The Bundesliga was a war of attrition, a 34-game marathon that demanded consistency and endurance.

The UEFA Champions League, however, was different. It was a series of high-stakes, high-pressure sprints, a tournament of kings where a single moment of brilliance or a single lapse in concentration could define a season.

For Borussia Dortmund, the domestic title was the goal, but the Champions League was the dream, the ultimate validation of their status as one of Europe's elite.

As February wore on, the focus of the club, and indeed the entire continent, shifted to the resumption of this grand tournament. The Round of 16. The knockout stages. This was where legends were made and hearts were broken. Dortmund's opponent was Zenit St. Petersburg, the champions of Russia. It was a draw fraught with peril.

The journey to Russia was an ordeal in itself. A four-hour flight to a city that, in mid-February, was locked in the icy grip of winter.

The team stepped off the plane at Pulkovo Airport into a world of biting wind and sub-zero temperatures, a stark, brutal contrast to the mild German winter they had left behind. The air was so cold it felt sharp, a physical presence that stung the lungs.

For Mateo, this was a new level of the game, a new world of pressure and professionalism. The Champions League had its own anthem, its own ball, its own aura. The media presence was doubled, the scrutiny intensified. This was not just a German story anymore; this was a global one.

And he, the 16-year-old prodigy, was one of its central characters.

On the plane, the team's senior players, sensing the magnitude of the moment for their young star, took him under their wing. Mats Hummels, the calm, intelligent center-back, sat down next to him. "It's different, isn't it?" he said, his voice a low, reassuring rumble. "The air crackles. You feel it. The key is to embrace it, not fight it. These are the nights you dream of as a kid."

Roman Weidenfeller, the veteran goalkeeper and the team's grizzled captain, came over and clapped Mateo on the shoulder. "Listen," he said, his expression serious.

"These away games in the East are tough. The crowd will be on you from the first second. They will whistle, they will jeer, they will try to get in your head. Don't give them anything. Stay focused. Play your game. We have your back."

It was a crucial moment of mentorship. They were not talking to Der Maestro, the phenomenon. They were talking to Mateo, their young teammate, a kid they felt a paternal need to protect. They were reminding him that he was not alone in this cauldron.

Also by his side was Sarah, the club's sign language translator. Her role, which had started as a simple communication bridge, had evolved into something far more significant.

She was his confidante, his cultural interpreter, his buffer against the overwhelming demands of his new life. She had a background in corporate law before changing careers, and she possessed a sharp, analytical mind that saw the world in a way Mateo was only just beginning to understand.

During the pre-match press conference, a formal, stilted affair held in a cavernous room at the Petrovsky Stadium, Sarah stood beside him, not just translating the questions, but filtering them.

She would subtly rephrase a leading question from a journalist, giving Mateo the space to give a simple, non-controversial answer. She noticed the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes darted around the room, taking in the sea of cameras and microphones. She saw the stress he was trying so desperately to hide.

After the press conference, as they walked back to the locker room, she signed to him privately, away from the prying eyes of the club officials. "This is becoming too much, isn't it? The contracts, the media, the business side of it all. You need a professional team. Not just the club's PR people. Your own people."

Mateo nodded, a wave of relief washing over him. He had been feeling this for weeks, a growing sense of being overwhelmed by a world he didn't understand.

The commercial offers were pouring in, complex legal documents that his family, Don Carlo, and even the club's lawyers were not equipped to handle. He was a footballer, not a corporation, but the world was treating him like one.

"Can you help me?" he signed, his expression pleading. "I don't know where to even start."

"I can," Sarah signed back, her expression firm and reassuring. "My old world was full of these people. Agents, managers, lawyers. I can discreetly vet them. I can find you someone who will protect you, not just exploit you. I will create a shortlist. We will do this together."

It was a promise, a lifeline. For the first time, Mateo felt a glimmer of hope that he could regain some control over the business of being Mateo.

But first, there was the business of football. The match itself was a brutal, unforgiving affair, played on a pitch that was hard and unforgiving in the freezing Russian night.

Zenit, a team of seasoned, physical veterans, were clearly under instructions to be aggressive with Dortmund's young star.

Their star Brazilian forward, Hulk, was a force of nature, a man of immense power and skill. Their midfield, anchored by the Ukrainian legend Anatoliy Tymoshchuk and the Belgian powerhouse Axel Witsel, was a wall of muscle and experience.

From the opening whistle, Mateo was a marked man. Every time he got the ball, he was met with a hard, cynical foul. A shoulder in the back, a foot left in, a subtle trip. The referee, perhaps intimidated by the ferocious home crowd, was lenient.

It was a clear strategy: if you can't play the ball, play the man. For the first half, it worked. Dortmund struggled to find their rhythm, their creative engine sputtering under the relentless assault.

***

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