executive suite tied to Spanish football.
The same federation officials, pundits, and club spokespeople who had been condemning Luis Enrique for what they labeled "reckless favoritism"—dragging him through interviews and headlines for calling up a child who hadn't even played 10 professional games—found themselves mute, silenced in less than 45 minutes of play.
By the second match, it wasn't silencing anymore. It was salt rubbed into their wounds.
By the third match, no one dared to argue. They were no longer watching a kid being carried by the system. They were watching the system revolve around the kid.
Mateo wasn't just "benefiting" from Barcelona's world-class setup, from Messi's gravitational pull, or from De Jong and Pedri dictating tempo. That theory had been shattered.
He had been thrown into a new environment, with new teammates, and into a new system under Luis Enrique—a high-pressing, physically demanding setup designed to suffocate opponents. There was no protective bubble here, no safety net.
If anything, this was supposed to slow him down.
But Mateo had thrived.
For those who had only just started following him—after Barcelona's tactical shift limited his obvious impact—this national team breakout was a reset button for their perceptions.
They scrambled to find footage of his early La Masia days, dug through Barcelona B games, clicked on grainy YouTube compilations, all desperate to understand: Has he always been like this? How did we miss it?
Meanwhile, Luis Enrique sat in his hotel room, staring at his phone as if it had the answers to every question now swirling in the media storm.
He had known Mateo was special. But even he hadn't predicted this level of impact, this quickly.
After the third match, as if driven by instinct, he picked up his phone and called his agent. The line hadn't even finished connecting before he spoke:
"Are they actually going for Mateo?"
The agent hesitated, as if weighing words, but Enrique cut him off before a single one could be spoken.
"Start talks with them. And inform them this: Get me Mateo, and I will get them the Champions League in four no three years—tops." He laughed. But it wasn't a joke.
It wasn't just Enrique who had seen enough. Mateo's performances had been watched like live treasure maps by head scouts, sporting directors, analysts, and coaches across Europe.
Yes, he had been on their radars before—whispers, notes, scout reports filed under "potential."
But now? Now, it was different.
Now, it was urgent.
They didn't care it was only the World Cup Qualifiers. They didn't care the opponents were Greece, Georgia, Kosovo—small fish in Spain's pond.
It didn't matter.
They had seen enough.
And so they moved.
Calls. Meetings. Proposals. Emails.
Club secretaries and football directors across Europe mobilized like an army, all chasing the same objective:
Be the first to get Mateo King's signature.
.....
Txiki Begiristain — Incoming Call
The sharp, rhythmic trill of a phone echoed through the vast conference room, slicing through the muted hum of conversation like a blade.
The room was pristine—marble floors reflecting the soft glow of the overhead lights, a long, polished table stretching across the heart of the space. Papers, laptops, and untouched glasses of water were scattered with surgical precision. On one side sat a man, posture rigid, face unreadable, dressed in a tailored suit so sharp it almost seemed to cut the air.
The sound persisted. Then, in a tone as calm as it was firm, the man said, "I'm sorry, I have to take this."
A slender hand reached out, fingers brushing across the surface of a sleek phone before lifting it gracefully. The motion was fluid, practiced, like someone who was used to calls that mattered.
Across the table, four pairs of eyes followed the movement.
The men seated opposite didn't hide their displeasure. Small, almost imperceptible frowns formed—except for one. The man at the center of the group, the leader, kept a polite, professional smile on his lips. He raised a hand slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment.
"No problem," he said, voice smooth, but his eyes betrayed the flicker of curiosity.
But before his words could even fully settle in the air, the call was already answered.
"Yes, Mr. Begiristain," the man said.
That name hit the table like a grenade.
The moment "Begiristain" was uttered, the frowns of the other three men deepened, their heads snapping toward each other. Whispered murmurs began—sharp, clipped phrases exchanged in hushed tones. Their faces tightened as they shared glances of disbelief, frustration, and, most of all, concern.
