Battle of Speedsters (War on the pitch)

March 10, 2021

Parc des Princes – Champions League Round of 16

Paris Saint-Germain vs. FC Barcelona

"GOALLL! GOALLLLLLL!! MATEO KING!!"

Peter Drury's voice thundered through television sets around the world, already rising above the deafening noise of the Parc des Princes. "Eight seconds! Eight seconds into the game and the boy wonder—Mateo King—has lit the night on fire!"

Cameras zoomed in on the Barcelona number 36 as his teammates mobbed him, engulfing him in a frenzy of arms, shouts, and disbelief. The PSG players stood frozen, stunned, heads swiveling toward each other in dazed confusion. The ball was still nestled in the net, Keylor Navas hadn't even moved.

Drury, standing pitch-side, could barely contain the wonder in his voice. "Is this… the fastest goal in Champions League history, Jim? Eight seconds? Eight—surely, that has to be a record!"

There was a slight pause—then Jim Beglin, already staring at the live stat sheet handed to him by the UEFA technical desk, confirmed it with a grin slowly growing on his face.

"We've just gotten confirmation, Peter. It's official. Mateo King has broken the record." His voice held the weight of history. "This is now the fastest goal ever scored in the Champions League—breaking Roy Makaay's previous record of 10.12 seconds against Real Madrid in 2007."

Peter let out a breathless chuckle, unable to hide his awe. But Jim wasn't finished.

"And that's not all," he added, scanning the stats again, "with that finish, Mateo King has also become the youngest goal scorer in Champions League history— at 17 years and 19 days. That's younger than his own teammate, Ansu Fati, who scored at 17 years and 40 days in 2019."

Now the roar of the stadium was matched by the buzz of history being made—of numbers being rewritten in real time.

"And—yes, Peter—one more," Jim added, almost incredulously. "*That goal also makes him the youngest ever to score in a Champions League knockout round—*beating the long-standing record of Bojan Krkić. Three records. One goal. Eight seconds. That's not just clinical... that's terrifying efficiency."

"Terrifying indeed," Peter Drury echoed, eyes fixed on the pitch, his voice rising again, taking on the cadence of poetry.

"They told him the Champions League was different. They said this wasn't La Liga. That PSG wasn't Eibar. They said pressure would crush the boy. But under the lights, on the biggest stage of his life, with the world watching, he didn't tremble—he thundered."

He paused. The silence in his voice was reverence.

"At seventeen years of age, Mateo King has written himself into history. This... is a generational talent."

The commentary box sat in hushed awe for a moment, the weight of the moment settling in like fog. Below them, thousands of cameras were clicking in unison, millions of hearts racing, and somewhere in the social media shadows, TikTok editors were already chopping soundbites, whispering: this one will go viral.

Back on the pitch...

Mateo was buried beneath a heap of joy.

Hands ruffled his hair. Arms wrapped around his shoulders. Palms slapped his back with pride. Laughter, shouts, chaos—he couldn't even tell who was saying what at first.

"Broooooo!"

"What a bloody start!"

"You mad man, 8 seconds?!"

"Are you tryna kill them or what?!"

Alba was the first face he saw clearly, that trademark smirk etched across his stubbled face as he pulled Mateo into a half hug, patting his back hard.

"Kid, I thought you were quick, but that? That was teleportation!"

Pedri jumped on him from behind, arms draped around his shoulders like a scarf. "My boy's writing history books now. I better start collecting your autographs."

Sergiño Dest came with a fist bump and a wild grin, eyes wide in disbelief. "You're not real, Mateo. That's not human. Eight seconds? No, man. That's straight sorcery."

Even Busquets, usually so calm and composed, walked over chuckling. "Well, guess I can go home now. My man's already sealed the headlines."

The world was spinning in noise, celebration, and adrenaline—but then, from the corner of his vision, he saw the figure approach.

Lionel Messi.

The legend. The captain. The man Mateo had once watched on a tiny cracked screen in his old bedroom.

Messi strolled over, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Nice strike," he said simply, voice low but warm.

Mateo laughed, still breathing heavily, eyes alight. "That was your cross. Just insane. I barely had to touch it."

Messi let out a chuckle, nudging his arm. "Three more to go," he said, eyes gleaming now. "Let's go. Vamos."

