The lineup drop hit the timeline like a thunderclap—shocking two particular influencers and igniting a wildfire of reactions across the football world. Within minutes, fan forums were ablaze, timelines split between euphoria and outrage. Some supporters reacted as if victory had already been sealed, their posts dripping with smug confidence. In pubs and fan zones, chants and club anthems rang out, beer glasses clinking as people danced.
Others were far from celebratory—furious tweets and curses rained down. Some fans had stormed their club's social media comments, venting in all caps, accusing the manager of betrayal. Even neutral journalists seemed stunned. For a player of that magnitude to vanish from the matchday squad—without warning—was more than a surprise, it was a seismic event.
They'd all seen the official squad list released earlier in the week. His name had been right there. But now, an hour before kickoff, not only was he missing from the starting eleven—he wasn't even on the bench.
Reporters scrambled for answers. Was he injured? Was it a sudden knock in training? The flu? A disciplinary issue? Speculation spread like wildfire through the press area, with journalists leaning over barriers to swap rumours, phones buzzing with texts from contacts who were just as clueless.
The frenzy spilled into the broadcast booths. The CBS crew jumped on it instantly, laughing, teasing, and spinning half-serious theories on-air. Memes were already being cooked up before the match had even begun—all because of one missing name on the team sheet.
And for a clash as heavyweight as Bayern vs Barcelona to trigger this level of chatter, there were really only two players in Both teams capable of commanding such a reaction. Well—maybe three now. Or, as some joked, two and a half.
The irony? The team with just one was the one now without him. The ripple effect of his absence could already be felt—not just in the stands, but deep inside the locker room.
...
Inside the away locker room, the mood had been calm — boots being laced, shirts being pulled over shoulders, quiet murmurs between teammates — until the door creaked open and the kit boy stepped in.
In his trembling hands was the Bayern lineup sheet.
The news had only just reached them, and it was as if someone had dropped a live spark into dry grass. Players and staff alike, from substitutes to assistant coaches, turned sharply toward him. Even Ronald Koeman, leaning against a tactics board moments earlier, was now watching closely. In an almost comedic scene, the boy found himself backed against the wall, the center of a sudden, suffocating attention he had never asked for.
"Is it true? You've got the list?" a voice asked sharply.
The boy swallowed, eyes darting forward — and that's when he saw him. Mateo King.
Similar in age, perhaps, but that was where the resemblance ended. The boy saw a figure who looked… older somehow, not in years but in presence. Mateo's gaze was steady, his jaw set as if bracing for impact. Even in stillness, he had that aura of someone who belonged under the floodlights, not in the shadows.
"So… what is it?" Mateo asked, his tone calm but edged with curiosity.
Before the boy could answer, Sergio Busquets stepped forward, casually wrapping an arm around Mateo's shoulder in a way that felt both protective and brotherly. The kit boy's eyes flicked between them — Busquets towering, composed, the veteran gravitating instinctively toward the young forward. Behind them, Lionel Messi had moved in too, not speaking, just… there. Close. The boy felt his throat tighten.
They might have been the same age, but in reality, they were miles apart — one living the dream every kid whispered about under the night sky, the other carrying laundry bags and water bottles. The proximity to Messi in particular sent a jolt through him; here was the man whose posters had covered his bedroom wall for years, standing just a meter away. He felt small. Flustered. A little dizzy.
Koeman, noticing the boy's shrinking posture under the crush of bodies and questions, finally stepped in.
"Alright, alright, give the kid some space," he said firmly, his Dutch accent cutting through the chatter. He moved toward the boy, holding out a hand for the sheet. "Thanks for the hard work."
The boy mumbled something that barely escaped his lips, passing over the paper like it was an artifact too valuable to hold. Koeman nodded, a quick, professional smile on his face.
And then… just like that, the circle broke. The attention drained away, shifting instantly toward the coach as the players clustered around him instead. The kit boy found himself on the edge again, invisible in the same room he had just been at the center of. He slipped back toward the shadows, returning to the quiet, unnoticed rhythm of his everyday life — the one where no one asked for his name.