Even the lead man, who had maintained his calm composure a moment ago, found his smile faltering. His jaw tensed, his lips thinning into a tight line as the weight of the name sank in.
Txiki Begiristain?.
Manchester City's Sporting Director.
The architect behind one of the most dominant footballing empires of the modern era.
Yet, despite the restless murmurs, every man at that table strained their ears, desperate to catch every word of the conversation—what little they could hear of it.
"I'm currently in a meeting, Mr. Begiristain," the man on the call said, his tone clipped yet respectful. "No, there's no need for you to come to Spain personally… Yes, I'll make an appearance in England next week… We can arrange the specifics."
The group of four couldn't help but exchange glances again, their frowns deepening with every passing word.
This wasn't a casual conversation.
This was business.
Big business.
By the time the man ended the call with a crisp, "Speak soon," and slid the phone face-down on the table, the tension in the room had grown palpable.
"Apologies," he said smoothly, glancing up. "For a while now, my line's been… quite busy. Let me just put it on DND."
His fingers danced over the phone screen as silence draped over the table once more.
Then, the lead man across from him—the one whose smile had returned to his lips like an actor slipping back into character—let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.
"It's alright," he said, his tone light, though his eyes had a different story. "Given the week he has had, I suppose it's only natural."
But as his gaze sharpened, the mask of cordiality slipped, just for a moment, as he leaned in ever so slightly.
"So… I trust that after this meeting, we can help ease some of that stress from your shoulders, Mr. King?"
The name hit the air with a deliberate weight.
Andrew King.
The man who, whether he wanted it or not, had found himself thrust into the very eye of football's brewing storm. The uncle. The legal guardian. The agent of Mateo King, the boy who had become the most sought-after signature in world football.
Andrew, who had remained expressionless through the entire ordeal, allowed a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—a ghost of a smirk, or perhaps a defense mechanism.
"Well, wouldn't that be up to you… Mr. Deco?"
His tone was even, but the subtext was razor-sharp.
Across from him, Deco, former midfield maestro and now a man with grand ambitions in Barcelona's corridors of power, tilted his head, his lips curving into a wolfish grin. After months of maneuvering, persuading, and presenting his vision, he had convinced Laporta to let him take charge of this negotiation personally.
Mateo King wasn't just a prodigious talent.
He was the first pillar of Deco's larger plan.
"I wouldn't worry, Mr. King," Deco said smoothly, gesturing to the team seated behind him. "I'm confident we'll be able to settle everything today."
He didn't wait for a response.
With a flick of his fingers, his team sprang into motion, shuffling through briefcases and folders. Papers slid across the table with practiced efficiency, and two pristine documents were placed carefully in front of Andrew.
Andrew's brow furrowed as his eyes flicked down to the papers.
Contracts.
Two of them.
His confusion was evident as he muttered under his breath, "Contracts?"
A single word, but it carried a weight of suspicion.
Deco, never losing his poise, leaned back in his chair, his grin widening with the air of someone who was about to deliver news that would change the entire tone of the meeting.
"Mr. Andrew, about the contract… there's been a little complication."
Andrew's fingers brushed the top of the documents, his gaze lifting slowly, locking onto Deco's smiling face.
The smile that told him this negotiation had just entered a new battlefield.
....
While the suits in that pristine conference room were playing their little chess game over Mateo King's future… somewhere else, in a completely different world, the same name was being thrown around—but with a lot more fire and a lot less diplomacy.
West London. A middle-wage street. April 1st, 2021.
It wasn't glamorous, not even close. Narrow pavements lined with rows of tired terraced houses, rusted metal fences framing small gardens where footballs lay forgotten. A grey drizzle had dampened the cracked asphalt, and even the chattering schoolboys seemed immune to the dreary weather.
Inside a modest secondary school classroom, however, the atmosphere was anything but dull.
"ARE YOU JOKING RIGHT NOW?!"
