King of Madrid

EUPHORIA.

That was the only word that could be used to describe the next few hours of Mateo King's life.

But before that, in the family area of the Wanda Metropolitano, on the Barcelona end of things, the pure raw emotions of the moment were still working themselves out.

"Honey. It's okay. It's okay, it's okay."

David King had his arm around his wife's shoulders. His big palm was making slow circles between her shoulder blades, the same circles he had been making on her back since the first time he had held her thirty years ago in a flat in north London when she had cried about something else entirely. He was speaking into the side of her hair.

"It's okay. He's okay. Everything's okay. Hey. Hey."

Isabella was bent forward in her seat with both her hands over her face.

Her shoulders were going.

She was making no sound, the way she only made no sound when she was crying very hard. The Barcelona pin on the collar of her jacket caught the floodlight from the field and threw a small dot of red across the back of her hand.

"Sí, querida. Yes, dear." Nora was on her other side now, her hand on Isabella's knee, her own eyes a little red. "Listen to him. This is a time for joy. This is a happy time. He did good, your boy. He did good."

Isabella lifted her head a little. Her mascara had run. Her nose was red. Her bottom lip was doing the thing it had been doing since she was a four-year-old in Madrid who could never hide what she was feeling.

"I know."

Her voice broke on the word.

"I know. I know. I'm. I'm happy. I just."

She sucked a breath in through her teeth. The breath caught.

"I just can't seem to. To stop the. The."

She laughed. The laugh came out wet and broken and turned into a small sob halfway through.

"The tears."

Her face went back into her hands.

Núria was watching her daughter from the seat in front, her old face lined and amused.

"Mira, mira," she said, in Catalan, loud enough to carry. "Look at her. Mira a la nena. Disgracing us in front of all these people."

"Yaya!"

Aina had been standing next to her grandmother. She turned now and slapped her grandmother's shoulder, a small affronted slap, her own eyes wet at the corners but already laughing.

"Yaya, no. Leave her alone. She is allowed."

"She is disgracing us, I am telling you, all these years I raised her to be a strong woman and look at her, look at her, she is crying like a—"

"Yaya."

"What? What did I say?"

Olivia was on the other side of Aina, her own eyes a little red, her own smile pulled wide, her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. She started laughing first. It came out small, the kind of laugh you let out when you cannot help yourself, and then it kept going.

Andrew, Mateo's uncle, who had been standing at the back of the row watching his sister-in-law fall apart, joined in next.

"Núria, leave her. Leave her. The boy just won the league. She is allowed to cry. I might cry."

"You? You are not going to cry."

"My brother is crying right now, Ma."

David did not deny it.

He kept his hand on Isabella's back and looked over his shoulder at his brother with a small wet smile.

"My eyes are sweating, that's all."

Núria made a face. "Mira. Mira. Look at the two of them. The English one and the Spanish one. Both of them. Wet. Wet."

She said it like the word "wet" was a moral failure.

The laughing was going around the row now. Aina had her hand over her mouth and her shoulders were shaking. Olivia had given up entirely and was wiping at her own face with the cuff of her hoodie. Nora was laughing into Isabella's shoulder. David was laughing with his eyes still wet and his hand still on his wife's back. Even Núria, who had been pretending to scold, broke first into a small dry chuckle and then into a proper laugh, her old shoulders bouncing under the shawl.

Isabella lifted her head again. Her face was a mess.

"Hahahaha."

It came out as a hiccup-laugh, the kind that does not quite know whether it is a laugh or a sob and decides to be both at once. She fished a tissue out of her sleeve and pressed it to one eye, then the other. The tissue came away black.

"Hahaha. Dios. Dios mío. Look at me."

"Hahaha."

"Look at me."

"Hahaha, querida, hahaha—"

"Hahaha—"

"You are a mess, Bella."

"Hahaha I know I know I know—"

She buried her face in David's shoulder. Her shoulders went up and down. She was laughing and crying at the same time and his hand kept making circles between her shoulder blades.

A few seats over, Antonella Roccuzzo was watching the King family come apart with the small private smile of a woman who had seen her own husband do exactly the same thing in his own family room ten years ago.

She turned to Shakira.

"Okay. Should we start heading down?"

"Ohh yeah. Yeah, yeah." Shakira was already standing, her smile wide. She had been on her phone, half-distracted, but her face lit up the second the question landed.

She turned to the cluster of kids on the carpeted floor in front of them.

"Boys! Boys, vamos. Let's go down. Let's go meet your father."

Antonella was already turning to her own three.

"Boys. Boys, let's go. Time to go see Papá."

The kids were spread out in a loose circle, and the second the word "Papá" landed they were moving. Thiago was up first, his hair stuck to his forehead from sweating. Mateo Messi, the middle one, was up next.

"I'M MATEO!"

He was running already.

"Did you see that goal, did you see the goal—"

"Me, I'm Messi!"

That was Milan, Shakira's older one, who had peeled off the carpet at speed.

"Eww." Mateo Messi pulled a face mid-run. "Why do you want to be my dad? And I'm Mateo, we already have the same name, it's me. I'm Mateo. Did you see that slide at the ending? That's how I play already."

"You don't slide tackle, idiot, you can barely run."

"Hey!"

"BOYS!"

Antonella's voice cut across them.

"BOYS. Stop. Walk. Walk like humans."

"Mami—"

"Walk."

The boys settled into something that was not quite walking but was no longer running. Ciro, the smallest, who could not have been more than two and a half, was trying to chase his older brothers with his little legs going as fast as they could go.

"I wanna be someone! I wanna be someone too!"

Shakira was laughing. She crouched and scooped Ciro up under the armpits.

"You can be someone, mi amor. You can be whoever you want."

"Mateo?"

"You can be Mateo if you want."

"NO!" Mateo Messi shouted from up ahead. "There's only one Mateo!"

Antonella was almost out of the family area when she heard the laughs from the King row behind her. Her head turned. She caught the shape of it — Isabella with her face in David's shoulder, Aina with her arm around her grandmother, Olivia wiping at her own eyes with her hoodie cuff — and she paused for half a second.

She turned back to Shakira.

