The glaze did not end with the unprofessionals.
It was everywhere.
The room was small and warm and lit low, the way these rooms always were now, a converted studio somewhere in Manchester with soft lamps and a scattering of framed shirts on the walls and three microphones on boom arms hanging over a low table. There were water bottles. There was a bowl of something nobody was eating. Two coaches sat off to the side of the main table, out of frame, nursing coffees, there to talk tactics in the back half of the show. Wayne Rooney was slouched in the corner of the sofa with a glass of water in his hand, one ankle crossed over his knee, half in the conversation and half just enjoying being in the room.
Rio Ferdinand was leaning forward across the table.
"No. No, I'm serious. I'm serious."
He was laughing as he said it, but his eyes were not laughing.
Wayne took a sip of his water and shook his head, smiling.
"You don't really mean that."
"Nah, I'm serious, man."
Wayne stopped. He looked at Rio for a second. He looked at his face properly, the smile still on his own mouth but slowing now, waiting for Rio to crack, waiting for the wind-up to land.
Rio did not crack.
Rio just looked back at him, dead level, dead serious.
Wayne's smile came back and he shook his head.
"Noo."
"Man, I get it." Rio put his hands up. "Trust me. I was an unbeliever also."
Wayne scoffed. He laughed into his glass.
"Unbeliever."
"Then I watched. Sideline. Two games. Against two of the biggest teams in the world." Rio ticked them off on his fingers. "Then."
"Then what?"
Rio spread his hands.
"Then I believed."
They both cracked. Wayne threw his head back on the sofa laughing, Rio dropping back into his own chair, the two of them going for a good few seconds, the "hahahaha" rolling round the small warm room, one of the coaches off to the side chuckling into his coffee.
Rio got himself back first. He wiped at his eye.
"Dude. I'm serious though. Wait." He pointed at Wayne. "You don't think he's the best player right now in world football?"
Wayne, who had just taken another sip, nearly dropped the glass. He caught it, laughing, water going over the rim onto his hand.
"Well. Unlike you, I haven't had the pleasure of watching him live, so I—"
Rio just looked at him.
Wayne wiped his hand on his trousers, still laughing.
"One of the best in the world right now, sure. Sure. I believe so. I mean, it's crazy not to think so."
Rio kept looking at him. He knew there was a "but" coming. He could see it forming.
"But." Wayne set the glass down on the table. "Even more than thinking he's the best player in the world right now."
He paused.
He looked up at the ceiling for a second, like he was deciding whether to actually say the thing he was about to say.
"I think he is."
He caught himself. He stopped. He started again.
"Well. He's the one."
Rio's face shifted.
"The one? What do you mean, the one?"
Wayne looked at him.
"Yeah. You know. The one." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "The one to get ahead of Cristiano and Messi."
Rio sat back.
"Wow."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Wayne put his hands up. "I know it's a tall one. But I can honestly see it."
Rio blew out his cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Normally I would just say." He started laughing. "Normally I would just say you're just talking. But honestly? Yeah. I could see it."
He leaned forward again.
"I mean, even Ronaldo and Messi weren't doing this at that age. I mean, he's what. Seventeen? Playing like this?"
He turned. He looked straight into the podcast camera. His face was flat and certain.
"Mateo King is better than Ronaldo and Messi at seventeen years old. It's just the facts."
Wayne was looking at him.
"Yeah. But it's not just that."
Rio turned back to him.
"It's not just the performances." Wayne shifted forward on the sofa now, his forearms coming onto his knees, more in it now, the water forgotten. "It's also the mentality."
Rio nodded.
"We both know so many talented players. Players who could have been great." Rio was nodding along, slow. "Players that, because of a weak mentality, or a setback, they just—"
"Just didn't make it," Rio said.
"Yeah. Exactly. Because of their mentality, they just didn't quite reach what was expected of them."
Wayne paused.
Then he said it.
"He isn't like that."
The room seemed to sit a little heavier for a second.
Wayne let it settle. Then he waved his hand, sitting up, coming back into the easy register.
"Like, see, okay. Okay. Like this. Now. Did you see his performance against Atlético the day before yesterday?"
Rio's whole face opened.
"How ridiculous was that? Oh my days."
"Yeah. Yeah." Wayne was waving his hand. "You know what did it for me?"
