"And we are live at the Parc des Princes! I'm Kate Abdo, your host for tonight—and can I just say… what an atmosphere."
Her voice was smooth, almost drowned out for a second by the roar of the stadium behind her. But even the cameras—perched high above the stands—seemed to tremble with the sheer energy vibrating in the Paris air.
"You can say that again, Kate," Jamie Carragher chimed in beside her, his Liverpool accent cutting through the noise. "Say what you will about Ligue 1—the lack of competition, the dominance of PSG, the low intensity week-in week-out—but what you cannot deny… is this."
He swept a hand out toward the home stand, where the Paris ultras had transformed their section into a burning inferno of color and chaos.
The screen panned to a massive tifo, unfurling down from the highest rows. It stretched the length of the stand—an image of a snarling tiger cloaked in blue and red, roaring into the heavens. Beneath it, black smoke curled from canisters, and red flames danced in rhythmic waves. Banners whipped violently. Voices surged like waves crashing on rock. A thousand flares burned with crimson heat.
"Look at that," Jamie said again, his voice rising over the chant of 'Allez Paris!' that thundered across the stadium. "This right here—this is what a Champions League night is meant to be."
"Better than Anfield, eh Jamie?" came the teasing jab from Micah Richards, grinning as he leaned over to nudge him.
"Oooh, no, no lad—let's not do too much now," Jamie shot back, eyebrows raised as the crew laughed around him. "Anfield nights are always something else… magical. But this? I'll admit—this isn't far off."
"You're right, Jamie," Thierry Henry added from his place beside them, nodding thoughtfully as he scanned the pitch. "This night… it has that feeling. You can just sense it in the air. Something magical's coming. I can't wait."
Kate smiled. "And not just you, Thierry. We're going to be joined pitch-side now with someone else who also seems like he really can't wait for this night to begin."
The camera cut down to the edge of the pitch. A murmur rippled across the stands—and then quickly swelled into a full-on cheer.
From the tunnel, Kylian Mbappé emerged, his PSG tracksuit gleaming under the stadium lights. Calm. Composed. Jaw clenched. Each step he took seemed like it carried thunder.
"Ooooh, Mbappé!" Micah shouted with a huge grin, clapping his hands together as he leaned into the feed mic.
Jamie chuckled. "Here he comes—the man of the hour."
Mbappé looked up, caught sight of Thierry Henry, and a small smile broke the seriousness on his face. He came over, arms open as he embraced the French legend warmly.
"Always Thierry, eh?" Micah teased, nudging Jamie again as they both laughed.
"Of course," Jamie smirked. "Legend recognises legend."
As the cameras pulled back just a little, all four stood near each other in loose formation—the host, the pundits, the star—and it felt less like a formal pre-match segment and more like old friends sharing a rare moment under sacred lights.
Tension. Respect. Anticipation.
The kind of energy that only comes before history is made.
Kate's voice softened slightly, her tone shifting from playful to curious as she turned to the young man standing beside Thierry.
"Kylian," she said, "just a little over an hour away from one of the biggest matches of the year. How do you feel?"
Mbappé, who had still been chatting casually in French with Henry—something light, probably about restaurants or old teammates—blinked as he caught the switch in language. He turned slightly toward her, a little caught off guard.
"Ehn?" he said, eyebrows raised.
"Oh no, Kate," Micah grinned, jumping in. "You've gotta speak French! You don't know if the man speaks English."
Kate laughed. "Come on, Micah."
"I happen to dabble in the language myself, actually," Micah added confidently, puffing out his chest.
"Oh, this should be good," Jamie muttered with a smirk.
Micah cleared his throat, adjusted his imaginary beret, and gave it his best shot. "Kylian, comment... eh... tu... jouez-vous le football avec... la baguette de la vitesse?"
There was a pause—silence.
Then Mbappé broke into laughter. Full, honest laughter, the kind that made his shoulders shake.
"It's fine, it's fine," he said, switching effortlessly to English. "I speak English, Micah."
Thierry Henry, eyes wide with mock disbelief, looked at Micah and said, "What was that?! 'The baguette of the speed'?!"
Jamie doubled over, laughing. "Bro's out here inventing languages."
Micah raised his hands in surrender, grinning. "Hey, I tried! Gotta give me points for effort!"
Kate was laughing too, but ever the professional, she gently steered the conversation back. "Alright, alright. Now that we've cleared the language barrier—Kylian, what I asked was: we're just about an hour from what many are calling one of the biggest matches of the year. We just wanted to hear from you—your thoughts, your feelings going into this."
Mbappé's smile lingered as he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. He gave a small nod, thoughtful.
"Well," he began, "we've already played the first part of this 'big matchup', haven't we? First leg. We won 4–1."
He shrugged, a subtle edge of cool confidence slipping into his voice—not disrespectful, but clearly aware of the scoreboard.
"So… we just go out there tonight, do what we did in the first leg, and win again," he said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "This isn't new. This is football."
There was a beat of silence, the kind that always follows a line that carries more weight than expected.
"Whew," Micah whistled, clearly impressed. "That's something."