Mateo nodded, heart still drumming like war inside his chest. "Vamos," he echoed, turning to jog back toward the half-line. His pulse was still high—but it wasn't from nerves anymore.

As he ran, he glanced up.

The PSG players were all watching him. Marquinhos. Verratti. Even Navas. Their eyes followed him like lasers—silent, alert, studying. He could see it clearly now: they had been caught cold. Barcelona had taken advantage of that brief moment of mental fog that happens when the whistle is still ringing in your ear. That moment had belonged to Mateo.

But it wouldn't happen again. No, not with this Paris side.

They'd be sharper. Tighter. Vicious.

He felt a smirk tug at the edge of his lips. He didn't expect it to be easy. Of course not. This was the Champions League. This was PSG. This was war.

"Well... game on, Paris."

He muttered it in his head, letting the fire simmer. His boots tapped against the pitch as he jogged past the center circle—and past a certain someone.

Mbappé.

Mateo hadn't even meant it with intention. His mind was still lingering on Messi's words—"Three more to go." So, as he passed Mbappé standing over the ball for kickoff, the words just slipped out:

"Three goals more, eh?"

He said it casually. A little breathless. Almost unaware.

But Mbappé heard it.

His head snapped toward the voice, brows furrowed. He turned and looked at Mateo—really looked at him. The 17-year-old still had that grin on his face, teeth showing, the fire of youth glowing in his eyes. He didn't look scared. He didn't look nervous.

He looked like a problem.

Mbappé clenched his jaw. The crowd around him faded for a second. The noise blurred into white static.

"Three goals, eh?" he muttered, voice low and laced with something sharp.

Bitterness.

Pride.

He looked forward now, setting the ball at his feet, hands on hips, his blood beginning to stir.

"Let's see who gets them first," he said under his breath.

His fingers twitched.

His eyes narrowed.

Game on.

And game on indeed.

Parc des Princes trembled beneath the weight of its own anticipation. Paris was lit, not by the Eiffel Tower, but by the feverish energy swarming the stadium. The night sky pulsed with the roar of tens of thousands. Smoke coiled through the air from flares, and banners waved like war standards. This wasn't just a game. It was war in silk.

Peter Drury's voice cut through the anticipation like a blade:

"And here we go again. The Champions League delivers us another tale... Barcelona, chasing ghosts. PSG, holding the blade."

"It's already manic, Peter," Jim Beglin said as the game kicked off. "Barca pressing high, PSG trying to settle—but it's chaos. Beautiful chaos."

From the first whistle, Barcelona didn't creep into the game—they stormed it Scoring a goal and now just outright dominating the game.

Messi dropped deep, picking the ball off Busquets, spinning away from Paredes like he was walking through fog. He directed traffic with the grace of a maestro, lifting his head once, then splitting PSG's midfield with a line-breaking ball that fell perfectly into Pedri's stride.

"Messi again," Drury said reverently. "The man who sees angles where others see shadows."

Pedri, nimble like a fox, played a one-two with Jordi Alba. A flick. A burst. A roar. Then—

Mateo King was through.

The stadium rose in panic. Keylor Navas rushed forward.

"This is it! This is TWO!" Jim shouted.

Mateo shaped his body. Took the shot—

And dragged it wide.

Silence. A breathless, brutal silence.

Mateo stood there, hands on his head, the white PSG net rippling gently in the wind. He could barely hear the voices around him—just the beating of his own heart.

Messi jogged over.

"Next one, don't worry more to come just be sharp" he said with a simple nod.

But that chance? That was a warning.

And Barcelona didn't let up.

Dest burst forward on the right, skinning Kurzawa with a quick cut inside. He laid it off to Busquets who sprayed it to Pedri. Pedri again to Messi.

One touch. Second touch. Backheel flick to Alba.

It was ballet in cleats.

Marquinhos barked orders, Gueye tracked runners, but the ball moved like a whisper. Every PSG player chasing a ghost.

"Barcelona are suffocating Paris," Drury said. "This isn't a team searching for a miracle—it's a team demanding it."

Mbappé barely touched the ball in the opening ten minutes. Icardi floated like a lifeless kite. Verratti tried to anchor the midfield but was being spun by a thousand passes. And Messi—

Messi was breathing.