And instantly, the crowd had shifted away from him; now their attention was on Koeman, and as the coach of the team, he knew how to handle it far better than any kit boy ever could.
Koeman stood there, the thick fold of paper in his hands, the Bayern Munich lineup printed across it in bold type. He didn't even have to look up to know that every single pair of eyes in the dressing room was pinned to him. The air felt heavier than usual — no music, no small talk, just the faint rustle of the lineup sheet as he adjusted it in his hands.
Only a few minutes earlier, the tension had already started building when one of the rotation players — a younger lad, still getting used to the weight of these big European nights — had been caught with his phone in his hand. Koeman had spotted the glow of the screen immediately, his voice cutting across the room like a whip.
"What's that in your hand?"
The player had scrambled for an excuse, stammering, "Gaffer, uh— I just saw some… pressing news. Needed to check it." He didn't mention that, in truth, he'd been midway through replying to his girlfriend's teasing message. Instead, he leaned on that "pressing news" line like a life raft, hoping it would keep him afloat under Koeman's glare.
Now, that flimsy excuse had turned into a live wire of curiosity in the dressing room. If his claim was true, the news was massive. If it was false, then the kid was just digging himself a deeper hole. Either way, the whole squad wanted to know.
Koeman's eyes moved steadily over the Bayern lineup, his lips pressed in a thin line. His players — half-dressed in various states of pre-match readiness — were frozen in place. One defender stood with his compression shorts on, shin pads resting against his thigh, socks pooled around his ankles. Another had his jersey already pulled on but hadn't bothered tying his boots. The smell of liniment and fresh kit filled the air, but no one moved.
Even Mateo sat on the wooden bench in the corner, one sock on, the other foot still bare, track top zipped halfway down. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, trying to get a better view of Koeman's expression. The paper in the manager's hands might as well have been a grenade — and everyone was waiting to see if it would go off.
Finally, Koeman exhaled, a slow, deliberate sigh that made a couple of players shift uncomfortably. He folded the lineup sheet in half with a quiet snap and glanced sideways at his assistants.
"Looks like we can add that extra midfielder we talked about," he said.
The reaction was instant. A few players' eyes lit up — they knew exactly what that meant. He really wasn't playing.
From Mateo's spot on the bench, he heard it too, and the corner of his mouth curled into a small smile. Under his breath, he murmured, "Damn… so he is actually injured."
His mind flicked to the figure behind all this chaos — the same reason why the Barcelona dressing room, minutes before a massive Champions League night, had ground to a halt. Half-socks, untied boots, jerseys hanging from shoulders — all because of one name.
Even Mateo himself was still sitting half-dressed, the same way he'd been when the rotation player had blurted it out earlier:
"Gaffer… sorry, just saw a news that Lewandowski is out with a sprained ankle from training. I'll drop— I'll, uh, power off my phone now."
The kid's voice had been shaky, his eyes darting anywhere but at Koeman, as if he could hide the fact that his thumbs had been furiously tapping a message seconds before.
Mateo could still remember the faint tremble in his fingers as he pulled on his second pair of match socks. They didn't just slip into place—they shivered slightly in his grip, as if his own pulse was running through the fabric. This match… this match meant more to him than even his Champions League debut against PSG. That first one had been a cocktail of excitement and nerves, a boyhood dream finally within reach. But this—this was a storm of heavier emotions, raw and unfiltered.
Anger.
Revenge.
A stubborn defiance that burned hotter with every passing second.
There was pride too, buried under the fire—pride in wearing these colours, pride in representing this crest on enemy ground. And somewhere in there, a dangerous kind of exhilaration. He felt… activated. The kind of charged readiness where every cell in your body is coiled to spring. Fear didn't paralyse him tonight; it sharpened him.
That talk from the other day—he could still hear it echoing in the back of his mind. It hadn't just motivated him; it had lit a fuse. It had locked something inside him. Tonight, at Bayern's home, he wasn't here to "play well" or "gain experience." He was here to win. No matter what it took. No matter how ugly or beautiful the battle.
