Meanwhile, back at the stadium, away from the roaring stands and the sea of fans, in a room even more luxurious than anything Mateo, La Masia friends, or teammates experienced from Mateos VIP box, the Champions League drama was being witnessed from the presidential box. Plush leather seats, polished wood panels, and sweeping views of the pitch set the scene, yet it wasn't the elegance or the opulence that defined the atmosphere in that room—it was the raw, unfiltered emotion of football.
The box was packed with executives from both clubs, sporting directors, financial officers, technical advisors, and some of the most powerful figures in world football. Names that alone carried entire leagues and transfers on their shoulders: directors from UEFA, FIFA officials quietly Leaving, legendary ex-players turned board members, influential agents, and a handful of media moguls who were also stepping out. One could expect such a room, with this kind of pedigree, to be solemn, measured, composed—dignified even—but the opposite was happening.
Shouts erupted. Chairs squeaked across the polished floors. Papers trembled. Phones were lifted, cameras raised, and hands clapped until knuckles turned white. Laughter, cries, and exclamations bounced off the walls. And at the center of it all, the beating heart of the chaos, was one man, front and center, belly shaking as he jumped up and down, fists pumping, voice cracking with excitement: Joan Laporta, president of FC Barcelona, screaming, "YES! LET'S GO!" as Mateo King found the net in the dying minutes.
Unlike many presidents or CEOs who might remain composed, a model of restraint in such high-stakes moments, Laporta was different. He didn't sit behind a desk issuing polite claps or carefully worded nods. He lived and breathed every second of his club, a fan first, a leader second. That undying passion, the reckless joy of a true supporter, had always been part of his persona. It was the reason that, despite the controversies, the questions, and the occasional lies, Barcelona fans adored him.
And in this moment, even in a room shared with the president of Bayern Munich, his today rival, Laporta did not hesitate. Nothing—neither protocol, nor diplomacy, nor the presence of titans of European football—could stop him from showing his uncontainable, undying support for his club.
"President! President!"
Ferran Reverter's voice cut through the buzz of the presidential box, repeating the call over and over, trying to get Laporta's attention. The CEO of FC Barcelona was tense, eyes darting across papers, but even he knew there was little hope of immediate compliance. Laporta was still celebrating, belly shaking (yes i love mentioning his belly), a wide grin spreading across his face as he relived every second of Mateo King's last-minute strike.
Ferran honestly believed that if Laporta were anywhere else—at home, in his private office, or even the club gym—he would have removed his shirt, thrown his arms wide, and roared as if he had personally scored the goal himself.
After what felt like an eternity, Laporta finally turned toward him. A still-enormous smile illuminated his face. "What a goal… did you see that? HA Ha We fucking struck gold with that kid" he exclaimed, his voice trembling slightly with excitement. He tried to share the moment, as if it could be contained, as if the joy could be passed along through words alone.
Ferran's eyes, however, were sharp, precise, signaling to the president that this was not the appropriate place for such theatrics. Every subtle flick of his gaze reminded Laporta that the room was filled with other club executives, UEFA delegates, and, most notably, Herbert Hainer, president of Bayern Munich, just a few meters away.
Laporta blinked. The reality of the setting hit him like a cold splash of water. In an instant, the aura around him shifted. The laughter and wild gesturing melted away. His chest straightened. His shoulders squared. The larger-than-life president who moments ago had been a fan first, a man possessed by sheer joy, instantly recalibrated into the composed figure expected of someone of his Caliber.
He let out a slight cough, a measured exhalation that seemed to release the last lingering tendrils of uncontained excitement. Slowly, deliberately, he buttoned his jacket, one hand at a time, as if each movement sealed away a piece of raw emotion.
A group of executives formed around him, almost as if by instinct: Ferran Reverter by his side, Deco, the new sporting director, not far behind, all moving with quiet authority, purposeful steps cutting through the residual energy of celebration. Their trajectory was clear—they were approaching another cluster of executives, all positioned behind Herbert Hainer.
Laporta entered with cool precision, his movements deliberate, his eyes scanning the room briefly before settling on Herbert. He stretched out a hand for a handshake, long fingers reaching across the space between them, the smallest hint of amusement still lurking in his expression.
Herbert's face betrayed a slight twitch, an imperceptible tightening of his jaw. His mind raced: 'Fat bastard, acting like you weren't just celebrating like a fool a minute ago…' But the external facade was immaculate. He forced a smile, extending his hand in return. "Yes… it was a great game," he said, firm, measured.
Herbert's tone was neutral, professional, but the next words betrayed admiration: "Congratulations. You were the better team tonight."