Mbappé chuckled again, shaking his head. "We're two great teams. Two great squads. We've prepared, we've studied them, they've studied us. At the end of the day, it's still eleven against eleven. No pressure. It's a normal match."
Jamie leaned forward a little, grinning slyly. "Mmm… very diplomatic answer."
"Very," Kate echoed.
Micah smirked. "Okay, okay, how about giving us a little something spicy then, hmm? What about those comparisons—you and Mateo, eh? The media's already calling it the Battle of the Speedstars Flash Vs Sonic. How do you feel about that? The pressure, the rivalry, the headlines?"
Jamie and Micah leaned forward with gleaming eyes, barely hiding the mischief in their expressions.
"Come on, Kylian," Jamie said, nudging him. "Give us something. Just a little."
"Yeah, give the people what they want!" Micah added, clasping his hands dramatically like he was begging for gossip. "Don't let all this media hype go to waste."
Kate sighed theatrically and turned toward the camera, eyes wide with mock disapproval. "Oh my days, look at them," she said, gesturing toward the two like a frustrated teacher. "Jamie, Micah—stop stirring trouble!"
She turned to Thierry, pleading with her eyes for backup. "Come on, Thierry. Please. Talk some sense into them."
But Henry just raised his eyebrows, then chuckled. "I'm sorry, Kate—but I want to know too."
Kate gasped, hand to chest. "Wow! You too? Henry?!"
Henry grinned slyly. "And now I've been demoted to 'Henry'. Where's the love, Kate?"
Everyone laughed, the atmosphere light yet charged with the kind of tension that only comes when anticipation meets entertainment.
But Thierry wasn't just here to joke. His tone shifted, taking on the wisdom of a legend who had once danced on this very stage.
"You know," he began, "these questions matter—not because of the media, not because of the fans, but because footballers need to acknowledge each other. It's what pushes us. It's what brings out the best. Rivalries like these? They raise the level of the game."
Mbappé nodded slowly, absorbing the sentiment. But when he finally spoke, his tone returned to that well-worn diplomatic professionalism.
"Well… I can't really say much," he said with a shrug. "I don't know him personally. I've seen some clips, heard the name, but my job isn't to focus on other attackers."
He glanced toward the pitch, his gaze sharpening like a blade.
"My job is to score goals. So, I study the defense. Guys like Piqué… Lenglet. I focus on how to get past them, how to create space, how to help the team. That's where my mind is."
"Boooo!" Jamie groaned loudly, waving his hands as if casting a spell of disappointment. The others burst into laughter again.
"Another diplomatic answer!" Jamie shouted. "Come on, mate!"
"Okay, okay," Micah laughed, waving his arms. "What about this—just tell us, who's faster: you or Mateo?"
Mbappé paused for a beat, then smirked, a flash of that old swagger returning.
"I'm not sure," he said smoothly. "But if you want me to pick… let's just say I believe in myself enough to bet on me in a race."
"Oho!" Micah jumped on the moment. "Okay, okay! What about you versus Thierry, huh?"
Thierry raised a brow, grinning. "Oooh… careful now."
Just as laughter rippled again through the panel, the camera slowly began to pan out, pulling back from the playful banter and warm lights of the CBS crew. The moment was light—but outside that camera frame, something heavy, electric, and global was building.
Because while Mbappé laughed and the panel joked, the stadium—and the world—was catching fire.
For days, the media had been obsessed with this night. Headlines blazed across every screen and sports show:
Paris Saint-Germain vs. Barcelona. Mbappé vs. Mateo.
Every angle, every comparison, every statistic had been dissected. From fan pages to pundits, from locker rooms to lounges, the debate raged. Even famed journalists like Fabrizio Romano had tweeted out side-by-side comparisons of their teenage records, their UCL goals, their impact per minute.
Barcelona fans, passionate and proud, had taken on the world in defense of their boy. Across social media, arguments flooded timelines.
"Mateo is already better than 2018 World Cup Mbappé!"
"This kid has magic in his boots!"
Neutral fans scoffed, PSG ultras fought back, and the clash wasn't just between two teams—it had become a cultural collision.
The weight of it all—the tension, the noise, the passion—it didn't feel like a Round of 16.
It felt like the final.
And the fans… oh, the fans were ready.
Twitter was on fire. Not metaphorically. Literally, the servers felt like they were melting under the sheer weight of hot takes.
"Are people actually comparing Mateo to a World Cup winner like Mbappé?" tweeted Trey (@UTDTrey), his feed flooded with likes and laughing emojis. "Nah. This is insane. I need this guy humbled, this nigth."
On the other side of the battlefield, Bernesse (@BernesseBarca), ever the die-hard Blaugrana, had his cape ready. "Y'all keep forgetting about Ramatonda. Mateo isn't just a baller, he's the moment. No one's cooking like him right now, not even Kylian and with Messi back we are winning this thing."
And in the middle of the chaos, the Madridistas couldn't help themselves.
"Mbappé just confirmed he's faster than Mateo," tweeted MadridExtra (@MadridXtra). "Case closed. Who are these Barca fans fr?"