"Wait. I'm coming. Just give me a second."

Shakira followed her line of sight. She smiled.

"Take your time."

Antonella turned to her brother-in-law, who had come up to help with the boys.

"Hermanito, can you take them down? I'll meet you all in a minute."

"Sure, sure. Vamos, boys."

"Wait, where's mami going—"

"She's coming, she's coming. Let's go see Papá."

Antonella started walking toward the King family.

Over in the King row, Andrew had stood up. He was straightening his jacket and looking around at his family with the small awkward expression of a man who is about to suggest something.

"So. Should we go down? Should we head down?"

Everybody looked at him.

"What?" he said. "What? Don't the family members of the players go down to celebrate with them? On the field?"

A small considering silence. Then Núria sat up straight.

"That is true. That is true, sí. We should go down. Vamos, vamos, why are we still sitting here?"

She started to push herself up out of her seat. Andrew was at her elbow immediately, his hand under her arm.

"Yaya, careful, careful, let me—"

"I am fine, I am fine. I am not dead yet. Move your hand."

"Yaya."

"Move it."

Nora was already standing. She turned toward Isabella, who was still half-curled against David, and started to come over.

"Mamá. Mamá, vamos. Vamos, we are going down."

She reached out to take Isabella's hand.

Isabella did not move at first. David's hand stayed on her shoulder. He gave her a small squeeze. She looked up at him.

She was smiling now. The mascara was still streaked but the face underneath it was hers again, the fiery Madrid face she had been wearing for forty-eight years, the face that could quiet a restaurant from the kitchen door and make a Premier League footballer apologise for tracking mud into the hallway. Her eyes were still wet but they were focused.

She gave one final wipe with the tissue, balled it up, and tucked it into her sleeve.

"I'm fine."

David nodded.

"I know you are."

He kept his hand on her back anyway.

"Hope I'm not disturbing."

Antonella's voice fell on the row from a step away.

Every head turned. Isabella's eyes went wide. She was up out of her seat in one motion, her hand going to her cheek to wipe at it again, her smile pulling wide as she came around to face Antonella.

"Antonella. Antonella. I am, I am sorry, I was just—"

Antonella laughed and reached out and put a hand on Isabella's forearm.

"Bella. Bella, it's fine. I know. I know."

The two women looked at each other for a beat. Both of their eyes had a film of something at the edges.

Isabella's smile pulled wider.

"I am a mess."

"You are a mess. But you are a beautiful mess."

David, behind Isabella, cleared his throat.

"Antonella. Hello. Is there—"

"Oh." Antonella turned to him. "Oh, yes, that's why I came over. A few of us, the wives and the kids, are heading down to the field to be with them. I just wanted to check if you all wanted to come with us."

Isabella's face lit up.

"Oh, yes. Yes. Yes, we were going down too. We were just. We were just."

She glanced at her husband.

"We were just getting up."

"Great." Antonella smiled. She hooked her arm through Isabella's own Isabella looked down at the linked arms, a little surprised, and then up at Antonella's face.

Antonella was already leaning in to murmur.

"And as for the tears, querida. Save some. We still have another one more in a few weeks."

Isabella laughed. It came out as another hiccup.

"Dios. Dios, you are right. Dios. I cannot do this again in two weeks. i would handle myself better then I wont cry."

"Ooh You will. You absolutely will."

"I will not."

"You will, trust me."

The two of them started walking toward the exit of the family area, arm in arm, Isabella still dabbing at her eye with the balled tissue from her sleeve and Antonella laughing into her shoulder. Behind them, the rest of the King family was filing out. Núria had Andrew on one arm and Nora on the other and was complaining loudly in Catalan about the speed of her grandson's escort. David was bringing up the rear with Aina, who had her hand on his elbow. Olivia was a step behind them, her hoodie pulled up over her hair, her eyes still red, her own private smile small and steady on her mouth.

They were going down to the field.

They were not the only ones planning to head down.

Over in another section of the Barcelona end, two men who had been watching the match from the away supporters' allocation were getting to their feet.

Philippe Coutinho was clapping his hands above his head. His Brazilian smile was wide and easy and a little disbelieving, the kind of smile he had not been wearing much in the last year of injuries and false starts and tabloid columns about whether he was finished.

"Mahn. MAHN. I cannot believe we just won the league."

He turned to the man next to him.

Ansu Fati was on his feet too, clapping, his eyes shining. He was leaner than he had been at the start of the season and there was still a slight favouring of the left leg when he shifted his weight, but he was upright and he was smiling.

"I know, mano. I know."

"This is, this is crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Pedri, what did Pedri just do?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

Coutinho looked at him properly.

"Hey. How is it?"

Ansu glanced down at his left leg. The brace was still on, hidden under his trousers, but he could feel it when he moved.

"It's better. It's much better. Just waiting for the full clearance from the doctors. Then I can join the team back in training."

"Same. Same." Coutinho's smile got wider. "I have an appointment with them tomorrow. Hopefully they let me back into the group sessions this week. Mahn." He shook his head. "Mahn. I cannot wait to get cleared. I cannot wait to join them for training for the next match."

His teeth were showing. The smile was full.

"Just playing in that team would be insane."

Ansu laughed. "I'd like that also, Phil."

As they went down the steps together.

... 

On the pitch, the referee was trying to get a football match restarted.

He had the ball at the centre circle. He had his arms out wide. He was waving the players back into shape and shouting at them to give him a few minutes to finish the job, because the laws of the game said this match was not yet over.

Neither team was interested.

The Barcelona players were not even pretending. Alba was at the centre circle with his hand on Roberto's shoulder, the two of them laughing about something. De Jong had his shirt half-untucked and was looking at the sky. Busquets had taken up his usual position in the middle of the park, but his arms were folded across his chest and he was talking to Pedri's empty space like Pedri was still there. Ter Stegen was in his goal scrolling through something nobody could see. Piqué had not even gone back to his own half; he was still by the away end, waving at fans.

The Atlético players were not pretending either.

Koke was walking with his hands on his hips, head down. Felix was slugging along with his shirt pulled half over his face, wiping at it. Lemar was just walking. Saúl had his arm across Trippier's shoulder and they were murmuring something to each other, two professionals in the back half of their careers giving each other a small private autopsy.