"What?"
Wayne's face went serious.
"That red card tackle."
Rio went quiet.
"How he crashed into Suárez to prevent that goal. I mean, that's just." Wayne shook his head. "I mean, to know to do that at seventeen years of age. The guts behind that. No hesitation." His voice climbed. "AGAINST SUÁREZ, MIND YOU."
He sat back, shaking his head, resting his hands on his own chest for a second.
"That takes guts. I mean, Suárez is one of the players he would have watched growing up. One of his idols."
Rio was nodding.
"Sure. Sure."
"That's just gutsy." Wayne pointed at nothing, at the air, at the idea of it. "That's a kid who knows exactly what he wants and isn't shy from going for it."
Rio was nodding harder now.
"Yeah. Yeah." He leaned in. "Mate. When I saw it, my mind just went straight back to that Newcastle match with Ole. Same exact situation."
He snickered. Then he started laughing properly, shaking his head, dragging a hand down his face.
"The kid's a joke, man."
He laughed for a second longer, then the laugh eased, and when he spoke again the register had changed.
"That tackle just shows passion. Shows there's fire in all he does. I mean."
He let his hand hang in the air.
"In the final moments. Against one of the biggest teams in Spain. Takes down their star man. At their house. And he clears him. Gets the job done."
He nodded to himself.
"I like that."
There was a beat.
Wayne looked at him.
"What do you say should happen if Barcelona go on ahead and win the Champions League also?"
Rio turned. He faced the podcast camera. No hesitation.
"Ballon d'Or."
Wayne whistled, low.
Rio just shook his head and said it again, no hesitation, straight down the lens.
"Ballon d'Or."
And it didn't end with just the Manchester United legends.
The madness known as Mateo King had taken over the entire footballing world, and the media, always quick to hop on a trend, did not waste any time.
In an interview with Paulo Dybala, the question came the way it came in every interview now.
"How good is he?"
Dybala smiled. He knew the question was coming before it came.
"He's mad, isn't he?"
The interviewer laughed. Dybala laughed with him, shaking his head, looking down at his own hands for a second.
Then he looked back up.
"If you remove Ronaldo and Messi." He took a deep breath, the smile still there but his eyes level now. "He is the best player in the world, to be honest."
In a home podcast interview with Antonio Rüdiger, sitting in a low chair with a mug in his hand, the interviewers were already grinning before they even asked.
"Rüdiger. What do you say about your upcoming opponent? Mateo."
The two of them were laughing.
Rüdiger smiled. He tilted his head.
"Like what?"
"Yeah. Your coach has already come out to say how you all would need to triple mark him in the Champions League final."
Rüdiger shook his head slowly.
"That's the gaffer's words." He turned the mug in his hand. "I don't know what is going through his head, I mean, we still have Messi to worry about. Even the other one, Dembélé, is quite good also. Too many threats. But I guess I'm not the gaffer, so."
He shrugged.
Then his face changed.
"What I will say is. The player he is already, for them."
His face broke open. He puffed out a small breath.
"At seventeen."
He shook his head. He whistled, low.
"It's scary. It's quite scary."
He stopped. He looked off to the side for a second, at nothing.
Then he said it one last time, quieter.
"It's quite scary."
Even Arsenal wonderkid Bukayo Saka was in on the action.
"Psssh."
He scoffed. He looked away, then back, shaking his head.
"What can I even say on him, man. He's unreal."
"You're also a wonderkid yourself," the interviewer said.
"Oh, please."
"No, I'm serious. You're also one of the biggest wonderkids right now in the world." The interviewer leaned in. "And with all that, how hard is it, at seventeen, on a stage like that as well, to just—"
Saka cut him off.
"How hard it is?"
He shook his head.
"It's more than just that." He sat forward. "It's not normal. Like, no one does it, man. It's mad, innit."
He shook his head again, slower.
"I don't think I have seen that level on a seventeen-year-old ever."
He was even the topic of discussion for the Overlap segment that day.
At their table sat Jill Scott, Gary Neville, Ian Wright, and, as a guest for the episode, Manchester City's Rodri.
"Why is he so good?"
Jill was laughing as she said it. She shook her head.
"I was watching him the day before yesterday. It's like he's just. He's so good." She lifted a hand, dropped it. "He makes it look so easy."
