While Barcelona's two golden boys were laughing now, somewhere in their bones, they knew. Deep down. In the brutal, high-stakes world of professional football, talent was never enough. Neither was potential. The world was littered with names of prodigies who never made it, crushed under the weight of expectations or devoured by the merciless grind of top-level sport.
No, to ascend in this world—to truly become the players they were destined to be—there was only one path.
War.
Countless high-stakes battles. Nights where the blood roared louder than the crowd, where mistakes carved scars, and victories hardened you into something sharper. Mateo and Pedri had the talent, yes. The ability, the hunger, the will. But none of that would mean anything if they weren't forged in fire.
And their looming clash with Bayern Munich?
That was a war.
No doubt.
A battle that would sear them. Break or build them. The weight of the past and the hope of the future collided into that one fixture. But despite the doubts gnawing at them, despite the shadows of that infamous night in Lisbon, both Mateo and Pedri had shown something rare in players their age—mental fortitude. After the initial gut-punch realization of who they were facing, they had shaken it off.
No speeches. No forced bravado.
Just a shared, unspoken vow:
That night would never happen again.
Once the weight had been acknowledged, once the demons had been faced, chaos had taken over.
Because when you put two teenagers on a trip together, even when they're football's next in line for greatness, they're still… well, teenagers.
It started with small jabs. Mateo teasing Pedri about his driving. Pedri pretending to be the responsible elder, scolding him. But it didn't last long. The car ride, once tense and introspective, transformed into a rolling comedy show.
Mateo, by nature, was a troublemaker. Mischief ran in his veins like oxygen. The kind of energy that didn't know how to sit still. A trait that had, ironically, made his first encounter with Gavi less than harmonious. Because Gavi? Gavi was cut from the same chaotic cloth. Two terrors clashing on first meeting. Both too wild, too untamed to click immediately.
Pedri, on the other hand, was the antithesis of their explosive personalities.
He didn't try to match Mateo's energy. He didn't need to.
Where Gavi would fuel Mateo's fire, Pedri had a way of channeling it. On the pitch, it was his precise passing and calm control that allowed Mateo's wild, unpredictable movements to flourish. Off the pitch, it was his mellow demeanor that gave Mateo room to be himself—without burning the whole place down.
But that didn't mean Pedri was immune to Mateo's antics.
Far from it.
As the journey progressed, Mateo found every excuse to disrupt Pedri's focus. Tapping on the dashboard like a drummer, making sarcastic "GPS voice" impressions that told Pedri to "Turn left in 300 meters, if you don't crash us first." Pedri would retaliate with exasperated sighs, but the corner of his mouth would betray him with a reluctant smile. The fear of Pedri driving overshadowed by his mischievous nature.
By the time they arrived at the airport, the air had completely shifted.
Two boys, acting like kids.
The tension of the Bayern discussion felt like a distant memory as they rolled up to the terminal.
And yet, even in their bubble of banter, they couldn't ignore the ripple they caused.
A decent-sized gathering had formed—nothing official, but enough to feel the eyes. Fans. Barcelona fans, mostly. Spotting their two rising stars out in the wild wasn't an everyday occurrence. They kept their distance, respectful, but phones were out, snapping pictures, recording clips as Mateo and Pedri, bags slung lazily over their shoulders, shared another laugh before heading towards their terminal.
The boys noticed, of course. They always did.
But neither flinched.
Because this was part of the journey too.
And as they walked into the terminal—two starboys blending laughter with destiny—the weight of what was coming stayed with them.
Quiet.
But alive.
The hum of the plane engines was soft, almost like background music, as Mateo leaned back into his seat, a lazy grin curling onto his lips. He couldn't help but muse on how much things had changed.
The first time he had traveled with the senior squad to Paris, the club had used a private jet. A completely different world. The ceilings were lower, the interior sleek and custom, the kind of luxury where every detail—from the leather stitching to the onboard menu—screamed exclusivity. That experience had been insane. Overwhelming, even.
But this?
This was something else.
This was a commercial airline.
But the entire first-class section felt like a world of its own.
Rows of plush, oversized seats stretched out with generous space between them, giving an air of quiet exclusivity. Passengers sat cocooned in their own little corners—some with noise-cancelling headphones, others engrossed in books or staring out the windows—lost in their own worlds. No curious glances, no interruptions, no one paying the slightest attention to the two young athletes tucked into their seats. Here, everyone minded their own business. It was as if privacy was an unspoken rule.
