"You caused this?"
Pedri's voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the low murmurs of the players in the dim-lit waiting lounge like a whistle before kickoff. His brows furrowed, eyes filled with confusion—and something else. Worry.
Mateo didn't even lift his head. He just sat there, shoulders low, phone glowing coldly in his hands as if it weighed more than any trophy he could ever hold.
Pedri, now visibly puzzled, moved closer.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, stepping right up beside him.
Mateo didn't answer.
No resistance. No reaction.
He just stayed there, motionless—except for his thumb, which had stopped scrolling.
Pedri hesitated. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached for the phone.
Mateo didn't fight it.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even blink.
He let it go.
That alone startled Pedri more than the words had.
This wasn't like Mateo. Not the Mateo he'd trained with, played with, laughed with. The kid who had just set the world on fire not even an hour ago.
Now he looked like a candle drowned in rain.
As Pedri took the phone, he heard it.
That voice.
So soft.
So low it barely counted as a whisper.
"It's my fault."
Mateo's voice cracked on the last word, like something inside him had finally started splintering.
Pedri's stomach turned.
He looked down at the screen, confusion rippling through him like a slow storm.
What the hell was he talking about?
He squinted at the top of the screen.
Twitter.
The search bar still active.
One word typed in: Mateo.
And then, as he scrolled, he saw it.
His eyes widened.
He leaned closer to the screen.
The tweet at the very top.
18,000 likes.
Thousands of reposts.
From an account called @CFC_Janty.
Pedri read it aloud, disbelief coloring every syllable:
"Mateo King's classless celebration is the spark that ignited this violence. You don't go taunting fans like that. That's how you get people hurt. No humility. No respect. And now fans are bleeding. Classless. #PSGBarça #UCL"
Pedri's face twisted.
His eyes narrowed.
And his lips curled with anger.
"How—"
He muttered it. Quiet. Furious. Staring down at the phone like it had just insulted him personally.
As Pedri finished reading the tweet, his voice suddenly burst out, raw and angry:
"What's this rubbish?"
The words snapped through the air like a firecracker, loud enough that a few heads around the lounge turned toward him for a second.
Still gripping Mateo's phone, Pedri's knuckles whitened as he looked back down at the glowing screen—then, slowly, turned his gaze toward Mateo.
The sight broke something in him.
Mateo still hadn't looked up. His head hung low, his posture crumpled. His hands were limp on his lap, like the energy had drained out of him completely. The kid who had lit up the world hours ago now looked like he couldn't face it.
Pedri turned his eyes back to the screen.
His thumb hovered for a second, then tapped into the tweet's comment section.
He braced for more anger.
What he found, at first, lifted him.
A flurry of support.
"Bro what are you on about? Blaming a CELEBRATION??"
"Janty you've posted some L takes but this might be the worst."
"Mateo's celebration was passion, not provocation. Stop making excuses for violence."
Pedri nodded, murmuring under his breath:
"Yes, exactly. How can they blame a celebration?"
His voice trembled with righteous confusion.
But then…
He scrolled further.
And suddenly the tone changed.
The deeper he went, the darker it got.
There were more replies now. Way more.
More faces. More names.
And their words were sharp. Acidic.
"17 and already no respect. Not surprised tbh."
"He knew what he was doing. You don't run up to the Ultras and do that."
"Did you see his Sevilla game? Bro's a crook in the making."
"Nah man, this kid's got an attitude problem. Talent is there but he needs to be humbled."
"How do you provoke an entire fanbase and then play victim?"
"This is how you get people hurt. That celebration was reckless. No class."
Pedri stared at the words. His face tightened.
His fingers stopped scrolling.
"It can't be..."
The words left his mouth like breath on cold glass.
His thumb trembled, swiping out of the thread, back to Mateo's home timeline.
He scrolled again—faster now.
And there it was.
Tweet after tweet.
From people he sorts of recognized.
@Trey7,
@TCRFootball,
@PSGINT,
@JayForUCL...
The same pattern.
Some offered defense:
"Mateo's just a kid with fire. Can't blame him for celebrating."