He'd go central, drag Kimpembe, then drift right to bait Kurzawa. Every movement, every pause, every skip of his left foot, was poetry written in motion.

"Look at him, Jim," Drury whispered. "At 33, still conducting the storm."

And then, it came.

Minute 18. Alba whipped it across. A missed header from Kimpembe. The ball fell loose. Mateo didn't think. He lunged.

Thud.

Back of the net.

Barcelona 2 (Mateo scores)

One touch. One shot. One teenage boy, writing his name into history.

Mateo slid on his knees, fists clenched, eyes burning.

Peter Drury's voice cracked with awe:

"And it is the teenager again! Mateo King! The heir to the throne, the boy wonder who will not stop writing his legend! PSG sliced open again—and it is Barcelona, reborn!"

Jim Beglin let out a breath: "They are tearing Paris apart, Peter. It's not just a comeback—it's a storm. And the boy at the heart of it is setting fire to the night."

Game on. Again.

Mateo stood near the corner flag, his smile stretching wide as his teammates mobbed him again. He could barely hear their words—just fragments cutting through the noise.

"Insane, bro!" Dest shouted, yanking him in with both arms.

Pedri slapped his back, laughing breathlessly. "Man's on fire today!"

Even Umtiti jogged in, beaming as he patted Mateo on the head. "Keep doing that and they'll rename this stadium after you."

Mateo was grinning, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The air felt electric, like he was breathing lightning.

Behind him, the away section was shaking.

Barcelona fans, crammed into the corner of the stadium, were rioting with joy. Scarves were twirling in the air. Flags waved. Drums pounded. Smoke rose. They had come to Paris with hope, but now? Now they believed.

Their voices rang out loud and proud, chants rolling like thunder across the stadium.

But not everyone was celebrating.

Over at the center circle, PSG players were already lined up, furious.

Mbappé stormed over to the referee, eyes blazing. "That was offside," he said, motioning sharply. "Check it. VAR."

Marquinhos joined him, more measured but equally pressing. "Ref, come on. His position—check the lines."

The referee nodded, calm despite the heat. "Already checked. He was on. Goal stands. Let's restart."

Mbappé scoffed under his breath, backing up with his hands on his hips. He glanced over at his teammates, then up at the scoreboard.

PSG 0 – 2 FC BARCELONA

Minute: 18

He shook his head. Game on.

Meanwhile, back near the corner, the referee made his way toward the group of celebrating Barça players.

"Let's go, gentlemen," he called, motioning with his hand. "Restart!"

Mateo turned to him, still chuckling as he clapped hands with Alba. "We're coming, ref," he said, laughter bubbling from his throat.

Busquets jogged back first, followed by Pedri and Dest. Messi stayed just a second longer, wrapping his arm around Mateo's shoulders.

"Good finish," Leo whispered. "But keep your head. This game isn't over."

Mateo nodded, his heart still pounding. "Yeah. I know."

As they jogged back, the roar of the away fans surged once more—but now, a different sound began to swell.

The PSG ultras—Les Parisiens—answered back.

A wave of chants erupted from the opposite end of the stadium. Deep, defiant. Drums thundered. Flares sparked. They weren't backing down. Not yet.

"Allez Paris! Allez Paris! Lève-toi et combats!"

Their faith was unshaken. Their pride untouched. Their anthem rising like war cries into the night.

From the commentary box, Peter Drury's voice floated into the moment, velvet and sharp:

"Two goals down in the first 18 minutes, yet listen—just listen. The Parisians are not giving up. Still singing. Still roaring. Still standing behind their team. This… is football passion in its purest form."

Beside him, Jim Beglin added, voice rich with drama:

"And why would they give up, Peter? When you've got a weapon like Mbappé on the pitch—hope's not a luxury, it's a given. This game is still breathing. And PSG—PSG are still dangerous."

The whistle blew.

Kick-off again.

Mateo backed into position, eyes locked forward. The fire in the match hadn't dimmed—if anything, it was just getting started.

The kings of Paris had just been shaken.

Now, the giants were stirring.

