"It's finally time."
"Phew."
"You can do this."
In the Yeatman, Porto, one of the biggest hotels in the country, a five-star place a ten to fifteen minute drive from the stadium, inside one of the suite bathrooms, someone was going through what looked, for all the world, like a morning ritual.
"My heart is pounding."
He looked at himself in the mirror. The nerves were all over his face, plain as anything.
"The Champions League final."
He let out a long breath, reached down, cupped water in both hands, and splashed it over his face, trying to talk the nerves back down. He looked up into the mirror again, and he started talking to himself.
"You can do it. We can win. Yes."
He was hyping himself up now, pumping his fist by his side, small and tight.
"Yes. Yes."
He splashed his face again, pumped his fist once more.
"Let's do this."
"What are you doing?"
The voice came from the doorway, teasing, amused, definitely not impressed.
He jumped.
He spun round fast, and there she was. A teenage girl, sixteen or seventeen by the look of her, standing there with the specific weirded-out, slightly disgusted expression of somebody who had just walked in on something she had not expected to walk in on.
"I'm. I. I was just." He was stammering, caught completely flat-footed.
Then he caught himself, and the tone shifted.
"No. I'm the one asking the questions here. What are you doing here, young lady?"
The teenager started laughing.
"I came for."
She looked past him at the hair dryer sitting on the counter and pointed at it.
"That."
She crossed the bathroom to grab it.
"I forgot mine back home. Andrea said hers was in here."
She looked at him again, a smile spreading, delighted with herself.
"But seriously." She was already laughing. "What were you doing?"
He put a hand flat on her head and steered her toward the door.
"Okay. Out."
In the bedroom of the suite, a beautiful woman was on the phone, laughing.
"Are you serious? Ooh, I have to see this."
She listened, smiling.
"What time? Maybe you can video call me then." She thought about it. "Three? Yeah, I'm free then. Thierry's off doing some media appearances, and Téa's taking the kids out to see the city, so I'm free."
She kept talking, and then she heard it, laughter coming from the bathroom, and she smiled at the sound of it without even knowing what it was about.
"Hey, let me call you back."
She hung up just as the man and the teenage girl came out of the bathroom.
"No, but seriously." The girl was still going, grinning. "What were you doing in there? You are so weird."
"Young lady, I would."
"What are you two doing?"
Andrea Rajačić's voice came in over the top of both of them, a hint of amusement all through it.
The two of them turned to look at her.
"Why did you send this little brat in here to disturb me?" the man said.
Before Andrea could even answer, the girl beat her to it, rolling her eyes.
"I told you already. I went in there because I needed the hair dryer."
Andrea looked confused for a second.
"And why are you still in there?" She checked the clock. "Aren't you meant to be on your way to your appointment by now?"
She looked at him properly, and her face changed.
"And why is your suit wet?"
"What?"
Henry looked down and, sure enough, there were water spots dotted down the front of his jacket. From the sink. From splashing his own face.
"Shit."
He started trying to scrub at it with his hand, which did nothing at all.
Andrea reached over and pushed his hand out of the way.
"Leave it."
She grabbed a handkerchief off the bed and started dabbing at the spots properly, a little annoyed now.
"What were you doing that let water pour all over your suit?"
Henry opened his mouth to answer.
"He was talking to himself in the mirror," Téa said, mischievous, before he could get a word out.
Andrea looked up at him, weirded out.
Henry, seeing the look on both their faces, immediately started trying to justify himself, turning to Andrea specifically.
"Isn't it you who says talking to yourself is good for your positive encouragement, and all that mojo stuff?"
Andrea hit his arm, not hard.
"Hey. Language."
Téa was already laughing.
"Sorry, sorry," he muttered.
"But what did you even need encouragement for?" Téa said.
Henry drew himself up, righteous.
"Isn't it the match?"
Andrea looked at him.
"Why are you talking like you're the one playing?"
Téa gave him the same look.
"And isn't the match tomorrow?"
Henry looked at both of them.
"Well, yeah. But, you know."
Téa just rolled her eyes and started heading for the door.
"And this is all because of your second club. Imagine if it was Arsenal in a Champions League final. How much more insufferable would you be?"
"Arsenal will get there soon enough." He smiled. "And this is more than just Barcelona playing."
He grinned wider.
"It's also about Chelsea losing."
Andrea just shook her head. Her partner was a naturally calm man, day to day, easy to be around, but there was something about big matches, especially this fixture, that brought the child straight out of him.
She looked back down at the suit.
"The stain is still there."
A small wet patch, faint now but still there.
"It's water," Henry said. "It'll dry off. I need to get going, I'm meeting the guys at the stadium soon."