The referee did not care.

The referee was paid to start the game and finish the game by the laws of the federation, and he was going to do exactly that.

"Va, va. Vamos. Vamos. ¡VAMOS!"

He blew his whistle.

The ball moved.

Koke had it. Koke walked it sideways three yards. Lemar drifted across to receive a pass that did not arrive. Felix was nowhere in his shape. The Atlético attack was not so much an attack as five tired men politely walking the ball toward the Barcelona half so as not to give the referee an excuse to extend things any further.

Busquets stepped to Koke without urgency.

He nicked the ball off him with the toe of his boot.

He looked up.

He had it on the centre circle. He could pass it. He could move it. He could keep it. He could do any of a thousand things with the ball, the way Sergio Busquets had been doing any of a thousand things with the ball every Saturday for fourteen years now.

He looked toward the sideline.

The referee was looking at his watch.

Both teams were looking at the referee.

Sergio Busquets was looking at Sergio Busquets's watch, which was an invisible watch on his invisible wrist, and Sergio Busquets had decided that whatever was happening on his invisible watch was good enough for him.

PHEEET. PHEEET.

Two short sharp blasts on the whistle.

The match was over.

Busquets did not even hesitate.

His leg drew back and he caved the ball into the night sky.

The ball went up. It went up high. It went up beyond the lights of the stadium and into the black above them, spinning, the white panels catching the floodlight on the way up and disappearing somewhere into the darkness and not coming back down where anybody could see it.

Busquets had both his fists in the air.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

His face was unrecognisable. Sergio Busquets, the man with the marble face, the man who did not celebrate goals, the man whose teammates teased him for being unable to smile on camera, had both his arms straight up above his head and his mouth was open and a sound was coming out of him that nobody on that pitch had ever heard him make.

He turned in a slow circle with his fists still in the air.

Alba was running at him.

He grabbed Busquets from behind and lifted him clean off the ground.

"WE WON IT! WE WON IT! WE WON IT!"

"AHHHHHHHHHH!"

"PUT ME DOWN!"

"NEVER!"

The commentary was already going.

"And it is OFFICIAL. It is OFFICIAL, ladies and gentlemen. The referee has blown his final whistle. FC Barcelona are the champions of the 2020/21 La Liga season. I REPEAT. FC BARCELONA are the OFFICIAL champions of Spain. Look at this team. Look at this team. They have done it. They have done it the hard way. They have done it on the last matchday, away from home, against the team that wanted it as badly as they did. They have done it."

"Peter, I am running out of words. I am running out of words for this team and this match and these last twenty minutes."

"Then say nothing, Jim. Then say nothing. Just look at it. Just look at it."

Down the touchline, Diego Simeone was still standing where he had been standing for the last hour. His arms were down by his sides. His shoulders were dropped. His mouth was a flat line.

He could hear Koeman somewhere off to his left, screaming, the Dutchman's voice already shredded from the last twenty minutes.

He did not look at him.

He looked at the field for one more long second, at his men spread out across the grass in the slow shapes of defeat, at the Atlético home end where his fans were sitting in their seats with their heads in their hands, at the corner where the Barcelona players were piled on top of Busquets in the centre circle.

He turned.

He started walking toward the tunnel.

His assistants moved to follow him. One of them put a hand on his shoulder as he passed.

"Gaffer. Gaffer, we should—"

Simeone did not slow down.

The assistant let his hand drop.

Simeone knew what his job was right now. He knew his job was on the touchline, applauding his men off, accepting the handshake from the opposing manager, going around the home end to thank the fans who had stayed. He knew his job was to give a small dignified speech to the cameras in the tunnel. He knew his job was to be in the dressing room with the players and to find the right words for the youngest ones who would be crying.

He could not do any of that right now.

He needed a few minutes alone first.

A few minutes inside the cold concrete of a corridor where nobody was watching him, where he could let his face do what it wanted to do, where he could put his hand against a wall and lean his head against his own hand and breathe.

Then he would do the rest.

Then he would be the manager again.

But first, for five minutes, he would just be a man. a man who wanted to be by himself right now.

He walked into the mouth of the tunnel.

"HAHAHAHAHAHA—"

Mateo and Pedri had heard the final whistle from the dark of the tunnel and they had completely lost it again. They were leaning against each other, both of them bent slightly forward, Pedri's shirt still bunched in his fist between them. Pedri was wheezing. Mateo was laughing in the kind of helpless way that comes out of a body when too much has happened to it in too short a time and the only response left is hysteria.

"We did it. We did it. We did it."

"Hahahahaha I know, I know, I—"

"Hahahahaha—"

Then they heard footsteps.

Not the boots of a teammate. Not the squelching wet thump of studs on concrete. Something different. The dry clean clack of dress shoes on the tunnel floor.

Both their heads turned.

Diego Simeone was walking toward them.

His hands were at his sides. His face was flat. His eyes were on the floor a few feet in front of him.

Mateo and Pedri straightened up at the same time. Their laughing died.

Behind Simeone, two assistant coaches were trying to keep up. One of them had a clipboard. The other had a radio at his shoulder. Both of them were talking at the same time.

"Gaffer—"

"Gaffer, the cameras are—"

"Gaffer, we have to do the post-match—"

Simeone did not turn his head.

His pace did not change.

He walked past Mateo and Pedri with his eyes on the floor and did not look up.

He did not look at them.

He did not see them.

He was already somewhere else.

The assistants jogged after him, their voices fading down the corridor. Simeone kept walking. He turned a corner. He was gone.

Pedri watched the corner he had disappeared around for a long beat.

"Seems he's in a rush."

"Yeah."

Mateo said it quietly.

He was looking at the same corner.

Then more footsteps. The wet thump of studs this time.

The Atlético players had started coming down the tunnel.

They came in twos and threes. Some of them had towels around their necks. Some of them had their heads down. A few of them looked up as they passed the two Barcelona shirts standing by the wall.

Koke was first. He glanced sideways at Mateo. His face did something small and ugly for half a second.

He kept walking.

Lemar was next. He did not look up.