The overhead lighting was dimmed to a soft glow. The aisles were so spacious, Mateo could stretch his legs into them and still have space left. The seats themselves weren't just chairs—they were reclining thrones, draped in fine leather, wide enough for him to roll over sideways if he wanted. In front of him, resting delicately on the fold-out tray, was a crystal-clear glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The kind that actually tasted like oranges. Not the cheap, supermarket kind.
Mateo smiled, slowly swirling the glass with the tips of his fingers.
It wasn't lost on him how far he'd come.
His mind wandered—drifting back to all those countless journeys to youth tournaments. Both for Barcelona's academy and for Spain's junior sides. And those trips? They were a completely different beast.
No first-class.
No personal space.
No reclining seats.
Just cramped, overbooked flights where you'd be lucky if you weren't sandwiched between two teammates, all of you squirming for elbow room. There had been pushing, elbowing, people fighting for the overhead luggage space like it was a Black Friday sale. The coaches would pretend they were giving them "the real experience," but really, it was chaos. Those trips were survival of the fittest—if you didn't claim your spot early, you'd be stuck in the dreaded middle seat for hours.
He remembered it all—the sweat, the noise, the uncomfortable naps with your head pressed awkwardly against the window, the desperate search for in-flight snacks because the team budget hadn't covered proper meals.
And now?
Mateo sighed in satisfaction as he pressed a small button on his seat, the back reclining effortlessly until it was almost a bed. His legs stretched fully, his body sinking into the soft, cushioned embrace of first-class luxury. He chuckled to himself, a quiet, personal giggle as he whispered under his breath,
"Yeah… I'm done with that."
He couldn't help but enjoy himself. The more he thought about it, the funnier it became. He lay there giggling, his mind replaying those hectic trips, comparing them to this blissful upgrade. He wasn't rich yet. Not even close.
But he was moving.
Step by step.
Right now, Mateo didn't have the money to fund these luxuries himself. He wasn't on a millionaire's salary. His wages were still locked under the youth contract he had signed years ago—a contract that barely covered more than his living expenses and some pocket change.
But thankfully, he didn't have to pay for this.
Because once you're chosen to represent the Spanish national team, everything—transportation, accommodation, feeding—was handled by the Royal Spanish Football Federation.
And that wasn't the end of it.
As per federation policy, every called-up player was entitled to a daily stipend of €90 for personal expenses. The money was meant for small things—snacks, random buys at the hotel, maybe a quick café stop. For most of the seasoned professionals in the squad, €90 a day was a joke. Guys who earned €200k a week didn't need pocket change to buy a Mars bar.
But Mateo wasn't laughing.
He needed that €90.
He didn't have the luxury of turning it down.
As far as he knew, his uncle—who was handling his contract negotiations with Barcelona—had mentioned talks would officially begin this week, while Mateo was away with the national team. A new contract, a proper professional one, was on the table. But until the ink dried, Mateo was still a youth player fighting for every Euro.
But even the €90 stipend was just the appetizer.
The main course—the real money—came from the special agreement his uncle had secured in negotiations with the federation. Every time Mateo played in an official match for Spain, he'd receive a match appearance fee of €2,500. Sure, it was on the lower end of what internationals typically earned per cap. Established pros often waived the fee, donating it to charities because, to them, it was pocket change.
But for Mateo?
That was €2,500 for playing football.
For doing what he loved.
He could only smile at the thought.
One day, when the millions started flowing in, when endorsements and contract bonuses became his norm, these amounts would probably feel like spare change too.
But not now.
Now, it mattered.
A small chuckle escaped him as he thought about it. "Millions," he muttered under his breath, amused by how surreal it sounded.
Yet… it didn't feel like a fantasy anymore.
He was close.
Closer than ever.
"I really am getting there," he thought, smiling to himself.
The path was long, but he could see the glimmer of it now. He could feel it.
He shook his head, snapping himself out of the thought, a grin still lingering on his face. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
There was something he wanted to check.
He already knew their quarterfinal opponent—Bayern Munich.
But the Champions League draw was more than just the next opponent.
It was a full roadmap.
It told you not just who you were facing now, but who you could face later.