But most…
Most didn't.
They echoed the same accusations.
Disrespect. Recklessness. Arrogance.
Painting Mateo not as a breakout star, but as a villain. A troublemaker.
And Pedri just stood there, holding the phone, his mouth slightly parted in shock.
Eyes flicking from tweet to tweet.
Each one another punch to the gut.
The silence between him and Mateo grew heavier by the second.
Pedri kept scrolling.
His thumb moved fast, almost violently, through the screen. Line after line. Tweet after tweet. The vitriol was endless. Every swipe felt like a slap. Another blow. Another stranger pretending to know Mateo, judging him off a celebration.
His breathing grew louder. More erratic.
His lips curled.
And then finally—he couldn't hold it in.
"What the fuck is wrong with these people?" he blurted, the words exploding out of him like steam from a boiling kettle. His voice echoed across the room, drawing a few startled glances.
Then he paused—his heart still pounding—as his eyes flicked sideways.
Mateo was still seated, his head down, frozen. He hadn't reacted. Not even a flinch. His posture was slumped, shoulders dropped, eyes buried in the floor like they'd forgotten how to lift.
Pedri looked back at the screen, then back to Mateo.
His chest burned.
He shook his head slowly.
"Wait…" he said aloud, voice thick with disbelief.
"You don't… you don't actually believe this, do you?"
Mateo's head turned up slowly, like it was too heavy to lift. His eyes were glazed, tired, and dim.
"Hey… it's okay," Mateo said softly, trying to play it off. His voice was forced, a cracked whisper disguised as calm.
"Just give me the phone. Stop—"
But Pedri wasn't done.
He pulled the phone back, waving it slightly as he spoke.
"No, no. This?" he said, voice rising with fire. "This is garbage. They're just talking trash, Mateo. You didn't do anything wrong. You're not responsible for what those psychos outside are doing. They made their choices. You celebrated. That's all."
Mateo leaned forward, trying to reach for the phone again.
"Pedri—stop. It's not worth it, alright? Just stop."
But it was too late.
A voice cut into their space like a blade.
"What are you talking about, Pedri?"
The two of them froze.
Pedri's head turned sharply. Mateo's hand dropped.
And when they looked up—
The whole team was watching.
Scattered across the lounge—some seated, some leaning on tables, some halfway through conversations—all of them had gone quiet. All eyes were now locked on Pedri and Mateo.
Pedri's chest rose and fell, and for the first time, his fire dimmed.
Mateo, panicked, shot forward, finally yanking the phone from Pedri's hand.
He turned to the others, forcing out a hollow laugh, his smile trembling at the corners.
"It's nothing," he said quickly, waving his hand.
"Really, just a dumb thing. Don't worry."
But Pedri wouldn't let it go. Not now.
"It's not nothing," he muttered under his breath.
Mateo grabbed his arm, shaking his head—silently begging him to stop.
But Pedri just stared at him, eyes narrowing with confusion and frustration.
"Dude…" he whispered, voice barely audible.
"What are you hiding?"
Another voice rang out—one of their teammates.
"What are you guys mumbling about over there?"
The tension cracked.
Pedri turned toward the voice, took a breath, and then—
Mateo panicked.
"Wait—!"
But Pedri had already started speaking.
"It's online," Pedri finally said, turning toward the group.
His voice was firmer now, but his frustration still simmered beneath the surface.
"Some idiots are saying that Mateo's celebration caused this whole thing."
The words hit the air like a spark in dry grass.
Immediately, voices erupted from around the room—shocked, disbelieving, outraged.
"What?!"
"Who would say that?"
"That's bullshit, come on—"
"People are mad."
Pedri held his ground, nodding as he spoke, his face tight with emotion.
"Exactly! They just want someone to blame. It's easier than facing the truth. They don't want to admit what's really wrong—the actual people out there doing this. So they pick the youngest guy on the pitch and dump it all on him."
More voices piled in.
"That's how they are, man. It's the media. They always twist it."
"Don't pay attention, they're just hunting for clicks."
"Same thing they did to Fati last year after that Getafe game. It's always the young ones."
