Chapter 194: The Cosmic Team

Mateo and Magath flew into Switzerland on Saturday afternoon. UEFA had organized a media gala the evening before the official semi-final draw, one of those flashy events staged for television networks and corporate sponsors. Each of the four remaining clubs had to send their head coach and a marquee player to sit under the studio lights for promotional footage.

The actual draw was set for the following morning in Nyon. It would be a closed ceremony with only club executives in the hall while the rest of the world watched the live broadcast. Tonight was purely about television optics.

Magath sat beside Mateo in business class with a thick leather folder resting on his lap. He never opened it. The manager was unusually quiet, looking like a man who knew that whichever opponent came out of the glass bowl tomorrow morning would cause him sleepless nights for the next month.

The VIP lounge reserved by UEFA was surprisingly compact. With only four clubs left, the room held a tiny, elite circle of football royalty. Mateo stepped through the doorway and felt the surreal weight of his season hit him all at once.

Guardiola stood near the window, dressed sharply, talking in low, intense murmurs with Lionel Messi beside him. Across the room stood Mourinho, leaning against a cocktail table next to Cristiano Ronaldo. When Alex Ferguson walked into the room, Ronaldo broke into an immediate grin, crossed the floor, and wrapped his former manager in a warm hug. Ferguson’s usually stern expression softened into genuine affection. Wayne Rooney gave Ronaldo a quick chin nod, sank into an armchair, and looked straight at his phone.

Messi was different. He kept glancing toward Mateo across the room. It was not hostile or arrogant, just genuine curiosity, like a man trying to match the rumors he had heard with the teenager standing in front of him. Mateo held the Argentine’s gaze for a second before nodding respectfully and looking away. Standing in a private lounge being quietly scouted by Lionel Messi was easily one of the strangest moments of his life.

The room dimmed, and the screens flickered on.

UEFA had assembled a highlight reel showcasing the four semi-finalists. When Schalke’s package started, it was essentially four solid minutes of Mateo. His derby hat-trick against Dortmund played first, followed by his lofted assist for Farfán’s bandaged header. Then came the San Siro goal: picking up the ball inside his own half and dancing past five Inter Milan defenders, shown twice from two different broadcast angles.

The room watched in absolute silence.

When the lights came back up, Mateo felt every set of eyes swing toward him. The UEFA executives in the back, Guardiola, Mourinho, and even Ferguson were all looking squarely at the eighteen-year-old sitting in the front row. Mateo kept his chin up, though every instinct told him to slip out the side exit.

The host took the stage and rescued him, steering the evening into the standard routine of photo ops, staged handshakes, and vague answers about respect and preparation. Nobody could say anything substantive because the matchups were still unknown. That uncertainty hung over the room like thick fog, four teams smiling politely while privately hoping to draw the easiest path to the final.

Mateo managed to avoid most of the lingering crowds, but he did not make it out of the venue cleanly.

He was heading toward the lobby while Magath stayed behind to wrap up a brief chat with a German delegate. As Mateo walked past the private corridor, Jose Mourinho stepped directly into his path.

“Good evening, Mateo,” Mourinho said smoothly. There was no warm-up or polite small talk. “When June comes around, how do you feel about Real Madrid?”

Mateo blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. “I’m under contract with Schalke, Mr. Mourinho.”

“For now,” Mourinho said, smiling thinly. “Listen to me carefully. At Madrid, I will hand you the keys to the entire midfield. Kaká, you, Cristiano, Benzema. Complete freedom between the lines, and every critical decision flows through your feet.” His dark eyes had a fierce, piercing intensity, like a strategist who had already finalized his tactical board and simply needed the final piece. “Keep it in mind.”

Before Mateo could figure out what to say, a heavy hand rested firmly on his shoulder.

“Leave the lad alone, Jose,” Alex Ferguson said, stepping up beside them without looking at his former rival. He turned his pale, sharp eyes onto Mateo. “That goal in Milan. Absolutely top-class.” Ferguson paused, studying Mateo’s face closely. “You know, son, you look like a lad who could carry the number seven shirt at Old Trafford.”