The semifinals. The possible matchups. The wars that lay ahead.
By now, the entire draw had been completed.
Every club had gotten their opponent.
The entire bracket was visible.
Mateo's thumb hovered over the screen as he prepared to see what path lay beyond Bayern.
Apart from the already seismic Bayern Munich vs. Barcelona clash, the rest of the Champions League quarterfinals were no less dramatic.
Manchester City had been drawn against Borussia Dortmund—a matchup that instantly set tongues wagging. The tactical masterminds versus the raw, youthful chaos of Dortmund. Guardiola's relentless machine against the untamed brilliance of Erling Haaland. It was a chess match wrapped inside a slugfest, and everyone knew it.
Then, there was Porto.
The Portuguese underdogs had drawn Chelsea, a team many thought would breeze through, but deep down, no one trusted knockout football to follow the script. The possibility of a Porto ambush was the kind of drama that lived for late-night headlines.
But the real heavyweight slugfest?
That was Real Madrid vs. Liverpool.
A blockbuster tie dripping with history and revenge. For Liverpool, this was a shot at redemption—a chance to avenge the scars of that 2018 Champions League Final in Kyiv, when a certain Sergio Ramos moment had turned their dreams into dust. But Madrid? Madrid lived for these kinds of battles. They didn't fear the past. They thrived on rewriting it.
It was ironic, really.
Madrid and Liverpool's rivalry was the exact opposite of Barcelona and Bayern's.
Where Madrid had owned Liverpool in recent years, Bayern had become Barça's nightmare. A dominance that left no room for ambiguity.
But Mateo's focus wasn't on history.
He was already thinking about the path ahead.
The semifinal draw had also been set. UEFA had made it simple.
Quarterfinal 1 would face Quarterfinal 2.
Quarterfinal 3 would face Quarterfinal 4.
That meant only one thing.
The winner of Bayern Munich vs. Barcelona would go on to face the winner of Manchester City vs. Borussia Dortmund.
There was no breathing room.
No safety nets.
If Barcelona wanted to reach the final, they'd have to run the gauntlet. First Bayern—the executioners. Then, potentially, Manchester City—the perfectionists.
Mateo stared at his phone screen, scrolling slowly through his feed.
The entire footballing world was in a frenzy.
His timeline was flooded.
Tweets, posts, videos, everyone from pundits to casual fans throwing their reactions into the digital storm. Memes. Tactical breakdowns. "Here we go"s. People predicting Barca's doom. Others hyping an underdog story. It was like watching a global debate unfold in real-time, and Mateo's name was right in the middle of it.
But he wasn't looking for opinions.
He had seen what he wanted to see.
With a quiet sigh, he locked his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
He leaned his head back, resting it gently against the headrest, his eyes closing as he let the buzz of the plane engines hum through him. It was almost reflexive, but amusing all the same—when his head tilted, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, Pedri was doing the exact same thing. Head back, eyes closed, as if mirroring him in perfect sync.
Two boys.
Two dreamers.
Both preparing themselves for what lay ahead.
Their journey didn't end with the plane. After roughly an hour in the air, they touched down in Madrid. Not the main airport, but a smaller, private terminal designated for sports teams and high-profile arrivals. Waiting for them, right outside the sleek glass doors, was a black tinted SUV, engine humming softly, the driver standing beside it in a dark suit, holding a small placard with their names.
Mateo and Pedri had informed the national team they'd be arriving together, and the arrangements had been made.
The ride through Madrid was calm, but beneath the quiet, both boys were alert.
Mateo had been here countless times before. Madrid was no stranger to him. He'd played here for youth tournaments, both with Barcelona's academy and Spain's U-15s and U-17s. He had memories in this city—competitions, training camps, friendly fixtures.
But today?
Today, it felt different.
It wasn't about the city.
It was about where they were going.
And the stakes.
As the car glided through the streets, slicing through familiar routes, Mateo could feel his heart rate picking up. There was no logical reason for it; he had been there before. But maybe that was the point. This wasn't the same. He wasn't coming as a youth prospect. He wasn't a hopeful talent here to gain experience.
He was coming as a first-team call-up.
This time, the badge on his chest wasn't a dream.
It was his.
When the car finally pulled into the large, sweeping driveway, it came to a halt in front of an entrance that seemed to stretch into the sky.
The Ciudad del Fútbol de Las Rozas.