But just as a rhythm began to build—comfort, solidarity—
A voice cut through the pack.
Low. Calm. Measured.
"Well… I hope they don't think that celebration means anything other than pride."
Everyone turned their heads, eyes shifting across the room.
It was Marc-André ter Stegen.
Still in his undershirt, towel draped over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat. His expression wasn't angry. It was firm—protective.
"All that noise online? It's pathetic. The people saying Mateo's celebration started this—they don't know football."
Pedri, who'd been mid-sentence, blinked. Mateo looked up slowly, his eyes tired and red from staring too long at his phone. He wasn't expecting backup. Not now.
But ter Stegen kept going.
"He didn't provoke anyone. He did what anyone would do after a night like that. He scored a hat trick. In the Parc des Princes. In the Champions League. And instead of being praised, they're coming for him?" He scoffed, tossing the towel aside. "They just need someone to blame. That's all this is."
Jordi Alba, arms folded across his chest, nodded sharply. "Exactly. These people act like they've never lost before. I've seen players dance on our turf and we just walk off. You don't get to riot because a 17-year-old celebrated a goal."
More voices chimed in now.
"What the hell do they want him to do—apologize for playing well?"
"He's not the problem. The problem is those lunatics outside."
"This is about them, not us."
"They're embarrassed. Simple. And they're trying to throw it on a kid."
Mateo sat still, lips pressed tight, the phone still in his hand. The weight of the screen felt heavier than anything he'd ever carried. His stomach twisted. His chest was tight.
But then a hand slapped his back.
It was Araujo. "Don't let them get in your head, hermano," he said, firm. "We saw you. We were there. That wasn't provocation. That was pride."
"Pride in the badge," Busquets echoed from a corner. "They don't get to spin that."
Even Dest joined in, half-laughing. "Bro, I've seen worse celebrations at La Masia open days."
The room, once tense, had flipped. It wasn't confusion anymore. It was unity. Pure, unshakable support.
Pedri leaned closer to Mateo, voice soft now. "You hear that?" he said. "They've got your back. We have your back."
Mateo's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But something returned to his eyes—something just above the surface of defeat.
Then came a different voice.
Firm. Iconic.
"Alright then."
The voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
But when Lionel Messi spoke, everything stilled. Instinctively. Naturally.
He rose slowly, steady as always—composed, not shaken. Not a captain reacting, but leading. Like a mountain unmoved by the wind.
"Listen," he began, his eyes moving across the room—his brothers, tired, drained, but all still here.
"This night was supposed to be ours. A night of history. A night of magic. A night that people would remember for decades."
A few players nodded, their jaws tightening, still caught in the shock of it all.
"And now? They're trying to twist it. Poison it. Turn what we did… into something ugly."
He turned briefly to Mateo.
"They're trying to turn you into a villain."
Then, he stepped forward, just a little.
"But let me be very clear—"
His voice hardened, just for a moment.
"We will not let them take this night from us."
Silence.
"This win—this comeback—it belongs to us. Not the fans outside throwing bottles. Not the people behind screens who've never touched a Champions League pitch. Not the media desperate for a headline."
He looked around again, his voice rising—not in anger, but in defiance.
"This night belongs to Barcelona. To this team. To every player who fought. To every soul who bled on that pitch. And most of all—" he nodded at Mateo, "—to the boy who made the Parc des Princes his playground."
A beat.
"We protect our own. We speak truth. And the truth is, Mateo King played the game of his life. Anyone saying otherwise… is afraid."
Another beat. Heavy now—but with pride.
"We walk out of here as one. That's what Barça means. That's who we are."
Messi nodded. "We're all good, coach. Just… letting the dust settle."
Koeman offered a small smile. "Well, maybe this will lift things up. The PSG chairman just arranged some helicopters to get us to the airport. Fastest route out. Our plane's already waiting."
A beat passed.
Then a few chuckles.
And slowly, like the easing of a storm, the tension began to drift.
But one thing remained certain—Mateo King wasn't alone. Not in this room. Not in this club.
Not tonight.
