Battle of the Speedsters (The Prince who Never Became King)

"Hey, Mateo."

The voice floated in gently, like a whisper parting through noise. Mateo turned his head.

Standing before him, just a few feet away, was him. Lionel Messi.

There was no announcement. No dramatic entrance. Just quiet footsteps, and now… he was there.

Messi. The icon. The captain. The legend.

And yet, there was something disarmingly normal about him in that moment—hair neatly brushed, beard trimmed, training jacket zipped up halfway. He looked calm, almost amused, like this whole pre-match buzz didn't touch him. Like he was strolling into a Sunday pickup game.

He wore that small, half-lidded smile he always had when he was relaxed, and when he spoke, it was in that soft, raspy voice Mateo had grown up listening to in press rooms and interviews.

"You nervous?"

Mateo chuckled, a little too quickly. "Nope. Not at all," he said, lifting his chin slightly with pride.

Messi's smile didn't move, but his eyes drifted downward. Naturally, instinctively, Mateo followed the gaze.

His leg.

It was bouncing up and down rapidly.

Crap.

His eyes widened slightly as he caught himself. He immediately pressed his palm on his thigh, stopping the movement.

"Uh… that?" he said, half-laughing. "That's nothing."

'God, that's embarrassing…' he thought, looking away for a second, rubbing the back of his neck. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath.

Just last night, he had been calm—perfectly still on the hotel balcony, heart steady, mind confident, stats from the system humming like lullabies in his thoughts.

But now? Now they were inside the Parc des Princes. Floodlights humming. Energy sizzling through the concrete walls. The distant roars of the fans getting louder. This wasn't just any game. This was his first Champions League match.

A knockout match.

This was it.

And to make things worse—something had been bothering him all morning. A small voice at the back of his mind that wouldn't go away.

He hadn't received anything.

No system ping. No alert. No new sign-in, no skill unlock, no stat bump. Nothing.

He had trained here. Walked this pitch under sunlight. Slept, ate, breathed it for twenty-four hours. And still… silence.

'Had it stopped working?''Had it left me now that I'm actually getting good?''Was I… on my own?'

That small panic, cold and bitter, clung to the edges of his confidence.

Then—

"Hey. Hey." Messi's voice again. This time sharper. A bit firmer.

Mateo blinked. Messi was now crouched slightly, hand on Mateo's shoulder. He followed his gaze again.

Damn. His leg was bouncing again.

He clamped his hands over his thighs, trying to steady them, but Messi just shook his head with a chuckle.

"It's alright," he said. "Really. I get it."

He stood back up slowly, still smiling. "You want to know a secret?"

Mateo looked up, saying nothing.

"My first Champions League match? 2004. Against Shakhtar. I was seventeen too."

Mateo blinked, not surprised as a diehard Messi glazer and fan he knew that he was even sure millions of other people knew that, yet Messi said it was a secret if he was rude, he would have said ''the fuck are you on you autistic Goat" but he knew better than that.

"I came off the bench," Messi went on, "freezing night, Ukraine. I touched the ball like three times. We lost 2–0."

He grinned. "And let me tell you—I stunk. You?" He pointed gently at Mateo. "You're already ten times the player I was back then."

Mateo let out a dry laugh, leaning back slightly. "I… really don't know how that's supposed to help, plus ten times the player that's a lot" he muttered.

Messi laughed at that, softly but warmly.

"No, no," he said, shaking his head. "What I mean is—it's not about being perfect. It's not even about being ready. You never feel ready. It's about doing your part. Making it count. You have everything you need, Mateo. Just breathe. Trust yourself. And whatever you do…" he tapped Mateo lightly on the chest, right over his heart, "don't let this place make you smaller."

Mateo looked up at him for a long second. That fire, once flickering, was beginning to steady again.

Then Messi turned, starting to walk off—but just as he reached the tunnel entrance, he paused.

He glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh, and also…"

Mateo looked up, breath caught in his throat.

Messi stood tall above him, the soft stadium lights glowing around his outline like a halo. For a brief moment, he looked larger than life—more than just flesh and blood, more than just a footballer. He looked like a legend sculpted from light, a man who had become myth… standing there, real, right before him.

And then Messi said it, voice calm and grounded—but carrying with it the weight of everything he was.

"You have me. Don't worry."

There was no arrogance in his tone. Just quiet confidence. Unshakable belief. It was the first time Messi had ever said something like that aloud. Not a quote for the media. Not a line in a press conference. Just a truth, given directly to him.

Mateo's heart stirred. His nerves, which had been raging a storm inside him minutes ago, now slowly calmed. It was as if a heavy mist had lifted from his shoulders. His fingers uncurled from the fists they'd unconsciously formed. His breath came easier.