And yet… despite all of it, the truth was he still felt a nervous undercurrent twisting in his stomach. Bayern weren't just good—they were a machine. The kind of side that could make even elite players feel small. Heavy favourites for this year's crown. A fortress at home. And now, as if fate wanted to mess with the script, Lewandowski was injured.
The news had been like a valve releasing pressure in his chest. A huge, almost guilty relief. The heart and engine of Bayern—out. Mateo knew exactly what kind of nightmare Lewandowski could be. The man wasn't just world-class; he was inhumanly consistent. Especially for someone like Mateo who had a system which just happened that it ranked strikers, Mateo had been shown he was in the top three… but in his gut, he knew who was still holding that number one spot. Lewandowski.
The unofficial Ballon d'Or winner. Who else could it have been?
Hearing that the Polish striker wouldn't be on the pitch had eased more than half the weight on his shoulders.
Mateo glanced around the locker room. The air felt lighter. Boots scraped against the tiled floor, bags rustled, and here and there came little bursts of laughter from teammates. Even Koeman looked a shade more relaxed. The coach stood near the tactics board, marker in hand, gesturing to Jordi Alba as he explained adjustments—how Alba would have to push higher, drifting into midfield when the chance arose. A slight tweak, but a clear sign that the absence of Lewandowski had tilted the balance.
It wasn't just relief—it was belief.
The whole locker room now carried the quiet, infectious feeling that they were walking into this match already a goal ahead.
Mateo was still smiling as he slid his jersey over his head, fingers working quickly at the hem before tucking it in. He glanced to his left—Messi was there, lacing up his boots in that calm, unhurried way of his.
"Can't believe this," Mateo said, a spark in his eyes, his voice carrying that barely contained buzz of excitement. "Feels like luck's on our side. If we win no when we win today…" He grinned wider, shaking his head in disbelief. "Man, it'd be huge. Winning at Bayern's home—it's massive. Then we could take that momentum to Camp Nou and finish the whole thing. Imagine it—advantage ours, their crowd silenced."
He chuckled under his breath, almost talking to himself now, picturing it in his mind—the stunned Munich faces, the roar of their own fans back in Barcelona. "It would be perfect we would aveng last year," he said, almost in awe of the idea.
Messi looked up at him, but unlike the rest of the dressing room—where grins, quiet jokes, and nervous energy bounced around—he wasn't smiling. His expression was unreadable, his eyes sharp yet calm.
He studied the young forward for a moment, watching the joy on Mateo's face, before finally muttering, "Is that so?"
Mateo didn't quite catch the tone. He was still riding the wave of optimism. "Yeah, isn't it? Lewan was our biggest obstacle tonight. With him out, our chances of winning have gone way up." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Not to downplay anyone, but honestly… our defence might not have been able to handle him. With him gone… it helps a lot. Even your dream—it would be great."
"Mateo." Messi's voice cut in—sharper this time.
The sudden change in tone made Mateo blink, caught off guard.
"You think my dream depends on someone else's bad luck?" The words were flat, almost cold, but not unkind—just firm.
"Oh—no, sorry, I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant," Messi said, cutting him off with a sigh. He leaned back slightly, gaze dropping for a second before lifting again. "You're still young. You don't understand… the pain of getting injured before a big match. You haven't felt it yet. That's not something you should take pleasure in, not even quietly even if you are oppositions."
Mateo stood there, shoulders drawn in a little, unsure how to respond.
Messi pushed himself up from the bench, that same old trait surfacing—he always seemed to rise after giving Mateo advice, as if to put a physical end to the conversation. Mateo sometimes wondered if he did it on purpose. and like always in that moment, Messi looked larger than life in his eyes.
"Plus…" Messi's voice steadied, that quiet authority slipping back in, "Bayern aren't a team to take lightly because of a couple of injuries. We'll still need to be at our absolute best just to scrape by."
Mateo's gaze lingered on him—something complicated in his own eyes now. His hands clenched briefly before he let them relax.
"Be prepared, Mateo," Messi added, his voice firm. "Don't take this game lightly at all."