"Okay, dear."
Henry waved.
"Bye, babe."
And he went out.
"The ride you requested is waiting for you outside, Mr Henry."
Thierry Henry stood in the reception of the Yeatman in his suit, and the reception itself was beautiful, all warm stone and glass and low light, the kind of lobby that made you understand exactly why a room here cost what it cost.
He nodded.
"Thank you."
The receptionist gave a small bow of the head.
"Thank you for choosing the Yeatman."
He nodded again, took the car key from her, and headed for the door.
Being the biggest hotel closest to the stadium, the Yeatman had done extremely well out of this week. Plenty of celebrities had rooms here, Thierry among them, and the whole place had been fully booked for days.
He stepped outside.
And it was chaos.
Paparazzi. Journalists. Fans, plenty of them, all clustered by the entrance, and the moment he came through the door somebody spotted him and shouted his name, and the whole crowd surged.
"Let's go, Blues!"
"Thierry, Chelsea's about to get their second one, what's wrong with Arsenal?"
"Greatest club in London! Chelsea, Chelsea!"
The teasing came at him from every direction, half of it affectionate, half of it purely there to needle him, and the questions started firing before he had even fully cleared the doorway, cameras clicking, phones raised, a wall of noise closing in around him.
"You've played in Champions League finals yourself. What advice would you give the players before a game of this magnitude?"
"You've won the Champions League with Barcelona. What's the one emotion these players will be feeling tonight that fans never get to see?"
"Thomas Tuchel has built Chelsea into one of Europe's toughest defensive teams. If you were lining up against them tomorrow, where do you think you'd be able to hurt them?"
"If Barcelona lift the trophy tomorrow, where would this rank among the club's greatest Champions League triumphs, considering everything they've been through this season?"
"Thierry, who do you think has the edge tomorrow, Barcelona or Chelsea?"
He was completely used to this by now. With as many celebrities as stayed at this hotel, and with the Chelsea men's team themselves staying here too, it would have been strange if he hadn't been swarmed.
Henry ignored all of it, easy and smiling, and a valet came jogging up alongside him.
"Sir, your ride."
The questions and the cheers kept coming as they walked, and they reached the front of the hotel, where a black sedan was waiting. The valet opened the door and held the key out.
"Sir."
"Thank you," Henry said, taking the key from him.
He was about to get in.
Then he stopped.
He turned, looked out at the paparazzi and the sea of fans, most of them Chelsea, and he cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted, loud and delighted:
"VISCA BARÇA!"
The whole place detonated. Boos, heckles, groans, the paparazzi shouting questions even louder now, trying to catch the reaction on camera.
Henry was laughing the whole time. He climbed into the car still laughing, and pulled away.
"Pow, pow, pow."
Thierry Henry was having a wonderful time.
He was humming along to something on the radio, tapping the wheel, a little dance going in his seat, and he caught himself at a red light glancing out through the tinted glass at a group of four young lads spilling off a bus, laughing, shoving each other around, and it made him smile, the pure ordinary joy of it.
He looked around properly now. The banners. The football festival spilling down every street. People everywhere, all of it, radiating.
His smile got bigger.
The light changed to green. He kept singing, humming under it, and drove on.
Twelve minutes later, he pulled up at the stadium.
The Estádio do Dragão was a beast of a ground, by far the finest in the whole of Portugal and one of the very best in Europe, the home of Porto, one of the most recognised clubs on the continent, a genuine step below the top-five-league giants but not by much.
Right now, the Estádio do Dragão was more than alive.
The rest of the city had been buzzing with it all day, but the stadium itself was a different level entirely. Barça fans were already gathered in clusters, chanting, the songs rolling over each other. The whole area outside was split clean down the middle, red and blue on one side, blue and white on the other, and everywhere people were taking photos, filming, a small group somewhere had set up a five-a-side game using what looked like folded jackets for goalposts, and it was beautiful, all of it, the whole electric mess of a stadium the day before a match this size.
Henry drove slower than he needed to. Not only because the crowds were thick everywhere he looked, but because he was enjoying every second of looking at it.
He pulled into the drop-off area for cars, still taking it all in, his smile wide, and he was so busy looking around that he did not notice the security guard standing right outside his window, waiting.
The guard waited. And waited. And got steadily more annoyed, until finally he leaned in and started knocking on the glass.
"Sir. Sir. Sir."
Henry jumped.
He fumbled for the window switch fast.
"I'm sorry about that, I was."
The security guard, not even looking at him yet, eyes down on his clipboard, cut him off, clearly at the end of a long frustrating day.
"Identification and purpose for your visit, please."
"Yeah, yeah." Henry started patting himself down, checking his suit for his pass.
The guard, wanting to get through his last shred of patience, said it again.
"Sir. Your identification, please."
He looked up as he said it.
And froze.
He saw Thierry Henry sitting there rummaging through his own jacket, and his whole demeanour changed in half a second, a huge smile breaking across his face, every trace of frustration gone like it had never existed.
"Thierry Henry."
He said it stammering, barely getting the syllables out in order.
Henry looked up at that, turning to face him properly.
"Yeah."
He finally found his CBS lanyard tucked inside his jacket and pulled it out, smiling.
"Here we are, we're meant to have a."
Before he could finish, and while he was still trying to hand it over, the guard was already waving both hands, fawning.
"Oh, no, no, there's no issue, you don't need that."
He reached over and hit the button, and the barrier lifted.
"You can go right in, sir."
A fan through and through.
Henry, smiling, said his thanks and drove in. The guard was still standing there star struck, waving after the car, grinning ear to ear, saying goodbye about four more times than was strictly necessary.
Henry walked into the stadium, taking it in properly.
He had been here before, if he remembered right, back in 2006, when Arsenal had played Porto here. But that had been as a player, and back then he had barely been able to appreciate a stadium at all. The nerves before a match ate everything else. You did not see the place. You only saw the pitch and the tunnel and the clock.
Now he could look at it properly. And the Estádio do Dragão was every bit as beautiful inside as it was out.
Based on the group chat, he already knew exactly where he was headed.
The pitch.
The grass was being worked on, groundstaff moving up and down it with the careful, patient attention of men getting a stage ready for the biggest performance of the year. Off to one side, the CBS Sports crew had set up camp.
In front of the booth, which was still half assembled, two men, two halves of the CBS crew, were already there. Jamie Carragher and Micah Richards. And from the look of things, they were arguing.
"I'm telling you, I would seriously wipe the floor with you."
Micah was looking at Jamie dead on.
"I honestly don't even believe you could go around the bend, honestly."
"What?" Jamie said.
"Yeah."
"Are you serious right now?"
"Dude, I'm thirty-two years old. I would decimate you. There is no way you think you are faster than me."
The producers nearby were grinning, watching the two of them go at it. One of them glanced back at the camera operator.
"Please tell me you're getting this."
The camera guy just gave a thumbs up.
Jamie looked at Micah, smiling now.
"You know, if I were thirty-two, I would not be so keen to keep saying that, considering you're supposedly still meant to be playing professional football somewhere."
The producers and editors around them lost it.
"Oooooh."
The burn landed clean.
One of the producers grinned.
"Why don't you two put your money where your mouth is?"
Micah turned to Jamie, smug.
"What do you say, old man?"
Jamie laughed.
"You're on."
"Ooh, this is golden," one producer said.
Another shook his head. "I don't think they're going to let us use the actual pitch."
"We don't need it. We use the side, get everything set up, cameras and all."
While they were sorting it, Thierry Henry's voice cut in.
"What's going on here?"
The producers, Jamie, and Micah all turned to see him walking up.
One of the producers grinned wide.
"That's perfect. Thierry. Come be the ref."
...
While the CBS crew were getting into their usual antics, inside the same stadium, in the media room, the Barcelona representatives were sitting down for the pre-match press conference.
As for who those representatives were, it was not exactly a surprise. One was the head coach, Ronald Koeman. Another was Lionel Messi, the captain. And the third was Mateo King, the club's new superstar.
They were dressed the way you would expect. Koeman in club-branded sweatshirt and half-zip, comfortable, understated, the manager's uniform. Messi and Mateo were not much different, both in Barcelona training gear and jackets, the crest sitting on the chest of each of them.
Messi sat up straight at the table, the microphone held steady in one hand. Mateo sat leaned back a little beside him, arms crossed loosely, the mic resting in his right hand, half-forgotten.
The room in front of them was packed. Reporters shoulder to shoulder, press photographers with their cameras up, magazine writers scribbling, phones and recorders held out at every angle. The conference had been going for over thirty minutes now, and it was finally winding toward its close.
"Ronald, when you took over Barcelona after the eight-two defeat to Bayern, many believed the club had hit rock bottom. Tomorrow you have the chance to win the Champions League a season after that. How emotional has this journey been for you?"
Koeman, sitting in the middle, blinked, caught slightly off guard. For a long while now almost every question in this room had gone to Mateo or Messi. This was the first one aimed squarely at him in a good while.
He gathered himself quickly.
"Well." He nodded, thinking it through, and then let a small, real laugh out. "It's been a rollercoaster, honestly."
A beat.