Spain's national football headquarters.
The heart of La Roja.
The building itself was nothing short of colossal. A fusion of glass, steel, and pristine architecture. The façade reflected the late morning sun, giving it an almost ethereal glow. Wide steps led up to towering glass doors, guarded by the massive crest of the Spanish Football Federation, embossed in shimmering gold.
It wasn't Mateo's first time seeing it.
But it might as well have been.
As he stepped out of the car, backpack slung lazily over his shoulder, he paused. His eyes—usually sharp, usually calculating—softened, widening just slightly as he took in the full scale of the place.
It hit different now.
The feeling trumped everything.
No youth tournament. No junior call-up. Nothing from his past visits could touch this sensation. It wasn't nerves. It wasn't excitement. It was something in-between. Like standing on the edge of a threshold, knowing that once you step in, you're not a prospect anymore.
You're a player.
He glanced sideways.
Pedri was already out, standing a few feet ahead, backpack also lazily slung over his shoulder, his gaze fixed upward at the same building. His eyes had that same glow—subtle, yet unmistakable. He wasn't grinning. He wasn't wide-eyed. But his expression said it all.
They both stood there.
Two of Barcelona's finest.
Two teenagers staring up at the cathedral of Spanish football, soaking it all in, breathing in the air like it was their first time.
For ten seconds, neither of them moved.
No words.
No gestures.
Just standing.
Savoring it.
Then, almost in sync, they nodded slightly—like an unspoken agreement passed between them—and made their way toward the entrance.
If Mateo and Pedri had thought the feelings of stepping into Las Rozas were different… the treatment? The treatment was something else entirely.
Next level.
The Spanish Football Federation didn't play when it came to their first-team national players.
The moment they crossed the main entrance, it was as if an invisible switch had been flipped. Mateo had seen luxury before—La Masia wasn't exactly a run-down school, and Barcelona's senior training facilities were as cutting-edge as it got—but this was different. The reverence, the precision, the atmosphere… it wasn't just professional. It was royal.
At the front, waiting for them, were staff members already lined up, wearing sleek, federation-branded blazers, their smiles wide and warm as if greeting long-lost family. Before Mateo could even adjust the strap on his backpack, one of the staff members had already stepped forward, offering a polite nod as they gently took the bag from his shoulder with practiced ease. Pedri received the same treatment, and for a split second, the two boys exchanged a glance.
This wasn't some friendly youth tournament check-in.
This was the level.
But things only escalated.
They were guided smoothly through the lobby, given soft verbal reassurances about where their luggage would go, all while moving towards a place that felt like a forbidden zone.
The Red Line.
That's what they had called it as kids.
An unofficial term whispered among the La Masia boys whenever they visited Las Rozas. The Red Line was the entire right wing of the building—a section cordoned off, sealed away from curious academy players. They could roam through the main areas, even visit the women's team wing, the arcades, the lounge zones—but never the Red Line.
It was the sanctum.
The place where the men's national team operated. Off-limits. Sacred.
And now, Mateo was walking through it.
Crossing that line.
As they passed through the sleek, glass-lined corridor, the world seemed to unfold differently. The air even smelled crisper. The flooring transitioned to a soft, dark marble under their feet, reflecting the sunlight pouring in through the panoramic windows.
State-of-the-art facilities revealed themselves as they walked.
An open-view gym with equipment so futuristic, it looked like it belonged in a sci-fi lab. Adjacent to it, a recreation zone—not just your regular break area—but a full indoor court space. Table tennis tables lined with pro-grade paddles, basketball half-courts with LED-lit backboards, even an interactive VR reaction wall. Everything was designed for athletes at their absolute peak.
Mateo and Pedri were visibly dazed.
And it wasn't because they hadn't seen top-tier facilities before—Barcelona's Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper was arguably superior in terms of technology and player development. But this? This had grandeur. This wasn't about constant training optimization.
This was about identity.
Wearing the badge of your nation.
Nothing beats it.
As they continued their guided walk, Mateo soaked in every detail, his eyes darting from the glass trophy cases lining the walls to the massive mural of Spain's 2010 World Cup-winning squad, immortalized in a mosaic that stretched across an entire section of the hallway.
Finally, they were led to their dorms.