The storm Mateo had seen brewing online was now a full-blown international spectacle.
BBC Sport released an emergency headline within the hour:
"Chaos in Paris: Celebration Sparks Riot Outside Parc des Princes."
An attached video clip showed fans charging down an alley near the stadium, Barcelona flags being torn apart, sirens wailing in the background. The caption below read: "What should've been a magical night of football spiraled into disgrace."
Sky Sports Football wasn't far behind. Their anchor's voice echoed across televisions and livestreams:
"Unbelievable scenes out of Paris tonight. Yes, Barcelona knocked out PSG in remarkable fashion, but the story isn't just on the pitch. Reports of assaults, arrests, and street violence—this is a dark chapter."
OneFootball posted a graphic with a brutal headline:
"From Miracle to Mayhem: How a Celebration Ignited a Riot."
The subtext below read: "Mateo King's defiant gesture after his hat trick has divided opinion across the footballing world."
Even legendary figures of the game joined the chorus.
Alan Shearer, on Match of the Day, shook his head slowly and said:
"This? This is not football. It's disgraceful. What happened in Paris should make everyone in the game reflect. The sport has no place for this kind of barbarism."
Thierry Henry tweeted:
"What happened in Paris tonight was shameful. Fans fight with passion, yes—but never with violence. Never."
Fabrizio Romano, ever the calm news source, posted a simple, serious thread:
"Paris Police confirm 9 arrests have been made. Four Barcelona fans have been taken to hospital. The situation is now under investigation. A curfew has been declared by the city mayor until further notice."
Even Neymar, recovering from injury and not even on the pitch that night, posted on his Instagram story:
"Football is not war. That was embarrassing from our fans. Get well soon to those hurt. Disgusted."
The backlash was as heavy as the smoke that still rose from some side streets in Paris.
Clips of the Collectif Ultras Paris storming down boulevards made headlines across the world—
Marca, L'Équipe, ESPN FC, even Al Jazeera Sports.
Then came politics.
The Mayor of Paris, Anne Hidalgo, took to the podium, addressing the nation with gravity in her voice.
"Tonight, we witnessed something that cannot be tolerated. I have ordered an emergency curfew around the Parc des Princes. This was supposed to be a celebration of sport—not a stain on our city."
But perhaps the most direct response came from Joan Laporta, deep into his campaign trail to regain presidency of FC Barcelona.
Standing in front of the press, he didn't hesitate:
"If I were president right now, this wouldn't have happened. Mateo, and all our players, would have had full protection. PSG failed to contain their fans. The responsibility is not with our club, and certainly not with a 17-year-old kid who just made football history. We stand behind Mateo. And we will never let our players be sacrificed for someone else's failure."
And all the while, the headlines kept rolling in.
"HERO TO TARGET – The Price of Mateo's Brilliance." – Bleacher Report
"Paris in Flames, Barcelona in Silence." – Mundo Deportivo
"Football's Darkest Night of the Season?" – The Athletic
"A Comeback for the Ages, Overshadowed by Violence." – CBS Sports
"Mateo King: From Legend to Lightning Rod." – The Guardian
What should've been one of the greatest night of their season, if not their careers, was poisoned.
The triumph turned into tension.
The glory buried under guilt.
The joy—erased.
The Barcelona players had landed safely at El Prat Airport in the dead of the night . No fans welcomed them. No confetti. No chants. No drums. Just media and chaos
They stepped off the plane not as conquerors, but as wanderers returning from war—
not because they lost the match… but because they had lost the moment.
It should have been a mighty day.
A day written in gold ink in the pages of Barça history.
A comeback that belonged beside Anfield. Beside Rome. Beside Paris, 2017.
But instead…
It became a day they would never forget for all the wrong reasons.
A day of hushed voices.
Of closed curtains on the bus.
Of fans bleeding in the streets.
Of Mateo, the boy wonder, being hunted by headlines.
They returned home with the victory in hand—
but a storm wrapped around it.
Outside El Prat Airport, Barcelona.
"Get this here—quick, please. No, not that bag. That one!"
The atmosphere was a controlled chaos.