The shout exploded through the room, loud enough to make heads in the corridor turn.
Almotazbillah Ahmed—known simply as Ahmed to his mates—stood there, arms flailing, his expression caught between disbelief and outright mockery. He was seventeen, his dark curls wild, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and amusement as he looked at his friends like they had just insulted his ancestors.
"You really think Mateo wouldn't bench ANY player in Chelsea?!" he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief, gesturing dramatically as if trying to physically swat away the stupidity.
The classroom was small, half the chairs chipped, posters of mathematical formulas peeling at the corners. It was break time, and the boys had clustered near the back, where football debates regularly turned into verbal wars.
Ahmed, though, was an anomaly in this West London scene. Where most teenagers here bled blue for Chelsea, or red for Arsenal, or dared to dream with Spurs or West Ham, Ahmed had pledged his loyalty to a club miles away—FC Barcelona.
And now, his latest obsession had a name.
Mateo King.
The La Masia prodigy. The boy wonder who had grabbed his imagination like no other. He had become so obsessed, he even subscribed to a niche website dedicated solely to tracking Mateo's every move, paying £5 a month just to feel like he was part of this kid's journey. To Ahmed, watching someone his age playing on the world's grandest stages in the colors of his beloved Barça felt like living inside a football fairytale.
And now, these clowns were trying to tell him that Mateo King wouldn't start for Chelsea.
"Chelshit, you mean!" Ahmed barked, his arms crossed defiantly, glaring at the group as if they'd just committed blasphemy.
"Bro, calm down," one of his friends, Jaden, said, half-laughing. "We're talking Chelsea. You think he benches our front line?"
Ahmed's face twisted in disbelief. "Mateo has 36 goal contributions this season! Thirty-six! Combine all of Chelsea's attackers—do they even reach HALF of that?"
The boys erupted into counter-shouts.
"Bruv, it's not just about stats!"
"Tuchel's system doesn't need a flashy kid like that. He'd ruin the balance!"
"You're obsessed with YouTube highlights, Ahmed!"
Ahmed's jaw dropped as if someone had slapped him. "Are you guys playing dumb on purpose? You lot do realise Mateo has 11 assists this season, yeah? FORTY successful dribbles already! The kid is a playmaker too, not just a sprinter!"
"Come on," someone else chimed in. "Apart from his speed, what does he really offer? He's raw, man."
Ahmed's eyes bulged. "Did you even WATCH him this international break?! He played as a CAM, mostly. Not even as a winger or striker."
"That was basically friendlies!" another boy scoffed. "Who did he face—Greece? Please, Ahmed, don't make me laugh."
Ahmed was fuming now. "Mateo would bench not just your strikers but your midfielders too. You lot are mad if you think otherwise."
The noise in the room had become a full-blown storm of back-and-forth arguments. Everyone had something to say, but Ahmed, as usual, was the loudest voice in the room.
"You know what? This is pointless," Ahmed said, waving them off. "Aren't we both in the Champions League? Good. Let's meet in the final first. I SWEAR Mateo's going to score a hat-trick on you lot. Watch."
His laugh was borderline maniacal. "He's already got more hat-tricks this season than Hazard had in his entire career—and you're telling me he wouldn't start for Chelshit? Please."
The classroom erupted into more groans and shouts.
"Don't even DARE compare Mateo to Hazard!" one of them snapped.
Ahmed clapped back instantly, "Mateo is already ten times the player Hazard ever was! And I'm not even joking."
The banter was brutal, relentless.
"Ahmed, how's Chelsea even supposed to face Barça? You lot are on opposite sides of the bracket unless it's a final," someone smirked.
"Exactly! Chelsea can make the final, but you lot with Bayern next? Bro, you know how that's going to end."
Ahmed's grin widened. "You think we're the same, ehn? Just watch. We're going to the final. Just make sure you lot get there. Let's bet it."