Laporta, sensing the subtle shift, replied with ease, a voice dipped in diplomacy: "A great match from two clubs that respect football."
Herbert's smile lingered for a heartbeat longer before it faltered, fading slightly as Laporta added: "I just hope we would both always continue to do right by the sport."
In that moment, Herbert's mind flashed instantly to the rumors of a so-called Super League well now he knew it wasn't rumors again, to the meetings, the speculation, the pressure, the power plays that had swirled through European football for months. 'The Super League thing again?' he thought, frowning slightly. Maybe cause both teams were facing each other Laporta had been a sort of solicitor to get Herbert or rather Bayern to join the idea, But He had done the calculations ran through scenarios, risks, and benefits: Bayern Munich was a pillar of the Bundesliga, a system that, despite criticism of it being a one-legged pony, allowed them to rest players, dominate domestically, and strike in the Champions League with precision. Abandoning that for a new, risk-laden venture, with no guaranteed trophies and a mountain of political backlash, was simply never worth it even if it meant more bucks.
And yet… in that split second of thought, Herbert's mind flicked to the last goal or rather to the one who had scored the goal. A subtle shift came over him. His previous caution, the calculations, and the doubts melted into something sharper, more potent.
He held Laporta's arm more firmly, a small but deliberate assertion of both camaraderie and negotiation. "Doing right by the sport sometimes requires the right exchanges to happen."
Every word carried weight. Every glance was measured. In that room, amidst the luxury, the history, and the power, two of European football's most intelligent minds were sparring—not with words alone, but with strategy, perception, and politics, each aware of the other's cunning, each testing the boundaries of conversation, each aware of what the other wanted and what they could control.
While at the top of the stadium, the beautiful sport had mingled seamlessly with the weight of politics below, yet the field itself felt like another world—pure, raw, and untouched by scheming, negotiations, or power plays. Here, there were no executives calculating margins or presidents weighing allegiances; here, there were only eleven players, a ball, and tens of thousands of voices united in love for the game. The air buzzed with energy, anticipation, and relief, a mixture of sweat, shouts, and the lingering adrenaline of a Classic Champions League thriller. Security had done their job well, calming the crowd or at least maintaining order, but in this section of the stadium, they were little more than silent observers.
The fans stood in the designated area, dancing, singing, waving scarves, and interacting with the players—pure joy mirrored in every movement. Mateo, Pedri, and a few others were fully immersed, while most of the senior players like Messi had their families with them, sharing quiet smiles, children clinging to their legs, partners whispering congratulations. Piqué, however, had joined the younger contingent, laughing, clapping, and encouraging the chants that echoed through the stands, a bridge between the stars and the fans.
At last, Mateo and Pedri stepped fully into the open section. Mateo had gotten his phone from a ball boy he tasked or better still asked with getting it for him, insisting he record the moment. He held it aloft, capturing the sea of shouting fans, the flags waving violently in rhythm, the bodies jumping in unison. Pedri did the same, holding his phone with both hands, eyes wide, overwhelmed.
"Dude… this is insane," Mateo breathed, voice barely audible over the chorus of fans.
Pedri, eyes glistening, nodded slowly, muttering in a soft, emotional tone: "Yeah…" His hands shook slightly as he filmed the celebration, trying to commit every moment to memory, knowing this was a memory he would never forget.
Suddenly, a staff member called their names. Both boys turned, the cameras and chanting fading slightly as their focus shifted.
"Mateo… Pedri," the staffer said, voice steady but urgent.
Mateo glanced over, still smiling, and asked casually, "Yeah… what happened?"
The staffer's tone remained neutral, almost detached: "We need you both to head to the touchline. The media are waiting for you. The gaffer is already there."
Mateo simply nodded, accustomed to being called for interviews, his joy tempered by routine. Pedri, however, froze. He blinked, pointed at himself in disbelief: "Wait… me too?"
The staffer nodded absentmindedly. "Yeah… it's almost compulsory for the man of the match to attend."
The moment seemed surreal. Pedri, just 18, had dominated a Champions League clash without even scoring, but his contributions were impossible to ignore. Two assists, 5 successful dribbles out of 8 attempts, 94% passing accuracy, 3 crucial interceptions, 2 blocks, 4 recoveries, and 3 crosses completed in threatening positions—each stat a testament to the control, intelligence, and composure he had shown across the pitch. Every movement, every decision, every ounce of energy had earned him the man of the match award and against Bayern who he had really really wanted to prove himself against he could feel the sorrows of that night last year finally washing away he really wasn't the little kid in las Palmas anymore.