Unlike the youth tournaments where bunk beds and shared rooms were the norm, every player had their own personal quarters here. Mateo stepped into his room, the door sliding open with a soft, almost reverent swoosh.
It was simple.
But elite.
A spacious single room with pristine white walls, a large king-sized bed adorned with snow-white sheets that looked like they belonged in a five-star hotel, a sleek wooden desk, a mounted flat-screen, and a small open closet already stocked with his federation-issued kits.
Two guides followed him in, carrying his luggage, placing it gently onto the bed.
As they finished their task, one of them smiled and said, "The head coach has asked us to inform all players to meet in the tactical room in about two hours. Until then, you're free to do whatever you like. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call any of the staff."
Mateo, still absorbing the ambiance of the room, turned to them with a bright grin and a small, respectful nod. "Thank you."
As they left, the door whispered shut behind them, and for a brief moment, the world stood still.
He was alone.
No noise.
No distractions.
Just him… and the overwhelming reality of where he was.
Mateo let his bag slide off the bed gently, his eyes scanning the room in full now. He paced around slowly, observing every corner, running his fingers along the polished desk, opening the closet with a smooth glide.
"No bunking," he whispered, a small laugh bubbling from his chest. The thought alone was amusing. He walked over to the bed, standing over it as if it were some sacred artifact.
The sheets were immaculate.
White.
Fluffy.
He pressed his palm into them gently at first, rubbing it in a slow, circular motion, treating the fabric with a weird reverence—as if afraid it would vanish if he was too rough.
Then, suddenly, the reverence was gone.
Mateo leapt high into the air and crashed into the bed with a loud thud, arms and legs spread out as he sank into the mattress like it was a cloud.
He immediately started wiggling.
Rolling around, flipping side to side, kicking his feet into the soft surface, laughing like a child discovering a trampoline for the first time.
"It's so soft," he mumbled into the pillow, his nose burying into the sheets. It even smelled luxurious—like a fresh sea breeze blended with expensive hotel soap.
His energy, once unleashed, slowly mellowed as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling with a goofy grin plastered across his face. His body relaxed, sinking deeper into the bed, the adrenaline giving way to a calm satisfaction.
But then—swift, instinctual—he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
He wasn't about to scroll or browse. He had something to say.
His thumb navigated straight to the top of his chats, finding the one group that always felt like home: Masia Mafia.
The group chat was their private sanctuary. A place where banter, jokes, roasts, and brotherhood collided daily.
Mateo's eyes scanned through the barrage of unread messages. Most of it was chaos—GIFs, inside jokes, someone roasting Gavi for his haircut, others clowning Fermin for a missed open goal in training.
He scrolled to the bottom and began typing.
"Just crossed the red line, boys."
He hit send.
Almost instantly, the typing indicator popped up.
But Mateo wasn't done.
He quickly added another message, fingers dancing across the screen.
"Can't wait for us to walk into it together."
The moment it sent, he let his phone fall onto the bed, landing with a soft plop beside him.
A blinding smile spread across his face as he let out an uncontrollable shout.
"LET'S GO!"
It echoed through the empty room, bouncing off the walls with a vibrance that matched his heart rate.
After a few more minutes of basking in the glow of the moment, Mateo knew he had to start getting ready. He headed into the bathroom, took a quick shower, and changed into his official national team kit.
The kit itself was a masterpiece of simplicity. A sleek, deep crimson-red training top, fitted perfectly to his form, with thin golden accents lining the shoulders. The Spanish crest sat proudly on his chest, opposite the small Adidas logo. Matching navy shorts completed the look, with a subtle stripe of red along the seams. His socks were crisp white, rolled just below the knees, completing the ensemble.
By the time he had dressed and checked himself out in the mirror, 45 minutes of his two-hour window had already evaporated.
He chuckled, realizing how quickly time had slipped by just lying around.
He pulled out his phone, intent on texting Pedri so they could explore the facilities together.
But something caught his eye.
His notification bar had messages. That wasn't unusual.
What was unusual, however, was the pinned message at the top.
It was from the Barcelona First Team Official Group Chat.
That chat wasn't like the others. It was strictly professional. Only official news, schedules, team announcements. Players, coaching staff, directors, even the club president were all in it.
There were others—the players had their own private group. Another one with just the players and the coaches. Mateo was in all of them.
But there was one special chat.
A private one.
A chat that Lionel Messi himself had added him into.