Felix walked past with his eyes locked on Mateo for the length of the pass, his mouth set in a flat line. He muttered something under his breath that nobody could quite hear but everybody could feel the shape of.

Mateo did not look back at him.

Saúl came past with both his hands in his hair. He glanced at Mateo. The glance was tired more than it was angry. He kept walking.

Giménez was after Saúl. He did not look at Mateo at all.

Trippier came past with his jersey in his hand. He nodded at Mateo. Just the small professional nod of an Englishman acknowledging another working man. Mateo nodded back.

Some of them muttered. Some of them said nothing. A couple of them glared. Mateo did not care for most of them. He let his eyes drift over them as they passed, his face neutral, his hands in his pockets, the smile gone from him for as long as he was watching this.

Then he saw the last man.

His breath caught.

Luis Suárez was at the back of the line.

He was walking slowly. His pace was slower than the others'. His shoulders were dropped. His head was not exactly down — it was angled forward, his eyes locked on the floor four feet in front of his own boots, the way a man looks at the floor when he does not want to be reminded that there is anything above the floor.

He was not crying. The crying had been done out on the pitch. His face was dry now and his face was empty.

Mateo could not stop looking.

He thought, for one second, of chapter 170, of the moment in the dressing room when Koke had been on his knees in the grass with both his hands on Suárez's shoulder, when Suárez had been curled up on his side with his arm across his face. He thought of the body of a man who had picked his corner three strides before the swing and not been allowed to take the swing.

He thought of his own studs going into Suárez's ankle.

His chest went a little heavy.

He waited for Suárez to look up.

He waited for Suárez to look at him.

Suárez did not look at him.

It was not that he turned his head away. It was not that he avoided the eye contact. It was that his eyes never came up off the floor in the first place. He walked past Mateo with his head angled forward and his eyes on the ground and his hands at his sides and he did not see Mateo at all.

He did not see anything.

He was somewhere down inside himself where nobody else could go.

He passed.

His steps went down the corridor.

He turned the corner Simeone had turned.

He was gone.

Mateo was still staring at the corner. His mouth was open a little. His eyes had a small wet film at the edges.

"Hey."

Pedri had tapped his shoulder.

"You good?"

Mateo took a breath. He turned his head slowly back to his friend.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

Pedri studied his face for half a second. Then his smile came back, small and warm.

"Okay then. Come on. Let's get out there before they come looking for us."

He bumped Mateo's shoulder with his own.

Mateo nodded.

The two of them started walking toward the mouth of the tunnel.

The light hit them.

The Wanda Metropolitano floodlights were on full power and the night sky was already going purple at its edges, the lights white and hard and enormous, and Mateo stepped out into them and felt his eyes water on instinct.

He stopped at the lip.

The pitch was in front of him.

The Atlético home end was emptying, but the Barcelona corner was still full. Three thousand fans in a tight block in the south corner of the second tier, all of them still on their feet, all of them screaming, the small block of away supporters wearing red and blue scarves and waving them and singing and crying and not leaving even though the players were halfway back to the centre circle.

He saw the team.

He saw all of them at once. The cluster of blue shirts down by the away end. Messi with his back to him, his arm around Roberto's shoulder. Piqué somewhere in there. Alba on Busquets's shoulders, his fist in the air. Ter Stegen sprinting at somebody with his arms out. Dembélé on his knees in the grass. Koeman somewhere in the middle of all of it, his hands in his hair.

He saw it.

He saw it.

We did it.

His chest went tight again. The wet was back at the corners of his eyes.

He was not crying. He was just full. The body of a seventeen-year-old can only hold so much in one night and his body was at the limit of what it could hold.

We won the league.

We actually won the league.

He let out a long breath.

He took a step forward.

His foot landed on the grass.

The grass was cold and the grass was solid and the grass was the grass of a stadium that he had just helped his team win a title in. He felt the give of it under his studs. He felt his own weight settle onto it.

He was on the field.

He was on the field as a champion of Spain.

He started walking.

"THERE YOU BOTH ARE!"

The voice came across the touchline like a man calling his sons home for dinner.

Mateo's head turned.

Koeman was coming at them at a half-jog, both his arms outstretched, his face crimson, his eyes shining, his voice already shredded.

"THERE YOU BOTH ARE! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? WHERE? WHERE? COME HERE! BOTH OF YOU! COME HERE!"

He was crossing the touchline at a run that was not quite a run, more of a barrel, his old body not quite remembering how to sprint anymore but giving him the closest approximation it could manage. Behind him, the assistant coaches were jogging, the kit men were jogging, even the team doctor was coming.

Koeman reached Pedri first. He grabbed Pedri's head with both his hands and pulled it down against his own shoulder.

"YOU. YOU. Jongen. JONGEN. What did you do. What did you do."

"Hahahaha—"

"What DID you DO!"

He shook Pedri once. He let him go. Pedri stumbled half a step back, laughing, his hand going up to fix his hair.

Then Koeman turned to Mateo.

His face did something.

The crimson was still on it. The wet was still at his eyes. But the shape of his face had gone different. It had gone soft.

He stepped to Mateo and stopped a foot in front of him.

He looked at him.

He looked at him properly.

"Hey."

Mateo looked back at him.

"Coach."

"You did good."

"Coach—"

"No. No, no, no. Hey. Look at me. LOOK at me."

Koeman's hand came up to the back of Mateo's neck. His big calloused palm pressed against the small wet hair there. He pulled Mateo's forehead against his own.

For a beat they just stood like that, foreheads pressed, eyes closed, both of them breathing.

Koeman's voice came lower, almost into Mateo's ear, where nobody else could hear it.

"I knew you could do it. I knew you could. From the moment I put you on against Huesca. I knew. I KNEW."

Mateo's eyes closed.

"Coach."

"I am so proud of you. So proud. You hear me? So proud. You went back, you made the choice, you took the card, you took ALL of it, you took it like a man, you took it like a CAPTAIN."

"Coach, please."

"I am proud of you, jongen. You are mine. You are mine. You hear me?"

Mateo's face was wet now. He did not try to hide it. He did not try to wipe it. He let it come.