The game had transformed into chaos. Beautiful chaos. Breathtaking football from both ends. This wasn't a tactical masterclass. No. This was war. This was pace. This was madness.

The battle of the speedsters had become a war of attrition.

Mateo King was lightning on the ball and off it. His movement, his hunger, his fearlessness — it was terrifying. The PSG Defence were scrambling, shouting for help. Kurzawa was drenched in sweat already, his legs trembling every time Mateo darted near the touchline.

On the other side, it was Kylian Mbappé.

Awakened.

He had been silent in the opening twenty minutes, but now? Now the beast was stirring. And when Mbappé stirred… the world stood still.

One touch. Then two. An explosion of pace. He blew past Pique like he wasn't even there.

"MBAPPÉ IS AWAY!!" Peter Drury shouted, rising from his seat.

Clément Lenglet rushed in, sliding with desperation, only for Mbappé to cut inside at full speed and rifle a shot — low and hard.

Ter Stegen.

World-class.

The German keeper read it, stretched at full length, and parried it out with the tip of his gloves.

"WORLD CLASS SAVE FROM MARC-ANDRÉ TER STEGEN!" Jim Beglin howled. "But Mbappé's cooking now, Peter. He's coming alive."

The camera caught Ronald Koeman on the sideline, barking instructions, face twisted in tension. On the other side, Mauricio Pochettino clapped his hands furiously, screaming at Verratti to get tighter to Messi.

Back and forth it went.

Jordi Alba was flying down the wing, overlapping Mateo, whipping in deadly crosses that had Kimpembe and Marquinhos on red alert.

Pedri danced in midfield, slipping through Verratti and Gueye like wind through leaves, feeding short passes to Messi, who dropped deep and orchestrated like a demigod.

Messi—always Messi.

Dropping between the lines, evading pressure, threading impossible passes. Every time he touched the ball, the entire stadium tensed like something magic was going to happen.

And it almost did.

Mateo cut inside, sprinting past Florenzi like a ghost. Messi, with a divine flick, sliced the defense with a no-look through ball.

Mateo was in.

The keeper—Navas—rushed out.

One-on-one.

Mateo tried to chip him—

It missed.

Inches.

Agonizingly wide.

He buried his hands in his hair.

"IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN THREE!" Peter Drury exclaimed. "Barcelona are burying PSG alive here!"

Jim Beglin added, "But make no mistake, Peter. At the other end, Barcelona's defenders are fighting for their lives. They're hanging on by fingernails."

Indeed, Umtiti had just thrown his body in front of an Icardi shot like a human wall. Dest had tracked back 50 yards just to stop Draxler from getting a cross in.

It was a war.

A war of attrition. A sprinting match. Chaos in its most beautiful form.

Up in the VIP Box — Parc des Princes, Executive Suite

The glass reflected the chaos on the pitch, but Nasser Al-Khelaifi — the PSG president — wasn't watching the game. Not really.

He was staring.

At one man no at.

One boy.

Mateo King.

The teenager was electric. Fearless. Efficient. Elegant. The confidence, the hunger, the execution — it wasn't normal.

Nasser stood silently, hands in his pockets, his sharp suit barely wrinkled, his jaw tight.

That kid… if I could put him and Mbappé together…

Champions League?

That would be the baseline.

This wasn't just about trophies anymore. This was about legacy.

He didn't realize he had spoken aloud.

"How much?" he said, almost to himself.

"Pardon, sir?" asked Leonardo, the PSG Sporting Director, standing beside him.

"How much?" Nasser repeated, voice firmer, eyes still locked on the pitch.

Leonardo followed his line of sight, squinting slightly, until he saw where the president was focused.

Mateo King.

His eyebrows lifted. "Mateo?"

"Yes," Nasser said. "How much?"

Leonardo exhaled slowly. "I don't think Barcelona would even consider it. Not now. and especially not after this."

"Everyone has a price," Nasser replied flatly.

"But sir," Leonardo argued, "why would they sell? He's homegrown. La Masia. He's their golden boy."

Nasser turned to him. Cool. Calm. "That's what they said about Neymar their next king right. Where is he now?"

It was the confidence of a man with a blank check.

The confidence of a man who already owned the two most expensive transfers in football history.

What was one more?