He blinked, and a smile curved at the corners of his mouth.

"Okay," he said softly. Then again, stronger this time. "Okay. Let's do this."

And then, it began.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a familiar voice echoed across television screens in hundreds of countries, "this is Peter Drury. And beside me today is the ever-excellent Jim Beglin."

The camera panned across the electric, crackling Parc des Princes. The fans in full volume, scarves twirling, chants colliding with flares and fire. History didn't wait—it breathed here. It lived here.

"What a match we have in store for you tonight," Peter continued, his tone wrapped in poetry. "Barcelona. Paris. Redemption. Belief. Youth versus experience. Fire versus fury. And—dare I say it—lightning against lightning."

Beglin chuckled. "You can bet your ass we do. Battle of the speedsters, eh? What a fitting name, I suppose."

"Indeed," Peter agreed. "Let's take a look at the lineups tonight. The Parisians—stacked and dangerous."

🧤 Goalkeeper: Keylor Navas🛡️ Defence: Alessandro Florenzi, Marquinhos (captain), Presnel Kimpembe, Layvin Kurzawa🧠 Midfield: Idrissa Gueye, Leandro Paredes, Marco Verratti⚽ Forwards: Julian Draxler, Mauro Icardi, Kylian Mbappé

"Fast. Technical. Ruthless in transitions," Beglin added. "Mbappé leading the line with that terrifying pace. And Icardi's always a threat inside the box."

"And for Barcelona," Peter said, voice dipping with curiosity, "a formation surprise tonight. Ronald Koeman throwing caution aside, adjusting the shape… perhaps chasing destiny."

🧤 Goalkeeper: Marc-André ter Stegen🛡️ Defence: Gerald Pique, Clément Lenglet, Frenkie de Jong, Samuel Umtiti🧭 Midfield/Wings: Sergiño Dest, Sergio Busquets, Pedri, Jordi Alba🎯 Forward: Mateo King🎩 Playmaker: Lionel Messi (captain)

"A 4-4-1-1," Beglin noted. "Something we haven't seen from them this season. It's experimental—almost risky. Messi just behind Mateo King. Youth and leadership. Imagination and instinct. They're betting big."

Peter Drury paused.

Then his voice returned—low, reverent, poetic.

"2017. The Camp Nou. The scoreboard read 4–0 after the first leg. PSG celebrated, Barcelona despaired. And yet… that night, they carved history in stone. A prince led the charge. Neymar da Silva Santos Junior. The orchestrator of a 6–1 miracle that redefined what was possible. La Remontada. A word reborn in the football lexicon.

But now…

The prince is gone.

He sits in the opposite dressing room, cloaked in enemy colors. The crown once his now floats above uncertain heads. And tonight, the Catalans—bruised, but unbroken—come once again in search of magic.

They are four goals down once more. (there is still away goals here so to win or even draw Barca needs to score 4 goals)

And the question looms… Can Barça write another chapter of miracles? Can a new prince rise?"

"Okay, gather up."

The voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade. Every Barça player on the pitch instinctively moved, closing in tight.

They made a circle—shoulder to shoulder, boots tapping nervously on pristine green grass. Mateo stood somewhere between Jordi Alba and Pedri, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

It was happening. The match was moments away. And though he'd been locked in from the outside, inside—everything felt like static.

His eyes darted for a second. No pop-up. No glowing blue box. No system prompt. Still.

Nothing.

He forced his gaze back up—this wasn't the time. Messi had stepped into the center of the huddle, eyes sweeping over every player like a captain scanning his ship before battle. Calm. Composed. But there was something else too… something fierce.

Messi looked present. Like the man had returned from wherever his mind had been these past few years.

He began to speak.

"Look… we all know what this is. It's not just a Champions League night. It's not just a game. It's the moment."

Every word hit heavy.

"This is about us. About who we are. They think it's done. They think it's already over. But we know the truth."

He looked up. Eyes locking with every teammate, one by one.

"We are Barcelona. And they're going to remember why."

A collective breath from the players. Tension, yes—but belief too.

Messi's voice dropped, lower now, but even more intense. "You stay calm. You trust each other. You fight for every ball. From the first whistle to the last."

Heads nodded. Hands clenched. The circle now a furnace of tension and resolve.

Then Messi turned. "Pedri. Mateo."

Both players snapped their heads up. "Yes!" they said in unison.

"You remember what we discussed yesterday? what we planned?"

"Yes!" again.

Messi nodded, stern. "Then do it. You set the tone. You strike first. Let them know this isn't over. Make them feel it. You run them into the ground."