“Mateo, the car is downstairs,” Magath’s voice cut through the air. The German manager appeared at his elbow, placing a firm, protective hand on his midfielder’s arm. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Good evening, Felix,” Ferguson said with a faint smile.

Mateo offered a quick, polite nod to both men. “Thank you, gentlemen. Good luck tomorrow.”

Magath kept his hand on Mateo’s shoulder and guided him straight down the corridor toward the waiting car.

Behind them, Ferguson glanced sideways at Mourinho.

“You’re not the only one building a team, José. I still have a few years left in this job.”

Mourinho simply folded his arms with a dry smirk, watching Mateo step out into the cool night air. The draw was tomorrow, but the two biggest managers in European football were already looking well past it.

Mateo flew back to Gelsenkirchen early Sunday morning, heading straight to the training ground.

In the recreation room, the squad and the assistant coaches gathered around the projector screen to catch the live feed from Nyon. Up on stage, Zinedine Zidane stepped to the podium, said a few words about European football, and unscrewed the first plastic ball from the bowl.

He slid out the slip of paper and held it up toward the cameras.

FC Schalke 04.

Magath’s jaw tightened noticeably. One team drawn, three powerhouses left in the bowl. Among those three, the only manageable outcome was Manchester United. A tactical battle against Ferguson was at least a match a stubborn team could survive with grit. Real Madrid would be a nightmare. Barcelona would be worse.

Zidane reached back into the bowl, swirled the plastic spheres, and opened the second ball.

FC Barcelona.

The entire conference room went dead silent. A second later, a collective groan echoed off the walls. Farfán dropped his head onto the table, and Huntelaar blew out a long, heavy breath through his teeth.

Barcelona had landed the kindest draw on the board, and everyone watching knew it. Real Madrid and Manchester United were dumped into the opposite bracket, setting up a brutal clash between Ferguson and Mourinho.

Magath sat frozen in his chair, staring at the screen with the hollow look of a man watching all his tactical plans disintegrate in real time.

Pep Guardiola’s Barcelona was widely considered the most dominant club side in football history. They had dismantled Madrid in La Liga and were cruising toward another Spanish title. In Europe, they had swept past every opponent with dizzying, hypnotic possession. Their front three had David Villa and Pedro flanking Lionel Messi, who was casually rewriting every goal-scoring record in the sport. Behind them was the golden midfield trio of Xavi, Iniesta, and Busquets, who could pass circles around an opponent until their legs turned to jelly and their spirits broke.

Mateo stared at the graphic on the screen and did the cold math in his head.

Messi’s market value alone exceeded the transfer fees of Schalke’s entire starting lineup combined. This would not be like the San Siro, where an aging Inter side grew sluggish after sixty minutes. Barcelona never gave the ball away, and they never stopped pressing. It was the absolute worst matchup in world football.

Mateo kept his face completely blank while the room grumbled around him. A long season of fighting through doubted expectations had taught him that showing panic was the easiest way to give the opponent an advantage, and he refused to flinch.

By noon, the German tabloids treated the draw like an obituary.

The Munich papers ran gloating headlines about the miracle run hitting a brick wall against the extraterrestrials from Catalonia. Even the local fans in Gelsenkirchen sounded subdued on the radio call-in shows. Everyone could see the enormous talent gap between the two squads.

Mateo declined every interview request from the reporters camped by the front gates, grabbed his boots, and walked straight out to the training pitch.

There was zero point in complaining to journalists. Barcelona was coming to the Veltins-Arena in two weeks, and the football world had already written Schalke off. He had spent months hearing what a young squad could not accomplish, and proving those critics wrong was becoming his favorite habit.

He had no idea if they could pull off a miracle against Barcelona. On paper, nobody in their right mind would back them to win.

Still, the match was weeks away, the Bundesliga trophy was waiting to be won, and there was a mountain of work to do on the training pitch. Mateo set down a bag of footballs near the penalty arc, lined up the training dummies, and went back to work.