"At seven-." Ian caught himself. "Is he seventeen?"
"Seventeen," Jill said. "Forty-nine goal contributions for Barça already."
Rodri let out a low laugh.
Ian turned to him.
"You two are about to play in the Euros together soon, aren't you?"
"Yeah, we already played in the qualifiers." Rodri was smiling and shaking his head at the same time. "Let me tell you, the kid is just like that even in training. I mean, I barely played with him a few weeks, and even I know. He was different."
He set his elbow on the table.
"I mean, he's seventeen, and he's one of the players the whole nation is already looking towards for the Euros."
Gary shook his head. He snickered. He dragged a hand down over his mouth.
"That just doesn't make any sense."
Ian and Jill were laughing. Rodri was laughing.
Gary kept going, half-laughing himself now.
"This is just ridiculous, honestly. Like, I still can't believe we are even talking about this."
Everyone was laughing.
Then Gary sat forward.
His face changed as he said it, the laugh draining out of it, the shake of the head slowing down into something closer to disbelief.
"At seventeen years old. He's going to be seventeen when this happens, and—"
He stopped. He looked around the table.
"A seventeen-year-old has a seriously good chance of winning the Ballon d'Or."
The table went quiet for a beat.
Nobody laughed at that one.
And it was everywhere.
At the end of the day, silverware was what was most important in football. And a talent that could win those. A talent that could win the big ones.
Mateo King had stopped being just talent and the future in the eyes of the footballing world.
As soon as he won that La Liga, he was now THE ONE.
...
And right now, back in Spain, in his apartment, the topic of the entire footballing world was standing in front of the mirror in his room.
He was in a fine suit, adjusting his shirt, looking at himself with a big, stupid smile on his face.
"The youngest La Liga champion ever."
He said it out loud to his own reflection.
Then he paused.
"Wait." He squinted at himself. "Am I the youngest?"
He thought about it for a second.
"Well." He shrugged at the mirror. "I'm still a champion."
He looked at himself again. The silly smile came back across his whole face, wider this time, and he could not hold it in, and he muttered it to the glass, smiling, half-laughing, his eyes bright.
"Champion."
The giggle came up out of him before he could stop it.
The goosebumps ran up both his arms. He looked down at them. He rubbed at one arm with his hand and the feeling would not go away, that electric prickle across his skin, and he laughed at himself for it.
Then he turned and threw himself backward onto his bed.
"Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha."
He was laughing at the ceiling. He kicked one leg out and caught a pillow with his foot and sent it flying and did not care where it went. He grabbed another pillow and pressed it over his own face and laughed into it and then threw that one too. He was shaking with it. His whole body. He rolled onto his side, then onto his back again, his hands over his face, giggling like he was seven years old.
He could remember everything from that night.
Every single second of it.
How happy he had been. How happy he still was. The medal. The trophy. His first ever professional trophy. The weight of it in his hands. His mother's face. Koeman's forehead against his. Pedri in the tunnel. The joy radiating off him now was insane , It could only come from a guy who knew he was save from embarrassment in his room .
He honestly did not believe he could be any happier than he was in this exact moment, lying on his bed in his suit, laughing at his own ceiling.
He was wrong about that.
Because then he remembered.
"And now."
He said it to the ceiling, grinning.
"Now I'm going out with my girlfriend."
He started laughing all over again.
as he said it again "My girlfriend " He really liked how that sounded .
He put both his hands over his face and laughed into his palms and his feet kicked at the mattress. Another moment of madness, this one. The whole night had been madness. Winning the league had been madness. And now this. This too. All in the same handful of days.
Olivia.
He thought of her and the smile changed. It went somewhere softer. He thought of the way she had watched him from the edge of the centre circle. The way she had said "after." The way her hair had come loose out of her hood. The way she always leaned into it when he tucked it back.
His chest filled up.
Love really got sweeter as good things starts happening.
He got happier. He did not think that was possible and yet it kept happening, the happiness climbing up in him like water filling a glass that would not stop filling.
He lay there sprawled across his bed in his suit with a pillow somewhere on the floor and one shoe half off and the biggest smile on his face that he had worn in his entire life.
He looked up at the ceiling.
He let out a long, slow, happy breath.
Life is so good.