Mateo nodded, swallowing hard, adrenaline rushing. Pedri grinned beside him, already bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Messi raised his voice now, to the whole circle.

"Make them feel every second. We push. Together. Until the very end."

And then the roar.

"VISCA BARÇA!"

"VISCA CATALUNYA!" the others shouted back, fists in the air, voices echoing across the tunnel.

The circle broke apart.

From a few meters behind, Sergio Busquets jogged into position, eyes trailing over to the little Argentine who was already turning away.

He muttered to himself, half-smiling.

"So I wasn't seeing things…" he said. "Messi's come back."

Barcelona had won the toss. Mateo stood at the halfway line, the ball set perfectly in front of him. The lights of the Parc des Princes flared around him. The world watching. His chest was heaving.

We can do this, he thought.

But God… the pressure.

He glanced to his left. Marquinhos. Steel in his eyes. Verratti further ahead, lips tight. And there—Mbappé, grinning in that cocky way, bouncing on his heels, already talking trash with Draxler.

Mateo turned to the crowd. The chaos. The noise. The French ultras were a wall of red and blue fire—chanting, waving scarves, setting flares into the air like it was a battlefield.

His fingers twitched. Sweat already on his forehead.

The match hadn't even started.

He wiped his brow.

And then it hit again—harder this time.

Why hasn't it shown up?

His system. The one thing that had helped him train, grow, dominate. The thing that had always shown up when he needed it most. Where was it now?

Where are you? he screamed inwardly. Come on…

The panic rose. Fast. The crowd melted into noise. The grass under his boots felt like paper. His heart galloped wildly.

This is not the time to fail me…

His breathing quickened.

What if it's gone? What if I've peaked already? What if—

Then he snapped his eyes shut.

No.

"Okay," he whispered to himself, teeth clenched, fingers twitching at his sides. "Okay. Fuck you. I don't need you. I'm good enough without it. I'll win this match. I'll own this match—with or without you."

And just as he finished thinking that—

DING!

The unmistakable sound.

Mateo's eyes widened like a child seeing magic for the first time.

"Finally," he muttered, relief flooding his entire body. "Thank you—"

He barely had time to process it before he burst out laughing—a sudden, wild, awkward laugh that made Pedri next to him glance over with a raised eyebrow.

Mateo shook his head, smiling like a man who'd just been rescued from the edge.

"Oh now you show up," he whispered, half-laughing again, "Right when I already gave up on you."

He rubbed his hands together, grinning.

"Alright then," he said under his breath. "Let's tear Paris apart."

Mateo's breath steadied.

Let me see what I got, he thought, heart pulsing but his hands now steady. The system screen pulsed softly in front of his eyes—a glowing light only he could see. His finger flicked through the stats, the abilities, the new upgrades like a boy unwrapping the present he'd been dreaming of for years.

Because for all the fear earlier—for all the doubt—it had been about this.

Mateo had been worried about this for weeks, if not longer. Not because of the match or the pressure or the opposition. But because there was something he wanted. Badly.

No—needed.

Paris Saint-Germain.One of the biggest clubs in modern football. A temple of stars. A place where some of the game's most brilliant artists had performed.

But of all the names etched into that grass, of all the banners unfurled in that stadium, there was one name—just one—that stood above all in Mateo's mind.

Neymar Júnior.

The Prince Who Never Became King.

The dribbler of dreams. The master of flair. The boy with the samba soul who danced through defenders like light through leaves. A man who had won it all—Champions League, Olympic gold, Club World Cup. A genius in his prime. One of the greatest to ever lace a pair of boots.

Mateo had idolized Messi growing up. He still did. Messi was his lighthouse. His anchor. His foundation.But—just like every kid playing barefoot on a street or in the rain-drenched backyards, deep down… everyone wanted to be Neymar.

They might love Messi. They might debate Ronaldo.But when it came to expression, to freedom, to that boyish joy of football—everyone wanted to be Neymar.

And Mateo?

He wanted to be Neymar, too.

He didn't just want to play. He wanted to dance. He wanted his football to sing like a Brazilian carnival.And now, as he looked at the new skill added to his system—his eyes widened.

[New Trait Acquired: Joga bonito of Neymar Jr.]

The flicks. The feints. The elasticos. The signature stepovers and shoulder drops. It was all there. The swagger. The rhythm. The magic.

Mateo's face broke into a wide, uncontrollable grin.

The worry, the delay in the system arrival—it all vanished. It didn't matter anymore. Because this… this was it.

He didn't just get an upgrade.

He got his dream.