Before Leonardo could respond, another voice piped in—his assistant.

"Actually… sir, I don't think that'll be necessary."

Both men turned.

The assistant nodded toward his tablet. "He's still on a youth contract. He doesn't have a professional deal yet. If we move fast—if we act now…"

Nasser raised a brow. "We can sign him?"

"There's a window," the assistant said.

Nasser looked back down.

Mateo had just been fouled again. He was sitting on the turf, catching his breath, jersey clinging to his chest, sweat dripping down his chin.

But in Nasser's mind?

He was already in a PSG kit.

He could see it.

The red, the blue, the white accents.

The Prince of Paris.

Him and Mbappé…

He tapped his fingers against the armrest.

Then clenched his fist.

"Hmmm."

Back on the Pitch — 33rd Minute

Peter Drury's voice returned with the rising pace of the game. "There are days when football is poetry. This... this is one of those days."

Mbappé was slicing through again. He beat Umtiti for pace, then forced Ter Stegen into another save. Mateo answered with a sharp one-two with Pedri, racing down the left again and forcing Navas to punch out a low cross.

The midfield was a warzone — Verratti throwing himself into tackles, Busquets doing the same.

Both teams were on fire.

No defense could keep up. No formation could settle.

This was no longer a football match.

It was a duel of gods.

And the world was watching.

Parc des Princes – Minute 35

Clément Lenglet was smirking.

He had been slowly inching closer, every time Mbappé drifted into his zone. Whispering. Nipping. Getting under his skin.

And now, he leaned in again, a little too close.

"Our kid's faster than you," Lenglet muttered in French-accented Spanish, cocky and calm. "We train with him. Every day. You won't get past us. You can't. We've seen speed."

Mbappé didn't answer. Not a twitch. Not a flinch. His eyes remained on the ball, the game, the flow. Lenglet chuckled under his breath, emboldened.

"You don't understand me, do you? Bonjour," he added mockingly, laughing again, nudging Mbappé's back with his elbow.

Still, silence.

But inside, something stirred.

Mbappé's jaw flexed.

His lungs filled.

His pulse slowed—then snapped back with fire.

The moment came quickly.

A poor Barcelona pass. Busquets misread a press. Gueye intercepted.

One quick touch.

Verratti pinged it forward.

Mbappé's eyes lit up.

Now.

He darted.

The engine ignited.

The grass burned beneath his feet.

"¡Hablas demasiado!" he shouted—in fluent Spanish, snapping Lenglet's smirk in half.

(You talk too much.)

Lenglet's eyes widened.

Flashbacks.

From the first leg.

That pace.

That blur.

That destruction.

He was helpless then, and now—

Mbappé was gone.

He twisted between Alba and De Jong, slicing between two defenders with the grace of a shadow. The pass was perfect. Mbappé was in. The ball at his feet, the goal in sight.

Lenglet chased. But he knew.

He was drowning in a nightmare.

His legs screamed.

The stadium warped around him.

Mbappé cut inside the box.

Lenglet panicked.

Instinct took over.

A desperate hand reached out.

He grabbed Mbappé's shoulder, pulled hard.

Mbappé stumbled—collapsed.

PIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!

The whistle.

The referee blew with fury, arms pointing straight to the spot.

PENALTY!

The Parc des Princes detonated.

Peter Drury's voice cracked with tension, rising above the mayhem.

"AND THE REFEREE HAS GIVEN IT! MBAPPÉ STRIKES, AND LENGLET CRUMBLES! THE MOMENTUM HAS SHIFTED AGAIN—DRAMA IN PARIS!"

Jim Beglin followed hot.

"Lenglet couldn't live with it, Peter. Not this time. The Frenchman's legs gave out, and he knew it. You don't give a player like Mbappé that space. That speed… is otherworldly."

Mbappé stood up slowly.

He didn't look at the ref.

He didn't look at the fans.

He looked directly at Lenglet.

The Barca defender was frozen. Gasping. Knees bent. Mind replaying what just happened.

Mbappé pointed to the penalty spot, then turned away.

No smile.

No celebration.

Just a quiet fire.

A killer's calm.

The battle wasn't over.

It had just begun.

Paris out of nothing but pure individual Brillance had started their campaign back.

A/N

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