He extended his hand dramatically. "Barça's going to beat you people."
"Bet," Jaden said, slapping his hand.
"Bet," the others echoed.
Ahmed had never been one to back down, no matter how outnumbered he was. He had already made stupid bets, ranging into thousands of pounds, all in favor of Barcelona—betting school fees money he didn't even have in hand. But it didn't matter. If Barça faced Chelsea, there was no way they weren't winning.
After all, it was Chelshit, mind you.
The argument might have paused temporarily, but Ahmed wasn't done.
Right now, inside the dim-lit bathroom stalls of the school, Ahmed sat on the toilet lid—not because he needed to use it, but because this was his little hideout. He had ditched his next class, phone in hand, huddled over like he was guarding a secret treasure.
And in a way, he was.
A new notification had just lit up his screen.
The site—his £5-a-month obsession—had pinged him. A site so niche it didn't even have a proper app yet. Unlike Goal, unlike Transfermarkt, it wasn't for the casual fan. This site was for Mateo King followers only, a digital shrine that tracked every move, every stat, every interview, and every bootlace of the La Masia prodigy.
And now, the notification read:
"MATEO KING — LIVE INTERVIEW STARTING NOW."
Ahmed's face broke into a grin.
That's why he had slipped away from class. That's why he was holed up in a school toilet, sitting on cold porcelain like it was his private VIP lounge. As the stream loaded, the familiar face appeared on his screen.
Mateo King.
Smiling back at him.
...
"So Mateo, how are you feeling today?"
The voice was soft, melodic, carrying a professional warmth that immediately made the interview room feel less like a studio and more like a casual café conversation. Miranda—the host of the session—smiled gently as she asked, leaning forward slightly, her eyes twinkling with genuine interest.
Mateo King smiled back, a casual yet sharp grin playing on his lips. His posture was relaxed, his hands folded on his lap as the cameras zoomed in.
"I feel great," he said, his tone light, almost playful.
Miranda chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Oh, we don't doubt that, Mateo. With the week you've had, who wouldn't?"
Both of them laughed, the air easy between them, no tension, no forced smiles. They had been casually talking for a few minutes now, the conversation floating over his recent performances with Spain. Mateo had handled it all with a calm humility that belied his age, consistently deflecting praise.
"It's the team, really," he said at one point, shrugging. "I just play my part. They make me look good."
"You've been running alright," Miranda teased, her smile turning mischievous as she shifted the topic. "Speaking of running, do you remember your debut match against Huesca?"
Mateo's eyes narrowed slightly, his brows pulling together as he tried to recall the moment.
Miranda leaned in, grinning now. "Oh, don't play dumb, Mateo. I was there. I came for a post-match interview. Do you know what you did?"
He looked confused, shaking his head.
"You ran past me. Literally just zipped by as if I was a ghost. You didn't even hear me calling you. I thought maybe you didn't like interviews."
Mateo's mouth opened in a surprised smile, a light laugh escaping him. "No way! That was you? I swear I didn't even see anyone. I was probably too hyped after the game."
The studio burst into a wave of light-hearted laughter. Miranda waved it off dramatically. "It's okay. I forgive you… today."
The interview had a rhythm now. It was smooth, lively, filled with playful banter.
"Alright, let's hit you with some basics," Miranda said, composing herself. "Mateo, who is the greatest player of all time?"
The question was barely out before Mateo answered, voice sharp and without hesitation. "Lionel Messi."
Miranda laughed, clapping lightly. "Wow, you didn't even think about it!"
Mateo smirked. "What's there to think about?"
"Fair enough," Miranda said, shaking her head with amusement. "But now, tell me this—why aren't you more online? You've got millions of fans who want to see more of you. You don't post much, you barely interact."
Mateo chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Personal reasons, really. Plus, I'm always busy. It's football, training, football again. There's not much free time left to post what I'm eating for breakfast."