He couldn't even be mad. All he could do was smile. Smile like a child who just touched the stars.

And not too far away, up in the stands—was the very source of that smile.

Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior.

The man himself. The enigma. The magician.

The camera cut to him—his figure sharp against the backdrop of roaring fans. A storm of blue and red flares crackled behind him, PSG faithful screaming at the sight of their star. Chants echoed, flares burned, flags waved in delirium.

Neymar stood there, hood low, a soft smile pulling at the edge of his lips as he raised a hand in acknowledgment.

But his eyes told a different story.

There was warmth in that gaze… but also weight.Was he here to support the team he now called home?Or… was he here in the stadium of a city that reminded him of everything he left behind?

The club where he was meant to be king.

He clapped once, smiling toward the fans—but even then, as the chants rang in his honor, his eyes flickered… downward.

Toward the pitch.

Toward one boy.

Mateo.

And though they hadn't spoken, hadn't even made eye contact yet—at that exact moment, Mateo's head tilted slightly. As if pulled by instinct. As if he knew.

A connection. Brief. Distant. But undeniable.

The prince in the stands.And the boy who had just inherited his crown.

The Parc des Princes was a cauldron of noise.

Flares crackled, chants roared, the air so charged it felt like it might burst. The cameras panned over waves of blue and red, fans on their feet, scarves raised like banners in battle.

They were all cheering.

All—except one.

Far from the electrified stadium, in a dimly lit studio apartment on the outskirts of Paris, a man sat hunched forward, eyes locked on his screen. His beard was patchy and thick, his PSG jersey tight around his chest, sleeves rolled up as if expecting a fight.

On the wall behind him were shelves lined with PSG scarves, Funko Pops, and a glaring neon sign that read:

"PSGINT - LIVE."

The man leaned into the mic, lips curling.

"See this rat? This pig?" he spat, pointing toward the TV feed where Neymar had just waved to the fans.

The chat lit up beside him.

user543: LMFAO PSGINT COOK HIM

lilMbappe_: here he goes again 😂

NeymarFan21: 😐 careful now

BarcaBackdoor: 🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀🐀

"Look at him," PSGINT continued, voice rising, "you can just tell—he wants to go back. Wants to hold hands and reunite with his little boyfriend Messi in Barcelona."

He shifted in his chair, eyes wide, voice turning mocking."What's he even doing here? Shouldn't he be back with his sister? Or did she finally block him on WhatsApp?" he added, snorting as he slapped the table and let out a loud laugh.

ChatUser07: bro chill 😭😭😭

NeymarSilva: oh noooo he's on one today

RatHunter: 💀💀💀💀💀

He leaned back, voice softening—only slightly.

"And chat—listen, it's not like I hate Neymar. I love him. Best player after Messi and Ronaldo. But come on… we have to be honest."

He leaned closer again, whispering like it was gospel.

"He's not one of us. He doesn't try anymore. We have to start building around Mbappé. That's our future. That's our king. I know we're in a bit of a downturn right now, but trust me—Mbappé will carry us out."

He reached for his water bottle, unscrewing the cap with a smirk. "Anyway. The game's starting now. Good. Get this match over with. Let's humble these Barça fans and that Mateo kid—fast."

He tilted the bottle to his lips just as Peter Drury's smooth voice echoed from the broadcast:

"—and we're off in Paris. Barcelona kicking from left to right Oo what's this what a pass oooo ooo…"

He took a long sip, nodding along—until—

"GOAL! GOAL! GOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!"

PSGINT choked.

He spat water in every direction, jerking back violently as the bottle slipped from his grip and hit the floor with a loud thunk. Water splashed up his hoodie and monitor, his throat still mid-cough as he doubled over.

"What—what the hell?!"

He coughed hard again, wiping his mouth as his wide eyes darted to the screen.

And froze.

On the TV, the camera was shaking from the noise of the stadium. Mateo was sprinting—arms wide, mouth open, screaming, "AHHHHHHH!" as he tore toward the Barça bench, teammates swarming him.

The stadium exploded.

Fans were screaming, flares fired, security tried and failed to hold the barrier line.

And then came the call:

"Just eight seconds! EIGHT! That's all it took! What a pass! What a move! Messi with the vision—Mateo with the magic! This is outrageous! This is history! Barcelona strike FIRST in Paris!"

"1-0 Barça! The Remontada is BACK! And it's led by the prince of the moment—Mateo King!"

PSGINT could only stare.

His eyes dimmed. His shoulders sagged. Water dripped from his chin.

"No. No, no, no," he muttered, still coughing, still stunned.

The game… had barely even started.

And Paris was already burning.

What the fuck just happened.

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A/N

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