It wasn't big. No more than six people in it.
It always left Mateo wondering.
Maybe those six were the players Messi trusted the most.
His closest circle.
This one. The official Barcelona First Team group chat wasn't like the others.
It was sacred ground.
Since Mateo had been added, barely ten messages had ever been sent there. No jokes. No memes. Just serious club matters. The last message, in fact, had been during that Paris incident That alone showed the gravity of any notification coming from this chat.
So when Mateo saw his name tagged in it, his heart gave a faint skip.
His fingers acted on their own.
He tapped into the chat with urgency, his thumb trembling just a bit as the screen opened. Standing still in the center of his room, he didn't even bother to sit. His entire focus was locked on the device in his hand, eyes narrowing as he saw a long message unfold before him.
A pit formed in his stomach for a brief second.
But as he began reading, that knot loosened. The rigid line of his lips softened. His brows, once tensed, slowly relaxed.
And then… a smile began to creep onto his face.
The message began with a warm, heartfelt congratulation from the club to both Mateo and Pedri on their first senior national team call-up. It wasn't just a bland 'well done'. It was thoughtful. The message acknowledged the long journey they had both taken—from their Youth days to now standing among the elite representing Spain. The words were personal, filled with a pride that felt genuine.
But it wasn't just sentimental.
It was practical.
The message listed specific details, naming the club's trusted doctors and physiotherapists embedded within the national team camp. Mateo noted each name carefully—if they felt any discomfort, these were the people they should go to. The club had even stationed their own liaisons within Las Rozas, individuals responsible for everything outside of medical issues—whether it was logistical help, personal errands, or just ensuring the club's players were being cared for properly.
There were instructions on where they should eat, emphasizing that though they were with the national team, Barcelona's nutritionists had coordinated specific plans for their meals. The message even outlined protocols for managing their training load, especially after long flights or double sessions.
But then came a part of the message that made Mateo's smile dim a little.
A section addressed to him directly.
It spoke of his ongoing physical development. His stamina issues. A reminder to not overdo it in training, especially with the intensity of his playing style. The concern was gentle, not patronizing, but it hit home. He knew it was valid. He still had a lot to refine physically.
For a fleeting moment, his lips pressed into a thin line, his smile faltering.
But then, he continued reading.
The message lightened again, ending on a warm, playful note.
Busquets and Alba were tagged at the end.
A simple instruction from the club: "Take care of the newbies."
It was funny, but it carried weight. A symbolic gesture. The veterans were expected to guide and protect the next generation.
As Mateo finished reading, he noticed that Pedri had already responded in the chat, sending a respectful thank-you message, short but heartfelt.
Mateo quickly followed suit, his thumbs typing:
"Gracias! Will give it my best."
He sent it with a grin and tucked his phone into a small, sleek pouch he had brought from home. Slinging it around his neck, he gave his room one final look, then headed to the door.
The handle turned with a quiet click as he stepped out into the hallway.
It was a long, pristine corridor—minimalist, yet elegant. The floor was a polished dark wood, with clean, white walls adorned by subtle golden trims. Soft, diffused lighting illuminated the stretch of the hallway, giving it a calm, almost serene atmosphere.
Mateo looked left, then right, standing in place as he mused to himself with a soft chuckle, "Now… where was his room again?"
He began to walk, his footsteps muffled by the sleek floor, passing identical doors lined up with military precision. Each one was numbered, but his memory wasn't exactly helping him at the moment.
But then he stopped.
In front of a door that looked no different from his own.
Something told him this was it.
Raising his fist, he knocked gently, twice. Then paused. Knocked again.
Seconds passed, and then a voice called out from within, "Who is that?"
Mateo's lips stretched into a grin.
That was Pedri's voice.
"Dude, it's Mateo. Let's move around. This place is massive, and we're wasting time."
A short laugh echoed from behind the door, followed by Pedri's amused tone, "Was just about to come meet you too. Hold on, I'm almost done."
Mateo leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms as he waited, a smirk still playing on his face.
A/N
If you want to read 26 chapters ahead with daily uploads and to support me subscribe to my Patreon below There is also a picture of how mateo looks like posted and later there would be votes and all on the site some you wont need to pay to vote but you can if you want to support me thanks
patreon.com/David_Adetola
Thank You your support is greatly appreciated thank you all