Pedri and Mateo reached the touchline, standing side by side. Koeman was there too, presenting a small crystal trophy with the UCL logo. Pedri held it reverently, feeling a wave of immense joy, pride, and disbelief all at once—his first ever Champions League man of the match award. The media swarmed, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward, questions bouncing back and forth. Mateo answered with confidence, Pedri with humility, both reliving the match in detail, both smiling and laughing under the lights.
The process ran smoothly, almost ceremonially, until the last question came.
"Mateo, after a chaotic first half, a halftime that tested the team's mentality, a disallowed goal, a penalty awarded against you, and the constant pressure of Barça returning to the Champions League semifinals, how did you manage to stay composed, maintain your focus, and still deliver that last-minute goal to send Barcelona through?"
The Space buzzed with cameras clicking, microphones jostling, and reporters leaning forward, hungry for a reaction. Despite Koeman being present and Pedri having already won the man of the match award, Mateo bore the brunt of the questions. It was no accident or done out of favour or even due to his recent performances. Mateo had been in the spotlight relentlessly: his dazzling stats this season, his rumored friction with the national team captain which had not still left the Spanish media reports, and a recent interview where he spoke with a rare blend of confidence, bravado, sincerity and a little bit of arrogance had all combined to make him the story everyone wanted to dissect. The journalists weren't just curious—they were desperate. They wanted a juicy soundbite, a controversy, an angle, and most of all, they wanted the views which was why they used a roundabout way to ask about the referee's decisions.
Mateo listened, head slightly tilted, absorbing the question. He nodded calmly before responding with the poise of a seasoned professional.
"Honestly," he began, voice steady but warm, "our captain gave a speech at halftime that fired everyone up. He reminded us why we were here, why we fight for Barça, why every single moment matters. That's what kept me and the team focused, kept the belief alive. We trusted each other, trusted our game plan, and just had faith. That's what carried us through the match."
For a moment, the media staff exchanged disappointed glances, whispering among themselves. They had hoped for spicier content, something to dissect for days. Mateo as if sensing their expectations and smiled faintly, just enough to hint that he might give them more, but without straying from professionalism. He opened his mouth again, leaning slightly forward into the microphones.
"So even though we were down a player and they gained an extra one… we were destined to win this match, no matter what."
The room erupted with flashes and scribbles, reporters murmuring excitedly to each other. Smiles broke across some faces, a mixture of admiration and the thrill of capturing a statement that could trend worldwide. The subtle audacity of Mateo's comment—that he framed the game as if destiny itself favored Barça and the even more audacious one about them playing 10 v 12—was a moment the media couldn't ignore. It was exactly what they wanted what would make the headline writers drool.
Koeman, sensing the growing frenzy, stepped in smoothly. "Alright, that's enough for now," he said, his voice calm yet commanding. "We need to get moving. Thank you, everyone." He gestured for Mateo and Pedri to follow him, guiding the two young stars down the tunnel.
As they walked, Koeman's mind raced. He had considered lightly scolding Mateo for the "ten vs twelve" comment, but the truth was he felt a quiet vindication. The referee had made decisions that, in his own view, had been very questionable even downright cheating to him, and Mateo's words reflected a sentiment Koeman himself might have expressed—albeit with a little less restraint. He allowed himself a faint, knowing smile as he realized Mateo had captured exactly the frustration of the team and the moment.
While Koeman understood the rationale behind Mateo's statement, the rest of the world would not necessarily see it that way. The media personnel, broadcasting live, had no filter, and the statement would immediately ignite social feeds, discussions, and analyses across the globe. Back in the locker room, the Barça players continued their celebration, laughing, clapping, and reliving the last-minute drama. But elsewhere—bedrooms, offices, cafes, and screens around the world—Mateo's comments became another layer of the story, rivaling even the sheer thrill of his goal itself.
The timing was Insane. The insane trilling match, the last-minute strike, coupled with the "ten vs twelve" remark, meant that all focus shifted away from other matches, as everyone forgot about Chelsea vs Porto which had also happened that same day. Everyone was talking about Barça, about Mateo, about the audacity, the mental strength, and the sheer poetry of how the game had unfolded. His words, simple yet piercing, had captured the imagination of fans and neutrals alike, sparking debates, admiration, and sheer fascination over a match that would be remembered for years.
The ripple effect of Mateo's statement—combined with the electric atmosphere of the stadium, the media frenzy, and the global fan reaction—cemented this game as a defining moment in the Champions League, a testament to the resilience, belief, and genius of Barcelona's young stars.
A/N
Sorry the chapter is short the next one is going to be super long as the season is wrapping up and i want to show many reactions so i didn't want to overload it all
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