Security personnel hurried back and forth, staff rushed to unload gear, and Barca media officials whispered to each other nervously. Even though no fans had gathered to welcome them back, tension still hung in the air like smoke after a fire. Cameras were off, but eyes were still watching.
Inside the team bus, parked near the private terminal, Mateo King sat quietly in his usual window seat. He hadn't moved since stepping off the plane. His hoodie was up, earphones in—but there was no music playing. His screen glowed in the dark, casting a pale light on his tired face.
He hadn't said a word during the flight.
Not to Messi, who patted his shoulder gently after takeoff.
Not to Koeman, who had knelt by his seat briefly, whispering, "You played like a warrior tonight."
Not even to Pedri, who had spent most of the journey beside him, trying to offer laughs, snacks, distraction—anything.
But Mateo had been locked in his own world, endlessly scrolling through headlines, tweets, and comments.
The match was over, but the noise hadn't stopped.
It had only gotten louder.
Now, back in Barcelona, the other players had begun stepping off the bus—some running into the arms of family members, others dragging luggage toward waiting cars.
Laughter could be heard, but it was cautious. The joy had cracks in it.
Mateo didn't move.
Still staring at his phone, his shoulders curled in as if trying to fold into himself.
Every word he read felt heavier.
Every headline felt like it was carved into his name.
"Dude, you're still on your phone?"
Pedri's voice cut through the silence like a whisper in a church.
Mateo blinked, looking up. Pedri stood at the aisle, backpack slung over one shoulder, coat half-zipped.
Mateo's voice came out low, almost flat:
"You're still here?"
Pedri smiled faintly. "My brother's waiting for me outside. I just came to grab something I left… but seeing you like this—"
He hesitated, eyes searching his friend's.
Then quietly, gently:
"Do you wanna come stay with us tonight? It's just us at home, and we've got the break tomorrow. No pressure, but—"
Mateo immediately shook his head, waving a hand. "No, no, I'm good. Really. The guys are waiting for me back at the dorm."
He forced a small smile, trying to make it convincing.
"I'll just get some sleep."
Pedri didn't buy it.
His eyes lingered a second too long, lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something else.
"…Hmm. Well, okay," he finally said. But his tone wasn't convinced.
He took a step backward, then stopped. Glanced over his shoulder.
Mateo gave him another tired smile—forced but polite.
A smile that said, "Go. I'll be fine."
Pedri nodded slowly, the tension in his jaw betraying his reluctance. Then he turned and left, stepping off the bus and disappearing into the quiet Barcelona night.
The smile on Mateo's face faded instantly, falling away like a mask cracking in two.
His gaze dropped right back to the screen.
Twitter.
Instagram.
Reddit.
Videos.
News panels.
Talk shows.
Newspapers.
Comments.
Messages.
Mentions.
Each one like a knife.
Each one making his chest feel tighter.
As the bus finally started moving, making its slow journey toward the dorms at La Masia, Mateo leaned his head against the cold glass. The night outside was quiet, but the storm inside him was deafening.
His stomach twisted like knots, breath shallow.
A pressure sat on his chest, heavy and unmoving. His fingers trembled as he scrolled, heart thudding in dull, dragging beats.
Every headline replayed itself in his mind like a horror movie on loop:
"Mateo King sparks chaos in Paris."
"Celebration or provocation?"
"Is this the cost of flair?"
"Barca star's immaturity leaves fans hospitalized."
"The dark side of a teenage prodigy."
Each notification felt like a curse.
Each share a scar.
He saw the same tweet again.
The one that had started it all.
The one that blamed him.
He read it again.
And again.
And again.
Until he couldn't take it anymore.
His eyes glassed over.
He shut his phone slowly… but the guilt didn't stop.
It didn't even slow down.
He clutched it tightly in his hand as he whispered to no one—his voice fragile, barely audible over the hum of the engine.
Despite the support from his teammates, despite Pedri's words and Messi's leadership—right now, the voices online felt louder. Harsher. More permanent.
And still, with the weight of it all pressing down on his chest, Mateo whispered:
"What have I done?"