His hand went up to grip the side of Koeman's jacket.

"Yes. Yes, coach."

"You are mine."

"Yes."

"This is just the begining we winning eveyrthing together"

Koeman shook him gently by the back of the neck, then leaned back and looked at him.

"Now."

He pointed.

"Wipe your face. Both of you. Both of you, eh? Because we have to go down there." He pointed at the away corner. "And we have to be men down there. We have to be men. Because there are three thousand people in that corner who waited ninety years for this and they want to see your face. Eh? They want to see your FACE. So go and show it to them."

He clapped Mateo on the cheek twice, lightly, the way a father claps a son's cheek when he is sending him off to do something important.

"Both of you. GO."

Pedri grabbed Mateo's elbow.

"Vamos, ma."

The two of them started walking toward the cluster at the away corner.

The praise started before they had even covered ten yards.

Lenglet got to them first, coming from the bench, his arms outstretched.

"PEDRIIII! MATEEEEEEO! MATEEEEEEO!"

"AHHHH!"

"YOU SLID. YOU SLID FOR THAT BALL. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING."

"I wasn't thinking, man—"

"YOU WERE NOT THINKING, AND YOU SAVED THE LEAGUE."

Dest was next, sliding in with a fist bump that turned into a hug.

"Bro. BRO. That tackle. Insane. Insane bro."

"You literally saved us, man." Iñaki Peña was clinging to Mateo's other shoulder. "You literally. Saved. Us."

"Mateo, dude—"

"He's something else, man. Seventeen years old and he's making decisions like that. Seventeen."

"What were you thinking on that slide?"

"He was thinking I'm going to stop the title from going, that's what he was thinking."

"Hahaha."

"Bro."

"Bro."

They reached the cluster. The whole team folded around them.

Pedri got picked up by Roberto and put down again. Mateo had his hair rubbed by four different hands at once. Somebody, probably Dembélé, smacked him on the shoulder so hard he stumbled. Araújo had his huge arm around Mateo's neck and was shouting something in Uruguayan Spanish that Mateo could not quite parse.

Then somebody at the back of the cluster shouted.

"COME ON! Let's move! Let's go to the field! The others are there!"

"Yeah, vamos!"

"VAMOS, VAMOS, LET'S GO!"

"Down to the corner! Come on!"

They started moving down the touchline as a unit, the whole team and the staff and the subs and the kit men, the cluster moving like a single organism toward the away end.

Some of the Atlético home fans were still in their seats.

A few of them saw Mateo.

The boos started up like an old engine.

"¡PUTO MOCOSO!"

"¡TRAMPOSO!"

"¡PEDAZO DE—"

The curses came down out of the south stand in a wave. A man in the front row was leaning so far over the barrier his security guard was holding him back by his belt. Somebody up higher threw a half-empty cup of beer that landed harmlessly twenty feet short of the touchline. The boos turned into a single low roar.

Pedri leaned in to Mateo's ear.

"Don't mind them. They are just—"

"I know."

Mateo cut him off, gently.

He was still smiling.

He pointed past them, toward the away end.

"There."

Pedri looked.

The Barcelona corner was already shaking in anticipation. They had seen the two boys coming. The three thousand fans were already up on their seats, already hoarse, already singing, already pumping their fists.

Mateo's smile got wider.

"There."

The two of them reached the away end with the rest of the team and the corner went off.

The Barcelona fans had been singing for an hour and they should have had no voices left and yet somehow, when Mateo and Pedri appeared, they found more.

"MA-TE-O! MA-TE-O! MA-TE-O!"

"PEDRIIII! PEDRIIII! PEDRIIII!"

"EL REY! EL REY! EL REY!"

They were chanting all three names at once, three blocks of the away corner picking up three different chants and rolling them on top of each other, the whole corner turning into a single wall of sound that did not care which name it was carrying.

A man in the front row, his Barcelona scarf wrapped around his face, was screaming at the top of his lungs.

"KOEMAN! KOEMAN I LOVE YOU!"

Koeman, who had been walking alongside Mateo, looked up at the stand.

His face went funny.

"What?"

"KOEMAN I LOVE YOU!"

"Who is this man?" Koeman was looking at the assistants. "Who is shouting at me?"

"Just wave at him, gaffer."

"What is he saying?"

"He LOVES you, gaffer."

"He what?"

"He LOVES you."

Koeman blinked. He looked back up at the man. He raised one hand, slowly, and gave a small uncertain wave. The man in the scarf threw both his fists up and started screaming again, this time something that sounded like it was in Catalan but might have just been a sound.

Somebody else, two rows behind, was leaning over the rail.

"PEDRI! PEDRI! YOU CHANGED MY LIFE TONIGHT! YOU CHANGED MY LIFE!"

Pedri turned. He found the man. He pointed at his own chest, then at the man, then at his own chest again, then back at the man. The man was crying. His face was completely wet. He was thirty years old, in a Barcelona kit from 2009 that he had bought at his first ever match, and he was crying at an eighteen-year-old because of a goal that the eighteen-year-old had scored ten minutes ago.

"YOU CHANGED MY LIFE, PEDRI!"

Pedri pressed both his palms together and tilted his head, the small gesture of thanks that does not have any other meaning. His eyes were wet again.

A woman, also in the front row, was screaming at Mateo.

"MI REY! MI REY!"

She was holding up a child. The child was maybe four. The child was wearing a Mateo King shirt with the number 7 on the back.

Mateo saw the child.

His whole face cracked open.

He walked to the barricade and reached up. The mother lowered the child toward him. He took the child's small hand and gave it a small kiss. The mother was sobbing. The child was looking at Mateo like Mateo had walked out of a story book.

"Hi, mi rey."

The child did not say anything. The child just stared.

Mateo smiled at the child for one long second. Then he winked. Then he stepped back. The mother pulled the child back over the rail and pressed her forehead against the top of the child's head and burst into a fresh round of crying.

Mateo turned away.

His own eyes were wet.

He let out a long breath.

The praise from the team was still rolling around him, the chants of his name still going, the players still in their cluster, the staff still trying to organise everybody for what was coming next.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

He turned.

Piqué.

