Chapter 204: Blood

Barcelona responded to the equalizer by stepping up their intensity.

They had conceded strange goals before and simply brushed them aside. Guardiola’s tactical adjustment with Busquets paid off immediately. Whenever Mateo received the ball anywhere near the halfway line, Busquets closed in to help Xavi and Iniesta, squeezing the space Mateo had exploited on the flank earlier.

Up front, the home side kept pressing forward.

The second goal came from Messi once again, pure class from start to finish. He collected a pass inside, dropped his shoulder to send Schmitz stumbling the wrong way, and drove straight into the penalty area with that short, rhythmic stride that seemed impossible to tackle. Messi opened his hips to shoot. Neuer, remembering the first goal, shifted his weight to cover the same far corner, but Messi clipped it into the near post instead.

SWISH!

2-1, Barcelona.

The Camp Nou roared Messi’s name as the home crowd settled back into full voice. To ninety thousand spectators, the equalizer had just been a temporary blip. Normal service was restored, and the stands were already demanding a third.

Mateo stood by the center circle, catching his breath and taking stock of the situation. They were trailing 2-1 at the Camp Nou with Busquets practically glued to his shirt.

Magath’s instructions remained clear from the sideline: keep pressing and stay tight to your markers.

Mateo went straight back to tracking Xavi, forcing the veteran to chase back into his own half whenever Schalke found possession. Schalke’s defensive shape held on as best it could.

Over the next twenty minutes, Barcelona created three distinct scoring opportunities. Neuer rushed off his line to stop a chipped pass meant for Villa, Metzelder hacked away a dangerous cutback from Messi, and Pedro fired a low drive straight into Neuer’s chest. Somehow, the ball stayed out of the net.

Then Busquets left his mark on Mateo’s leg.

It happened out on the right flank, where Mateo had drifted wide to find open grass. Busquets, determined to keep him from turning, flew into a late challenge from behind. He missed the ball entirely and raked his studs straight down Mateo’s right calf.

Mateo crashed down onto the turf, rolling over as a sharp, burning pain flared up his leg. Three bright red gashes opened up along his calf where the metal studs had cut through his white sock.

The referee, who had spent the match warning Metzelder for ordinary shoulder charges, awarded only a simple free kick. No yellow card came out. The home supporters whistled anyway, complaining that a foul had been called at all.

Mateo stayed down for a few seconds, breathing heavily through his teeth as the pain settled into a dull ache. Over on the sideline, Magath was shouting furiously at the fourth official, his usual composure entirely forgotten.

The team physio sprinted onto the pitch, cutting away the torn sock to clean and wrap the cuts with white medical tape. Mateo leaned on his elbows, testing the weight on his foot. The physical conditioning he had built up held strong, and he knew the joint was completely fine to play on.

He pushed himself up off the turf, took a cautious step, and felt the tightness in his calf. It would throb for the rest of the evening, but it was nothing he couldn’t play through.

A handful of Barcelona supporters clapped respectfully as he got back to his feet, acknowledging the grit. Up in the away section, the travelling Schalke fans were chanting his name at the top of their lungs.

Mateo waved the physio off and stayed on the pitch.

Farfán jogged over, squinting at the fresh bandage. “You sure you can run on that?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Mateo said, rolling his ankle once to check his footing. “Where are we taking this?”

“Right out here,” Farfán pointed to the grass.

The ball sat forty-one meters from the goal, angled out on the right wing. It was too far out to test Valdés directly with a curled shot. A direct strike from that distance made little sense.

Mateo considered his remaining uses of the curl he had in him today, and decided this wasn’t the place to spend one.

A standard delivery with good dip and pace would do the job just as well, hanging the ball into the far post where Metzelder and Höwedes could challenge for it in the air.

He placed the ball down on the grass, stepping back to measure his approach.

Inside the crowded penalty box, Vardy was fighting for position between Puyol and Piqué, while Metzelder sprinted up from the backline to attack the back post. Mateo glanced up once at the sea of shirts, planted his standing foot, and began his run-up.