....
While the Barcelona players broke into small bursts of celebration—slapping backs, sharing knowing grins—Koeman's voice cut through the noise, steady and deliberate as he tried to keep their feet on the ground. Still, there was a glint of relief in his eyes. He scanned the room and found his gaze drifting toward Messi and Mateo—his two biggest hitters.
Neither of them was smiling. That, to Koeman, was worth more than any cheer. Messi's expression was all focus, the same sharp alertness the veterans even in this situation also carried into the game. But it was Mateo who made Koeman's chest lift slightly—still a kid by age, yet wearing the same sharpened look. He'd expected to have to remind him not to underestimate the opposition. Unbeknown to him Messi's earlier words had sunk in deep Mateo who took Messi words as law Had a new air around him.
Koeman felt a swell of satisfaction. In his mind, Mateo had climbed to a new height, adding another layer to the already high regard Koeman held for him. Turning back toward the rest of the squad, he started drilling the key message into them—about pressure, about vigilance, about never letting their guard down. Words that, in the hours ahead, would prove themselves painfully prophetic.
Just a few feet away from the lively Barcelona locker room was another—larger, cleaner, and bathed in bright white light and bright red. But the difference wasn't just size or polish—it was in the air itself.
Unlike what many would expect, this was not where chaos lived. This was not where tempers flared or voices rose. The absence of Robert Lewandowski—arguably their heartbeat—should have left a hollow space, an edge of panic. But instead, it felt… eerie. Quiet. Controlled.
The Bayern locker room was almost unnaturally calm. Kit boys moved about with quiet efficiency, weaving between benches like parts of a well-oiled machine. Players dressed in near silence, each movement deliberate. It was less a locker room and more an assembly line, with each man knowing exactly what was expected of him.
If Lewandowski was the heart and engine of this Bayern machine, then the brain stood in the center now—Hansi Flick.
The sturdy, compactly built German coach let his eyes sweep across the room, measuring his men. Then a voice broke the quiet.
"I'm sorry, gaffer."
Flick turned his head toward the far end, where the source of the news sat—Robert Lewandowski himself. Flick's gaze flicked down to the striker's right leg, heavily wrapped, a reminder of the stupid, almost insultingly simple exercise gone wrong earlier that day. A misstep. A sprain.
For a fleeting moment, Flick wondered if this was a bad omen. A sign that luck had chosen a side tonight, and it wasn't his. But the thought passed quickly—he didn't put stock in omens.
In his thick German accent, he said, "It's fine, Robert. I want you court-side tonight. Help rally the fans. Make them believe."
Thomas Müller, sitting a few seats away, leaned forward with a grin. "Don't worry, Goalski. Just relax, get yourself ready for the next match. Leave this one to us." His tone was light, the kind of banter that barely masked its sincerity.
Flick let the exchange pass without a smile, eyes moving back to the full team. His voice cut in, calm but commanding.
"Yes, we are without Lewan. That means Choupo-Moting starts. That means our pressing lanes change. That means our rotations in the final third change. Everyone here knows their role."
He began ticking through names—Pedri, De Jong, Griezmann. He gave each one a few precise sentences, breaking down their patterns, their weaknesses. When he reached Messi, his tone didn't change—still calm, but every man in the room felt the weight of the name.
As he finished, something tugged at his memory. He paused, then thought, That's right… there's still one more problem.
Barcelona's wonder kid. Mateo. The brightest young star in Europe. Flick's eyes narrowed slightly. "For him," he said at last, "we stick to the plan. Are you still sure you're up to the task, Davies?"
He let the question hang for a moment.
Davies' grin cut through the tension like a blade. "Don't worry, gaffer." He tapped his temple twice. "I've got him measured already." Everyone had been focused on Lewan's absence that only few had seen the Canadian who was in doubt to play not just on the lineup but now starting.
Flick studied his young defender—the quiet certainty in his eyes, the relaxed set of his shoulders. No trace of doubt. Just readiness.
"Good." Flick's nod was barely perceptible. "Then show us."
A/N
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