Piqué was grinning at him. Piqué's eyes were red. Piqué had clearly been crying for about twenty minutes straight and had given up trying to hide it.

"Hermanito."

"Piqué."

Piqué pulled him into a hug. The kind of hug a big man gives a small man when the big man does not know what else to do with his body.

"I am taking you out tonight."

Mateo laughed into his shoulder.

"What?"

"I am taking you out. When we get back to Barcelona. There is this club, Otto Zutz, I am telling you, you have not lived until you have—"

"Geri, I'm a minor."

"Hahaha, you think anybody on Carrer Lincoln is going to ask you for ID tonight? You? You? El rey? Hahaha. Man. Man, you are a La Liga champion tonight, brother, nobody is going to stop you."

"Piqué—"

"NOBODY."

A voice came from behind Piqué's shoulder.

"Okay, okay. Enough teasing the boy."

Messi had walked up. His face was small and amused. He was looking at Piqué with the patient look of a captain who had heard this exact joke at the end of every league title for ten years.

"Leo, I'm just telling him—"

"It is still too early."

"Too early for what?"

Messi's smile did not change. He just looked at Mateo. There was something fond in the look. Mateo grinned back at him, his face still wet.

Alba arrived from the other side, his arm already going around Messi's shoulder.

"I just know this isn't coming from you, Leo. I just know it."

"Hahahahaha." Busquets had appeared somehow, his face flat in the way that meant he was about to deadpan. "Yeah, I remember the first time we won the UCL. I remember exactly how drunk you got, Leo."

"Busi—"

"Crawling. CRAWLING on the floor of the hotel."

"Sergio, please."

"On all fours, Mateo. Your captain. On all fours."

Mateo was laughing now, full body laughter, his shoulders shaking.

"Yeah, that didn't happen," Messi was saying.

"It did happen."

"It absolutely did happen, Leo. Antonella has a video. Antonella has a video on her phone right now."

"Hahahaha—"

"She does not."

"She does, Leo."

"I am going to kill all of you."

Alba leaned in across Messi's shoulder. He was grinning.

"Mateo. Mateo, listen. Don't mind these old men. Today is your day. You do what you want."

Mateo smiled. He looked at Alba. He looked at Piqué. He looked at Messi.

He shook his head slowly.

"Don't worry. It's not yet time."

The whole little cluster paused.

Mateo's smile got smaller. Knowing. Tighter.

"Let's wait for the UCL final at least."

A beat of silence. Then it broke.

"OOOOOOHHHHHHHH—"

"This kid—"

"THIS kid—"

"Hahahaha."

"Did you HEAR that?"

"He said FINAL."

"He said final, man."

"He said FINAL, GERI, did you HEAR?"

"I heard it. I heard it. I heard it loud and clear."

Piqué slapped Mateo on the back of the head, gentle, fond.

"Listen to this. Listen to him. Calling our shots. Calling our shots already."

Messi was still smiling. His head tilted to the side. He gave Mateo a long appraising look — the kind of captain's look Messi had been giving Mateo all season, the look that said I see you, kid, I see what you are doing.

"You think we are going to win it?"

Mateo did not break eye contact.

"I know we are."

Messi's smile got wider.

"Okay then. Okay, then."

He turned. He started walking back toward the centre circle, where the ceremony staff were already wheeling out the podium.

He glanced back over his shoulder at Mateo one last time.

"Final it is."

...

Mateo saw them before they saw him.

They were coming across the field from the tunnel side, Núria at the centre of it being steered by Andrew on one side and Nora on the other, David behind them with his hand on Isabella's back, Aina somewhere in the middle, Olivia at the back with her hood still up.

He saw them and something in his chest went loose.

"It's them."

He was already moving before he finished saying it.

He cut across the pitch at a half-jog, weaving between the ceremony crew rolling out the carpet and a knot of staff setting up the trophy table. He raised his hand above the crowd and his mother saw it first.

Her arm came up. She started waving.

He reached them.

The first thing he noticed was Antonella standing next to his mother, the two of them with their arms still linked the way they had been walking down from the family area. His mother's face was dry now and her eyes were lit up and she was already reaching for him.

"Mamá—"

"My boy."

She had him before he could finish the word, both her arms coming around his shoulders, her face going into the side of his neck.

"You were beautiful. You were beautiful tonight, mi amor."

"Mamá."

"You were. You were beautiful."

He held her for a beat. Then he stepped back and looked at Antonella, who was already smiling at him with the warm practical smile of a woman who had seen too many trophy nights to be anything but present.

"Mom?" He looked between them. "You two—"

"We kept each other company." Antonella patted Isabella's arm once, gently. "She is wonderful, your mother. You are very lucky."

"I know."

Isabella looked at Antonella and something passed between them, the small wordless thing of two women who have just decided they are going to be friends.

"Okay." Antonella leaned in and kissed Isabella once on each cheek. "I have to go find my husband. Grazie for everything, querida."

"Grazie to you." Isabella squeezed her hand. "Truly."

Antonella turned to Mateo.

"Great match." Her eyes were warm. "Great match, Mateo."

"Thank you."

Then the small bodies hit him from below.

Thiago was first, running full speed into Mateo's legs from the side. Mateo staggered half a step and caught him.

"MATEO! MATEO! When are you coming back to our house? You said you would come back! You said!"

"Hahaha—"

"When? WHEN?"

"Soon, soon. I promise. I'll come soon."

"Hmm okay then i would be expecting you—"

Mateo crouched to his level, laughing. He grabbed Thiago by the shoulders.

"I promise. Okay? I promise."

Thiago studied his face. Then he pointed at him.

"You better."

"Hahahaha."

Behind Thiago, Mateo Messi had appeared with his arms crossed and a look on his face that was very nearly his father's look.

"You slid for that ball at the end. That was cool."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm going to do that when I play."

"You are going to be a striker. Strikers don't slide tackle."

"I'll be a striker AND a defender."

"Hahahaha. Okay. Deal."

A hand came down on Mateo's shoulder from above. He looked up.

It was Messi's brother, Rodrigo. He was grinning.

"Great game, kid."

Mateo nodded at him. "Thank you."