Miranda smiled, nodding in understanding. "A humble king, I see yes pun intended."
The questions kept flowing—about his inspirations, his routines, even playful ones about his favorite cheat meal. The conversation was breezy, fun, so much so that even Ahmed, sitting in the dim school bathroom stall, found himself smiling at his phone screen, momentarily forgetting his surroundings.
This was a far cry from those chaotic, interviews with CBS, where pundits like Carragher would bait for viral moments. No, this was different. Mateo was in his element. Calm. Composed. Confident. The interview felt pure, a rare gem in football media.
But all good things take a serious turn eventually.
Miranda let out a soft laugh, straightening in her chair. "Mateo, today's been wonderful, truly. But as we wrap up, let's go a little serious now, shall we?"
Mateo, who had been enjoying the relaxed mood, smiled and nodded. "No problem."
Her smile remained, but her eyes sharpened. "It's about the Champions League."
The words hung in the air for a second longer than they needed to.
"You made a declaration earlier this season, saying you wanted to win the Champions League. That Barcelona will lift La Sexta. Do you still stand by that?"
Mateo didn't flinch. His grin returned, calm but electric. "A por la sexta," he said with a small fist clench.
"29th May, 2021," he added, his tone playful yet layered with an edge of certainty. "That's all I'll say."
Miranda smiled back, impressed by the poise. "That's all that needs to be said, I guess. Though… the video of Thomas Müller doesn't seem to have had any effect on the new kid on the block."
Mateo's brows furrowed. "New video?"
Miranda blinked, surprised. She leaned back in her chair, her grin slowly widening. "Oh… you haven't seen it?"
Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she turned towards the production crew. "Can we get that video? Mateo here has been busy conquering Spain; it seems he's missed a certain message."
One of the crew members rushed forward, handing a phone to Mateo.
"Here, see for yourself."
Mateo took the phone, eyebrows raised, curiosity piqued. The screen lit up, and there, frozen in the thumbnail, was Thomas Müller, Bayern Munich's eternal joker, grinning at the camera.
It looked like it was filmed in Müller's house. The Champions League draw was playing faintly on a TV in the background, a live ticker at the bottom showing the inevitable matchup.
Mateo pressed play.
"Barcelona… Barcelona, our old friend," Müller's voice echoed, light-hearted yet laced with a teasing tone. "Last time was too short, no? I'm happy we meet again. We'll make it more memorable this time, I promise."
He gave a wink to the camera, still smiling, before finishing, "Can't wait to welcome you all at the Allianz Arena."
Mateo watched in silence, the screen reflecting in his sharp eyes. When the video ended, he slowly lowered the phone, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah, they won last time," Mateo said, his tone sharper now, more prideful, the fire subtly igniting in his voice. "But this isn't the same. They're not the same, and we're not the same."
His voice lowered, serious yet composed. "If Bayern think it's going to be like last time, they'll be in for a shock. Barcelona's not going there to lose. We're going to their house to make a statement then end it all at home if they think we are like last time this would be an easy game for us."
He leaned back slightly, smile widening, though his eyes stayed cold. "With all due respect, Bayern's an incredible team. But we are, too. It'll be a great match… but it's one we're not afraid of."
Miranda's smile was a mixture of amusement and admiration. "Well said, Mateo. And for our final question today…"
Her tone shifted. The playfulness was gone, replaced by the weight of journalistic duty.
"There were rumors that during your time with the national team, you had an argument… even a fight, with a teammate—"
She stopped mid-sentence.
Something had changed.
Mateo's expression, which had been so bright just seconds ago, darkened instantly. His body stiffened. His lips were pressed into a firm line. The smile had vanished.
Miranda's words slowed as she noticed. His gaze locked onto her, sharp, unflinching, his brows furrowed in a cold scowl.
"I'm sorry," Mateo cut in, his tone harsh, his voice suddenly colder than anyone had ever heard before. "But I'll have to say—no comment on that."
A/N
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