Comment after comment, the timeline exploded. Barca fans dug in deep, hyping up Mateo's recent performances, hammering home their 4-match goal spree, the return of Messi, and how PSG—apart from Mbappé—had been looking average at best.
"Y'all acting like the 4-1 first leg didn't happen," one neutral chimed in. "Where do these Barca fans get their audacity from?!"
Another clapped back instantly: "We've been balling lately. Messi is BACK. Mateo is HIM. What's PSG got? Mbappé and vibes."
The debate raged on.
Clips of the CBS interview were now trending across platforms.
One video titled "Mbappé vs Mateo: Who's Really Faster?" racked up 1.2 million views in just under 20 minutes. The comment section became its own warzone.
It wasn't just a match anymore. It was a culture war. A generational standoff.
And across the globe, the curiosity spread like wildfire.
Could Barcelona stage a comeback for the ages?
Or would PSG, powered by their newly crowned King, deliver a ruthless showing and end all hope?
Everyone wanted answers. Everyone tuned in. The world wasn't just watching.
It was breathing this match.
And that breath, that collective global inhale, reached all the way to a quiet, snowy corner of Switzerland.
Now, Switzerland was many things: a land of fine women in pressed wool coats, luxurious ski resorts tucked into cloud-kissed alps, and banks where the rich and morally questionable kept their secrets buried beneath polished marble.
But in football, Switzerland stood for one thing.
UEFA.
The headquarters of European football.
A tall, sleek building in Nyon sat beside a glistening lake, its minimalist glass exterior reflecting a world of power.
And inside—past polished hallways, tight-lipped secretaries, and security tighter than a World Cup final—lay a single office.
The door was thick. Soundproof. Stamped in silver: President of UEFA.
Inside, the room was sharp. Almost surgical. A pristine white desk. State-of-the-art monitors humming quietly. And at the very center of the room, encased in crystal glass, sat the one thing all twenty-two players in Paris were dreaming of.
This year's UEFA Champions League trophy.
But it wasn't the trophy that carried the weight of Europe in that room.
It was the man behind the desk.
Aleksander Čeferin.
The most powerful man in football.
Some people might believe the most powerful man in world football was the FIFA president. Others, perhaps more cynically, might argue it was the president of Real Madrid—pulling strings from the marble halls of the Bernabéu, shifting rules and referees like pawns on a chessboard.
But no. There was only one throne that sat above them all.
Aleksander Čeferin.
President of UEFA. Gatekeeper of the Champions League. Overseer of Europe's crown jewel and, by extension, the beating heart of global football. When it came to club competitions—eyeballs, sponsors, broadcast rights, stadiums roaring with billions of dollars—this man was king.
And now, in the hands of that king, was a flimsy piece of paper.
He looked down at it, then slowly turned to the man beside him—a UEFA executive in a finely cut grey suit, nervousness practically leaking from his collar. Čeferin's voice came out low, slow, and firm:
"Are these numbers real? Are they confirmed?"
The man gave a cautious nod, clearing his throat before speaking.
"Yes, sir. These are the early figures. Projections say it could almost double by halftime… if momentum keeps climbing."
Čeferin turned his eyes back to the page, and for a few seconds, he said nothing.
Just numbers. Lines. A simple title up top, in bold:
"Viewership Metrics: PSG vs Barcelona."
And beneath it—a staggering figure:
70.3 Million Live Viewers.
Before kickoff.
It was madness.
This was already more than the viewership of the last two Champions League final, already surpassing Liverpool vs. Tottenham. And this wasn't even the final. It wasn't even a semifinal. This was just a Round of 16 second leg… and yet, here it was. Numbers that made network execs salivate. Numbers that made billionaires pick up their phones and ask about ad slots. Numbers that turned a midweek football game into a global phenomenon.
Čeferin smiled slowly, devilishly.
He had seen the media doing their job—stirring the fire, pushing the narrative, selling the spectacle of Mateo vs Mbappé like it was Ali vs Tyson. A new face of football against a crown prince defending his throne.
And now? The reward was here. It was more than a match. It was theatre. It was war. And it was gold.
As his fingers tightened around the paper, crinkling it in his hand, his lips curved upward in a smirk.
"Monsters," he muttered under his breath. "We've created monsters This is Box office."
His knuckles turned white as he clenched the paper tighter—face half-shadowed, half-lit in the gleam of the massive UEFA box lights above him. The grin on his face was wicked.
Meanwhile, back inside the Parc des Princes, buried in the away team's locker room—
A boy, no longer just a boy, stood quietly. One of the main characters in this global storm. A boy-turned-symbol. Mateo King.
He sat still, tying his boots, the chaos of the outside world muffled behind layers of concrete and history. His heartbeat was calm. Steady. His world wasn't the noise. It was the pitch. The green. The moment.
A storm had gathered. A spectacle had been sold.
But to him?
It was still just a game. And it was time to play.
"Hey Mateo"
Next Chapter- Battle of the Speedsters
A/N
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