Then from somewhere behind Matias, Messi's own voice cut through.

"Anto."

Everybody turned.

Messi was ten yards away, standing with his medal around his neck, his small frame looking even smaller with the trophy table behind him. He had one hand raised at his wife.

"Anto."

"Papá! PAPÁ!"

The Messi boys were already sprinting toward their father. Ciro, the smallest, was windmilling his arms trying to keep up with his brothers. Messi crouched and caught all three of them at once, his face cracking open into the full private smile he only ever wore for his children.

Mateo watched them for a second.

Then he turned back to his own family.

His father's hand came down on his head and rubbed it.

"There he is. There he is."

"Dad."

"Let me look at you. Let me look at you."

David held him by both shoulders and looked at him with the full appraising look of a father who has been watching from a distance all night and now finally has his son in front of him. His eyes were red at the edges. He was not going to mention that.

"You were insane out there, man." Andrew had appeared at his shoulder, his lawyer's face split open with something that looked nothing like a lawyer. "Genuinely insane. That slide at the end. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking."

"That's what I thought. Hahaha. You weren't thinking and you saved the whole thing. That's the most you move."

"Hahaha."

Nora was next, coming in from the side and wrapping both her arms around him before he had even seen her coming.

"Great match, kiddo." Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. "I am so happy for you. So happy."

Mateo nodded into the top of her head.

"I know."

She held on for a long beat. Then she stepped back and wiped at her own face with the back of her hand and cleared her throat.

"Okay. Okay. Go on."

Then Núria.

Núria had been standing slightly back, letting the others go first, which was not something Núria usually did. She was looking at him with an expression he had never seen on her face before. It was not the dry Catalan amusement she usually wore. It was not the scolding. It was not the pretend-disapproval.

It was just love.

Just open, undefended, old love.

Mateo looked at her and felt his chest tighten.

"Yaya. Are you okay?"

"I am more than okay, mi rey."

She reached up and put her hand on his cheek. Her palm was thin and warm and familiar. She pressed it against his face and held it there.

"I am more than okay."

He covered her hand with his own.

They stayed like that for a long second, the old woman and the boy, in the middle of the Wanda Metropolitano with three thousand people still singing around them.

Nobody said anything.

Nobody needed to.

Then Aina appeared at his elbow.

She looked at him.

She said: "Where is Pedri?"

She was already looking around him, craning her neck at the crowd on the pitch, the players and staff and family members and ceremony crew all blurring together in the floodlight.

Mateo stared at her.

"...Good to see you too, Aina."

"Where is he? I can't see him from here, there are too many people—"

"Hello to you as well. I am fine, thank you for asking. It was a difficult night but I pulled through—"

"Mateo."

"He's somewhere over there." He pointed vaguely at the cluster near the stage. "Probably with his brother."

"Okay." She was already moving.

"YOU'RE WELCOME."

She waved a hand at him without turning around.

He watched her go, shaking his head.

Then he looked to his left.

Olivia was standing a few yards away, slightly apart from the family cluster, her hands in the front pockets of her hoodie. The hood was down now. Her hair was loose. The stadium light was catching in it.

She was watching him.

When he looked at her she smiled.

Small. Just for him.

He felt something go quiet in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hey," she said.

They looked at each other for a beat.

He crossed the yard between them. He did not hug her this time. He just stood in front of her and they looked at each other in the way they had been looking at each other for nine months, the particular look that neither of them had a name for.

"You good?" he said.

"Yeah." Her smile got a little wider. "You?"

"Yeah."

"You were incredible tonight."

"Thank you."

"No, I mean—" She stopped. She looked at the pitch for a second. Then back at him. "Mateo. You were genuinely incredible. You looked so, just so dazzlingly tonight "

He laughed.

"Dazzlingly?"

"Yeah dazzlingly"

He nodded slowly saying "well i guess i would take it like that " as he started laughing as his family were watching the twos exchange as some teammates already started showing each other as they tapped themselves with one saying "We have to show pique this "

"Okay." He looked around at all of them — his mother, his father, his uncle, his aunt, his grandmother, Olivia. "Come on. Let me introduce you to the rest of the guys. The coaching staff too. Come on, come on."

He started moving, gesturing for them to follow, already looking for Koeman in the crowd.

In the away end, in the upper tier, in a section of seats that nobody was currently supposed to be standing in, Oriol Cerdà was standing up.

He had been on his feet for the last twenty minutes, singing with the Barcelona fans around him, his voice gone, his scarf above his head. He was wearing the same Barcelona shirt he had owned since 1992. Even though he ditched his family to watch it with the fans he had loved every single second of it.

He looked up at the big screen.

The big screen was showing the celebration on the pitch. The camera had found Mateo's family his family— David, Isabella, Núria, Aina — all of them clustered together near the halfway line.

Oriol squinted at the screen.

Then he stood up straighter.

"Ohhh. Oh. OH."

He was already moving. He started shuffling down the row past people's knees, apologising as he went, his scarf trailing behind him, already calculating how fast he could get down from the upper tier to the pitch.

He reached the stairwell. He went down two flights. He reached the ground level concourse. He found the gate.

There was a security guard at the gate.

The security guard held up a hand.

"Sir. Sir, this area is restricted. Authorised personnel only."

"I know, I know." Oriol pointed past him. "But I'm meant to be there. That's my family. That's my nephew, number 36, Mateo King."

The security guard looked at him.

He looked at the shirt.

He looked back at Oriol's face.

"Sir."

"I'm serious. I'm his uncle. I'm meant to be with the family. I just came from the wrong entrance."

The security guard turned to his colleague.

"Another one."

The colleague closed his eyes briefly. Then he pointed to a spot along the concourse wall where a small group of people were standing.

"Sir, if you'd like to identify yourself, please go and wait over there and we can—"

Oriol looked where the colleague was pointing.

There were six people standing against the wall. One of them was talking loudly about being De Jong's brother-in-law. Another was insisting she was Piqué's sister and had the wrong bag with her ID inside it. A third was explaining, at some length and with a detailed diagram drawn on a napkin, that Messi was his uncle's brother's sister-in-law's nephew's cousin's wife's aunt's daughter's fiancé, and therefore he was essentially family.