"Such a big one."
He laughed properly at his own answer, and beside him Mateo was grinning, and the whole room went with it, a warm ripple of laughter through the reporters.
Then Koeman quieted, and he glanced sideways, first at Mateo, then at Messi, and his voice came down softer.
"But I guess you cannot really call it a miracle. Not with players like these."
He smiled as he said it.
Hands went up across the room, a wave of them, everyone trying to get in before the session closed.
Manuel Esteban, the Marca reporter who had spent most of this season needling Mateo, was among them, hand raised, trying his luck. But Koeman, Messi, and Mateo all knew exactly who he was, and with the final one day away, none of the three of them were in the mood to entertain whatever angle he was working. All three of them looked straight past his raised hand, again and again, until he was the only reporter left in the room who had not been called on.
Mateo pointed at someone else entirely.
"You."
The man stood.
"You're playing in your first Champions League final at just seventeen. Have the nerves kicked in yet? Also, Chelsea have one of the best defences in Europe. Do you enjoy that challenge? Also."
"That's more than one question," Mateo said.
The room broke into laughter, loud and easy.
Mateo was chuckling too.
"Well." He let out a breath. "To be honest." He smiled. "I guess I'm kind of nervous."
He looked around the room a moment.
"I mean, it's the Champions League final. Does it get bigger than this?"
He laughed, a little awkward, and the reporters laughed with him.
"But that's just it."
His face settled, the humour draining out of it, something steadier coming into its place.
"At the end of the day, I trust the coaching staff, I trust my teammates, and I trust myself."
His arms were still crossed, but his face had gone more serious now.
"I know exactly what we're capable of, and there is nothing that says we can't be Champions League champions tomorrow."
He paused.
"Our women's team already paved the way for us. They beat Chelsea's women's team in their own Champions League final."
He shrugged, a small smile coming back.
"Now it's our turn to continue what they started. And finish the work."
He smiled properly now, and the reporters smiled back, a few soft chuckles moving through the room.
Koeman pointed toward the front.
"You."
A woman stood.
"Messi. My question is for you."
Messi leaned forward slightly.
"Leo, in 2018 you stood before the Camp Nou crowd and promised to do everything you could to bring the Champions League back to Barcelona. Three years later, after the heartbreak of Anfield and Lisbon, you're finally back in a Champions League final. Does tomorrow feel like the opportunity you've been waiting for, and what emotions are running through you knowing you're just one match away from fulfilling that promise?"
The question landed and the room leaned with it. Phones pushed up higher. Recorders inched closer. This was the one they had all been waiting to ask.
Messi did not flinch. Over a decade of this had made him used to questions like this one. He brought the mic close and started, unhurried.
"Well."
He gathered himself.
"I remember that day very well. When I said those words, I meant them with all my heart. At this club, the Champions League is not just another trophy. It is something the fans dream about. Something we, as players, dream about every single season."
He closed his eyes for a moment, and nodded, slow.
"Yes. I remember."
He went on.
"The last few years have been very difficult. We had moments that hurt all of us. Anfield. Lisbon. Those are nights you never completely forget, because you know how much they hurt the supporters too. As captain, you feel that responsibility even more. You carry it with you every day."
He let a small pause sit.
"Tomorrow does not erase those moments."
Then his voice changed. It came up, and it came out with something behind it.
"But."
He looked up.
He looked at Koeman.
Then he looked at Mateo.
Mateo was already looking back at him.
Messi smiled.
Then he turned back to the room, and the smile that reached the reporters was wide and bright and completely unguarded.
"But tomorrow gives us an opportunity. An opportunity to write a different story. To give something back to the people who have stood by us through everything. That is what makes this final so special to me."
"I have been lucky enough to win this competition before. But this one. This one would be different. Not because of me. Because of everything this club has been through. Seeing the fans smile again. Seeing Barcelona back where it belongs, fighting for Europe. That would mean more to me than I could ever put into words."
"Now we are only one match away. We have worked so hard to get here. But getting here is not enough."
"Tomorrow, we have ninety minutes to fulfil a promise."
He held the room, every single eye on him, the whole space gone completely still.
"Tomorrow."
His voice came down low, and full, and absolutely certain.
"The promise will be fulfilled."
A/N
If you want to read chapters ahead with uploads and to support me subscribe to my Patreon below There is also a picture of how mateo looks like posted and later there would be votes and all on the site some you wont need to pay to vote but you can if you want to support me thanks
patreon.com/David_Adetola
Thank You your support is greatly appreciated thank you all
I've also created a Discord channel to make communication easier, where I'll post updates
https://discord.gg/ebrzh3Kyr (New discord link)