Oriol stared at them.

He stared at the man with the napkin for a long time.

His smile spoilt.

What the fuck

The Barcelona end stayed full.

The Atlético fans had gone mostly, the red and white seats showing in patches across the home stands, a few hundred stragglers sitting quietly or moving slowly toward the exits. The Barcelona corner was still packed, three thousand people who had not the slightest intention of going anywhere until the trophy had been lifted and the confetti had settled and the last Barcelona player had disappeared down the tunnel.

The ceremony crew had been fast. They always were. A stage had been erected at the centre circle, low and red-carpeted, with the federation banners hanging from either side. The trophy was on the table to one side under a cloth. The medals were already distributed. The microphone stand was already set.

And in the media room under the stand, Diego Simeone sat in a grey folding chair in front of a camera and gave the interview he had known he would have to give.

He looked collected. He had given himself his five minutes alone. They had been enough. Barely, but enough.

The interviewer had been going for a while. Standard questions. The season overall. The tactical adjustments. The Pedri goal. Simeone had answered all of them in the measured tone of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Then the interviewer leaned forward a little.

"Diego, toward the end of the second half — there was a moment where it seemed Luis Suárez was going to score what would have been a hat-trick goal. A decisive goal. A moment that would have changed the entire result of the night. And after the red card, we saw you exchange words with the player — Mateo King — and with Ronald Koeman. How do you view what happened? The tackle, the decision, all of it?"

Simeone nodded.

He was quiet for a second.

Then he said: "Honestly? I want to apologize."

The interviewer blinked.

The two camera operators in the room exchanged a quick glance.

"I want to apologize," Simeone said again, slower. "For the things I said on that touchline. Some of the things I said to that boy — they were not me. I said things in the heat of the moment that I am not proud of. And I want to say that publicly."

The interviewer recovered. "And the tackle itself? The challenge on Suárez?"

Simeone looked at the camera for a moment. His hands were folded in his lap.

"It's the game," he said. "I cannot be mad at that. That would make me a hypocrite. If I am honest — if I am completely honest — if I were in his position, if one of my players were in his position, I would want them to make the same decision. He did what was right for his team in that moment. He did what you have to do. And I will not lie." A small pause. "It was very respectable."

The question of Mateo's tackle on Suárez was the most popular talking point on every broadcast in four countries tonight. Simeone would not be the first or the last to be asked about it.

On the pitch, in front of a camera set up near the away end, Mateo was being asked about it right now.

He was standing with his family around him and he was laughing.

"Yeah, that's my family." He was pointing at them one by one for the camera, his family obliging with waves and smiles of varying embarrassment. "That's my mum, my dad, my uncle, my aunt, my grandma, my cousin."

"The whole family came out," the interviewer said, laughing.

Mateo shrugged, grinning.

"What can I say. I'm beloved."

His mother covered her face. His uncle pointed at him going "Hahahaha." His grandmother, who had not quite heard what he said, nodded along anyway.

The interviewer smiled. Then her expression shifted slightly.

"Mateo. We have to ask. The moment late in the game — the tackle on Suárez. In the moment, what was going through your mind. And do you have any regrets?"

Mateo's face changed a little.

Not much. Just a small shift. The grin eased down into something more considered. He looked at the ground for half a second.

"That's a tricky one," he said.

He thought for a moment.

"Luis Suárez is one of Barcelona's greatest ever players. He is. I grew up watching him. Everybody did. And what he did tonight — two goals, the fight he showed, the dignity — I have so much respect for that man. I genuinely do. And I am sorry that I had to do what I did to him. I am truly sorry for that."

He paused.

"But regret?"

His eyes moved. He looked past the camera for a second, out at the pitch. He could see his teammates celebrating with their families in clusters across the grass. He could see the Barcelona fans still in their corner, still singing. He could see his mother, who caught his eye and gave him the small nod she had been giving him since he was four years old. He could see Olivia, just slightly behind, watching him with her hands in her pockets.

He looked back at the camera.

"If you had asked me that question the moment I did it — when I was walking down that tunnel alone — I might not have had an answer for you. Honestly. I didn't know."

A beat.

"But now?"

His smile came back. Small, certain, real.

"I have zero regrets."

"Okay! Barcelona players, this way please! Medal ceremony in two minutes! All players to the stage! Two minutes!"

A federation staff member was moving through the crowd with a clipboard, directing people.

De Jong appeared at Mateo's elbow.

"Mateo. Let's go. They're calling us."

"Yeah." Mateo turned to the interviewer. "Sorry — I have to—"

"No, no, please." The interviewer was already waving him away, smiling. "Congratulations on the win. Congratulations on the title."

"Thank you." He shook her hand quickly. "Thank you very much."

He turned.

He looked at his family.

His mother was smiling at him. His father had his arm around her. Aina had reappeared from wherever she had gone, Pedri somewhere close behind her if the expression on her face was any indication. Olivia was watching him.

He gave them a small wave.

"I'll be back. Watch from here."

His mother pressed both her hands together under her chin and nodded at him.

He turned. He started walking toward the stage.

He was smiling.

The stadium was still singing. The confetti crew was ready at the sides. The podium lights were on. The trophy was under its cloth.

He was walking toward his first professional trophy ceremony.

He was smiling so wide it was starting to hurt.

Then it came.

[Congratulations.]

[You have successfully signed in at the Wanda Metropolitano.]

The panel held. Then it rippled.

[Special Sign-In Detected.]

[Condition: 2020/21 La Liga Champion.]

[Fulfilled.]

His chest stopped moving.

Another ripple.

[Special Sign-In Detected.]

[Condition: Consecutive victories over Real Madrid and Atlético Madrid within a single La Liga season.]

[Fulfilled.]

He had not blinked.

The panel rippled a final time. The letters came up one at a time, unhurried, the way the system always delivered what mattered most.

[In recognition of these conditions —]

[The Legacy Archive has been opened.]

He read it.

Then:

[Congratulations.]

[You have received a trait from Cristiano Ronaldo 'King of Madrid'.]

His mouth fell open.

The only thing that went through his head was 

FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKK