"Fuck."
Mateo muttered the word like a dying prayer, his back pressed against an invisible wall as he stood there, trapped in a situation far more dangerous than anyone around him realized. His fingers were clamped tight around the handle of his weapon—a wooden bat, thin but sturdy. His grip was iron-clad, knuckles pale, like a warrior clutching onto his last line of defense.
Beads of sweat had turned traitor on him, crawling down his forehead and trailing across his cheek, the salty sting threatening to blind him. His breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts, as if he were being hunted.
No way out.
In front of him, across the battlefield, stood his opponent.
Olmo, Dani Olmo.
But this wasn't the usual, mild-mannered Olmo.
No.
This One was a different beast.
He was standing calm, yet the devil danced in his smile—a mischievous smirk plastered across his face like a villain who had already read the final page of the story. His eyes glinted with playful menace, eyebrows raised as if to say, "You ready for your funeral, Mateo?"
But then—something changed.
The playful grin faded, dissolved into nothingness, and what remained was chilling. Olmo's face was now carved in stone, his lips pressed thin, eyes half-lidded but sharp, a dangerous calm that sent a ripple down Mateo's spine. His jaw tensed. His breaths slowed.
Mateo saw it.
And he felt it.
Instinctively, his own posture shifted, his knees bending, lowering his center of gravity as if preparing for war. His hands re-tightened around his wooden bat, the weapon now trembling slightly—not out of fear, but out of anticipation. Another sweat droplet made its descent, sliding down from his temple, gravity guiding it until it hit the table before him with a faint splash.
Plop.
One droplet.
Then another.
And another.
Three perfectly aligned dots of sweat, forming a triangle of doom right at the heart of the table, marking the very spot that could betray him.
But it was too late to think about that.
Because Dani had already moved.
Effortlessly, with a casual flick of his fingers, Dani tossed a small, white object into the air. The world seemed to slow as it ascended, spinning like a galaxy caught in slow motion. The object shimmered under the fluorescent lights, twirling gracefully, like a coin deciding the fate of men.
As it reached the apex, Dani's body shifted.
The room went silent.
And then—
CRACK!
The sound wasn't loud.
It was seismic.
It wasn't a ball being struck.
It was a declaration of war.
The object shot forward, whistling through the air like a bullet, slicing through the calm like a blade. Mateo's eyes zoomed in, his pupils dilating as he tracked its every micro-movement. His senses went hyper-focused—every breath, every heartbeat was synced to the trajectory of that spinning, cursed object.
As it flew, it made contact with Dani's side of the battlefield—bouncing once, a sharp, clean pop, sending it rocketing toward Mateo's domain.
His domain.
This was it.
Mateo's lips curled into a grin.
His body moved like clockwork, feet sliding, shoulders turning, weight shifting perfectly into position. The bat in his hand was no longer trembling—it was alive. He could already picture the glorious counterattack, the devastating smash that would send Pedri scrambling to save face.
But as he swung into position, ready to deliver the blow—
Olmo smiled.
Not the cocky smirk from before.
No, this was a different smile.
One that said "Checkmate."
"Stand proud, Mateo. You are strong," Dani Olmo said, his voice calm, almost... kind.
But those words?
Those were the words of a man who knew the trap had been sprung.
Because in the split-second that Mateo's bat was about to connect, the universe betrayed him.
The ball.
The cursed, innocent-looking ball.
It bounced right onto the triangle of sweat that had formed earlier.
The moment it kissed the wet patch, physics decided to abandon Mateo's side. Instead of bouncing up predictably, it curved—delicately, beautifully, with a sinister spin that sent it veering away from Mateo's outstretched bat like a matador dodging a bull.
Mateo's eyes widened.
"Nonononono—NOOOOO!"
His scream echoed through the room, arms swinging through empty air as the ball gracefully glided past him, like a ghost untouched by the living.
It was over.
Game. Set. Betrayal by his own sweat.
Beside the overly dramatic, animated battle unfolding across the table, two pairs of eyes observed with a mixture of exasperation and mild amusement. They stood at a distance, leaning casually against the polished walls of the sprawling table tennis facility, watching as two of Spain's finest young footballers acted like their lives were on the line.
One pair of eyes, hazel and unblinking, belonged to Ferran Torres. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone, though his gaze betrayed a quiet, deadpan monologue.
"Not again."
Ferran didn't need to say it. He had seen this script before.
His eyes followed his close friend, Dani Olmo, as the 23-year-old squared off against Mateo King in what had somehow escalated into a "final battle" for supremacy in a casual game of table tennis. Both of them—the Catalan marksman and the Leipzig assassin—were locked in a showdown that had no right being this intense. It was supposed to be a few friendly hits, a laugh, maybe a warm-up before moving on to explore the rest of Las Rozas.
But now? It had turned into a saga.
Ferran's gaze flickered briefly to his side, to the other spectator.
Pedri.
Pedri stood there, arms folded atop his head, his fingers ruffling through his hair as he let out a long, world-weary sigh. His posture screamed patience, but his eyes? They were full of regret. A quiet, "I should have known better" that didn't need words.
Because he really should've known.
He had been the one walking with Mateo not long ago, the two of them on a casual tour of the national team complex. It was supposed to be a chill exploration—just them, moving through the various wings of Las Rozas, soaking in the prestige of it all.
But then they found this place.
A massive, gleaming table tennis facility, tucked beneath a wide glass atrium. The space was elite—rows of competition-grade tables, LED-lit scoreboards, a sleek lounge area with minimalist chairs and a juice bar in the corner. The kind of setup that made you forget it was a side activity.
That's where they had stumbled upon Dani Olmo and Ferran Torres.
Two stars already established within the senior Spanish squad. Two players Pedri and Mateo knew very well. Ferran, in the middle of a solid season with Manchester City, the poster boy of Guardiola's next-gen wingers. And Olmo—Dani Olmo—one of La Roja's most technically gifted attackers, a player whose name had echoed through Barcelona's youth academy even years after his departure.
Mateo had faint memories of Olmo.
Back when Mateo was still being shown around La Masia's dormitories, Olmo was the poster child—the kid who had "made it." His coaches had thrown Olmo's name around as motivation, painting his journey as a blueprint for all the younger prospects. "Work hard. Be like Dani," they said. Olmo had already been in the process of signing his first professional contract while Mateo was still trying to memorize which locker was his.
For Mateo, seeing Olmo in person again—now as equals—was surreal.
But for Olmo and Ferran, recognizing the two Barcelona prodigies had been instant. It was impossible not to. Pedri, the heir apparent to Iniesta, the runaway favorite for this year's Golden Boy award. And Mateo King—football's latest obsession, the kid with superstar energy who couldn't go a week without lighting up the media.
So, naturally, they had all decided to hang out.
Four young stars, bonded by their shared age, their shared ambitions, and an unspoken acknowledgment of each other's talent. What had started as a casual meet-up quickly spiraled into competitive chaos.
Because that was where Pedri had made his mistake.
He hadn't listened.
"Mateo's too competitive. Don't play with him," Balde had warned once, back when Pedri had considered challenging Mateo to a game of FIFA in their dorms. Pedri had brushed it off, thinking it was an exaggeration.
That day, Mateo had won so Pedri didn't see what that warning entailed.
He hadn't seen the real truth behind Balde's warning.
But today, in this room, with Dani Olmo as the catalyst, Pedri understood.
Fully.
The second Olmo had beaten Mateo in a friendly table tennis game, it had unleashed a monster. Mateo's calls for rematches echoed through the building like battle cries. What was supposed to be a 10-minute stop had transformed into an hour-long war of pride, stubbornness, and relentless competition.
Pedri sighed again, deeper this time.
He slowly turned his head to the side.
Ferran, already looking at him, caught his gaze.
Neither said a word.
They didn't need to.
Their eyes spoke the same thought, clear as daylight.
"Yes. They are fools."
No debate. No further discussion needed.
Two hyper-competitive idiots locked in their own world while the sane half of the group stood back, resigned to being the only functioning neurons in the room.
The sharp blare of a ringtone sliced through the air, sudden and shrill like an alarm siren. Pedri flinched, his hand diving into his pocket as he fished out his phone, the screen glowing bright with a reminder notification. He stared at it for a beat, his lips tightening into a flat line before he muttered under his breath, voice low and tired.
"So much for our tour."
With a resigned sigh, Pedri pocketed his phone and stepped forward, making his way towards the still-raging spectacle at the table. From a few meters away, he could already hear Mateo's voice echoing through the hall, full of fire and zero self-awareness.
"One more game! Come on! The sweat made me lose that one! Let's go, Olmo, let's run it back real quick!"
Pedri's hand rose to his temple, massaging the side of his forehead as if that would ease the incoming headache. He didn't bother raising his voice—he just stood at the edge of the table and called out, firm but calm.
"Mateo, we need to start leaving now."
Mateo didn't even glance at him.
His eyes were locked onto Olmo, bat twirling in his fingers, his body already bouncing in anticipation of the next serve. His reply came automatically, as if Pedri's words were just background noise.
"Pedri, I'm coming—just one more match, don't worry! One more, and we'll get back to the tour. Sorry, bro, just wait, yeah?"
Pedri's eyelid twitched. He could feel it—the small, involuntary spasm right beneath his eye. His arms crossed over his chest as he exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience hanging by a thread.
"What tour, Mateo?" Pedri shot back, his tone edged now, cutting through the air. "That ship has sailed. It's almost time. We need to head to the tactics room—now."
The room seemed to pause for a second. The words "tactics room" carried weight. Olmo and Mateo, mid-preparation for another rally, halted. Their bats lowered slightly, their postures easing. Reality had finally knocked on the door.
Neither Pedri nor Mateo had any clue where the tactics room actually was.
But thankfully, they weren't alone.
Olmo and Ferran knew.
As the four of them regrouped near the exit, the earlier tension dissipated into easy laughter. Their strides fell into rhythm as they walked together, voices overlapping in a casual banter that only a group of young athletes could muster.
This was peak guy friendship—that strange phenomenon where, despite not knowing each other all that well, a single shared activity—be it table tennis, football, or FIFA trash talk—could forge an instant bond. They didn't need to know each other's favorite food or deep life stories. They had competed, joked, sweated together. That was more than enough.
There was no need for "bro," "dude," or "guy." They already knew each other's names, but even if they hadn't, the vibes would've made names feel optional.
The hallway ahead was bright and clean, lined with subtle federation banners, but their conversation carried more noise than their footsteps. After a few minutes, they reached a bend—a sleek walkway leading straight toward the tactics room.
The group's energy hadn't dropped. If anything, Mateo's competitive spirit had simply shifted gears.
"Look, trust me," Mateo said, his voice rising with mock arrogance as he turned towards Olmo. "You might beat me in table tennis, but FIFA? Don't even go there. I'm that good."
Olmo's laugh was instant—a sharp, hearty chuckle as he tossed a grin back over his shoulder.
"Yeah, same way you were talking big before the beating you just received, right?" Olmo shot back, his tone playful but merciless.
Mateo's hands flailed up in protest as he spluttered, "That's not fair! You saw the water! That's why I lost! Physics betrayed me!"
Olmo only laughed harder, his grin wide and his eyes glinting as he rattled off, "Oh yeah? And what about the one before that? And the one before that? And—let's not forget—the one before that."
He counted each "that" off on his fingers, making it impossible for Mateo to spin a reply.
Mateo's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again as he searched for a comeback that didn't exist.
"Well—uhm—" His voice cracked, his bravado folding like a cheap tent. But he recovered quickly, switching tactics, chin tilting up in defiance. "That doesn't matter! Table tennis isn't FIFA. Don't worry. When we're free, we'll play FIFA. Just don't say I didn't warn you, Olmo."
His tone was half-threat, half-plea, a last-ditch effort to reclaim some dignity.
Up ahead, a few steps in front, Ferran—who had been half-listening while chatting with Pedri—glanced over his shoulder, his pace slowing as a knowing smile tugged at his lips.
"We're here," Ferran announced, his hand gesturing casually to a doorway that had just come into view.
Mateo was mid-sentence, still caught up in his playful argument with Olmo, when his eyes drifted forward. The hallway they had been strolling down had funneled them into a quiet, serious-looking corridor. At the very end of it stood a large door—tall, polished wood with a thin silver strip cutting horizontally through its middle, giving it a sharp, professional edge. Above it, a small plaque glinted under the soft ceiling lights.
Tactics Room.
Ferran reached out first, his hand pushing open the door with an ease that belied the tension lingering behind it. The hinges gave a soft creak, the kind that announces arrival but not intrusion.
Pedri was the first to step in, his pace slowing as his eyes took in the scene. Olmo followed, calm and casual as ever, before Mateo, slightly trailing, entered as well—his head turning slowly as he absorbed his surroundings.
The room was eerily familiar.
Spacious, with pristine white walls, dark carpeting, and a large digital tactics board dominating the front. Rows of sleek black chairs were spread across the floor, each perfectly aligned yet generously spaced out. It felt like a copy-paste of the strategy rooms at Barcelona, but… sterile. No warmth. No familiar faces filling every chair with easy banter. It was the same—but wrong.
Mateo's instincts kicked in. Without thinking, he drifted towards Pedri, as if magnetized, the comfort of familiarity pulling him beside his teammate. The two young stars stood shoulder to shoulder, their gazes sweeping across the alien room.
Pedri broke the silence first.
"Well, this is—"
"Yeah. It's weird," Mateo finished, his tone reflecting the exact same unease Pedri had been about to voice.
The room was already filling up.
The entire Spanish national team was present, yet the atmosphere was far from what Mateo expected. It wasn't loud. It wasn't chaotic. It wasn't the kind of lively locker-room banter Barcelona had conditioned him to.
The players were scattered across the room in clusters, yet noticeably spaced out—as if an unspoken rule of separation hovered in the air. There were no official seat assignments, but invisible lines seemed to have been drawn.
On one edge, Rodri sat leaned back, arms crossed with a quiet confidence, Robert Sánchez beside him, spinning a water bottle lazily. Eric García, deep in conversation with Rodri, completed that small cluster. Ferran, naturally, strolled over to them and plopped into an empty chair, greeted with a nod.
Further across, Dani Olmo had made his way to a different pocket, casually joining Pau Torres and Mikel Oyarzabal. They exchanged easy smirks, clearly used to this clique's flow.
Mateo's eyes roamed to the back corner of the room, where a solitary figure sat, almost like a king who chose exile over the throne.
Was that—?
Yes.
Sergio Ramos.
The Real Madrid captain sat alone, back straight, head slightly bowed as if in thought, his fingers rhythmically tapping against the armrest. No one was near him. His mere presence seemed to carve out space, as if the aura around him repelled idle company.
The whole room was divided into clusters—national team cliques, but sharper, more fragmented. It wasn't just about club allegiances here. It was about territories. Familiarity was currency, and if you didn't belong to a pack, you floated.
As Mateo's eyes scanned, uncertain of where to sit, a movement in the corner caught his attention.
A hand waving.
Mateo followed it—his face easing into a grin as he recognized who it was.
Jordi Alba.
The veteran full-back had his arm up, gesturing towards them with a playful smile, his casual wave almost like a lighthouse guiding lost ships. Mateo nudged Pedri with his elbow.
"Dude, let's go."
Pedri, relieved, nodded and together they made their way towards Alba's row.
Alba's hand lowered when they got within earshot, his smile still present but tinged now with something sterner. His eyes flicked between them, measuring their expressions as if gauging how naive they still were.
"Where have you two been?" Alba asked, the tone light but with an undertone that made it clear it wasn't just small talk.
Mateo and Pedri exchanged a quick glance, both shrugging innocently. They had no idea how much they were about to get schooled.
Alba leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he spoke, his words calm, yet lined with experience.
"Listen… this isn't like club. Here, things are different. Don't get too caught up thinking it's all smiles and games. National team? It's not the same." His tone wasn't harsh, but it was precise, like an older brother who had seen enough to know where the dangers were hidden. "You're not at Barça now. You need to move different. Be aware of how things move around you. Not every teammate is a teammate like you're used to."
The weight of those words hung between them.
Beside Alba, Sergio Busquets, who had been silently observing, chose that moment to add his own layer of gravity.
"Remember, this isn't Barça," Busquets said, his voice carrying that slow, patient cadence of someone used to teaching hard truths. "Stay sharp. Watch. Listen. Vigilance—that's how you survive in this place."
The playful energy from earlier drained from Mateo and Pedri's faces. They both nodded, not out of obligation, but out of understanding.
Their expressions grew serious.
The door at the front of the room clicked open.
Mateo's attention snapped toward it, along with every other head in the room. A small group of men filed in, each dressed in the sharp, athletic attire of the national staff—black training tracksuits lined with Spain's crest, clipboards tucked under arms, folders in hand. Their faces were familiar to any player who had ever been on the squad sheets—assistants, analysts, fitness specialists. Silent, efficient, moving to their places like chess pieces sliding onto the board.
But behind them… came someone else.
Someone whose presence seemed to ripple through the air itself.
Luis Enrique.
The head coach of Spain's men's national team.
One of only four managers alive who could say they had conquered a treble. A Barcelona legend in his own right—now the man tasked with orchestrating Spain's return to footballing glory.
As he stepped into the room, the atmosphere subtly shifted. The idle murmurs faded. The playful postures straightened. Mateo felt it; even his own posture adjusted slightly, his back pressing firmer against his seat. Beside him, Pedri shifted too, both young men aware that this wasn't just another coach. This was the man whose decisions could shape or break careers.
Enrique was dressed cleanly—a slim-cut black tracksuit jacket zipped halfway up, the Spanish crest gleaming on his chest. No cap. No sunglasses. His dark hair, sprinkled with streaks of grey, was slicked back, and his trimmed beard sharpened the intensity of his expression. He wasn't flashy. He didn't need to be. His mere presence demanded attention.
He walked with calm, unhurried strides, his hands clasping a single notepad as he reached the front of the room. Turning to face his squad, he let his gaze sweep across the sea of faces. Veterans. Rookies. Superstars. Unproven talents. All here. All his responsibility.
A small smile tugged at his lips—not forced, but professional, the kind of expression that said: "I know what you're thinking, and I'm thinking it too."
"Well," he began, voice calm but carrying easily through the silent room, "it's been a while since we've all been in the same room together. Some familiar faces… and it looks like we've got some new ones in the family."
He paused, eyes glinting with a touch of dry humor as they scanned the room. "You know how it works. We're a team. New faces don't stay new for long."
He turned slightly, gesturing with an open palm. "Give it up for our latest additions—Bryan Gil, Robert Sánchez, Pedri…" His gaze shifted, landing on Mateo like a spotlight. "…and Mateo King."
The room responded with a polite chorus of applause, players clapping with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Some smiled genuinely. Others clapped perfunctorily. But Enrique's own hands moved too, slow, deliberate claps as his eyes lingered on the four newcomers, his focus narrowing in on Mateo.
Mateo King, ehn.
In the privacy of his thoughts, Luis Enrique's expression remained impassive, but his mind was already sifting through the layers beneath this call-up.
The media storm had been relentless.
He had faced enormous pressure since his appointment as Spain's head coach. Though results hadn't been catastrophic—he had comfortably qualified for the upcoming Euros and was topping the World Cup qualifying group—it wasn't enough.
Not for Spain.
This was the bare minimum.
The murmurs of discontent from certain corners of the Spanish Football Federation had grown louder. His squad selections were under constant fire. Madrid-based media had branded him "biased," accusing him of leaning too heavily towards Barcelona-affiliated players while "snubbing" Real Madrid talents.
And the flashpoint had been Mateo.
A player with just eight senior appearances to his name.
Promising? Yes.
But in the eyes of critics, Enrique's decision to call him up was reckless favoritism. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that, in this very squad, the only Real Madrid player selected was Sergio Ramos. It had reignited a media war.
He had once snapped at a press conference, coldly firing back: "I bring the players I believe are best. If you want others, become the coach yourself."
The fallout from that statement had been volcanic. Madrid-based outlets had gone on the offensive. Pundits had lined up to dissect his bias. Every squad list was now scrutinized for political undertones.
But the irony of it all?
The real pushback against Mateo King's inclusion hadn't come from the media.
It had come from Barcelona.
The club's hierarchy had been furious. They had called. Emailed. Sent representatives to "advise" against Mateo's early exposure to the national team environment. They argued that the boy was still developing—that removing him from the carefully controlled atmosphere of La Masia and Camp Nou at this delicate stage was reckless. They warned of his physical limitations, of the dangers of overuse. In not-so-subtle terms, they had pleaded: "Don't start him. Don't burn him out."
Luis Enrique had listened.
And then he had done what Luis Enrique always did.
He made his own decision.
As his gaze remained on Mateo, another memory flickered in his mind—recent, sharp. A conversation not with a journalist or a Spanish executive, but a business tycoon whose words had come laced with Gulf Arabic intonations:
"We would be honored to have you on board, Mr. Enrique. And we heard you are Spain's national head coach. How would you feel about working with Mateo King? After You leave there"
It had been an intriguing proposition. One that Enrique hadn't outright declined. After all, even he could see where his national team tenure was heading. The countdown had started. The media knives were sharpening. A new opportunity—one that perhaps sounded more French than Spanish—was already peeking over the horizon.
But that was for later.
For now, his attention was on the boy sitting in front of him. The media's "Barcelona's new toy." The club's "fragile project."
"Well, kid," Enrique thought as he clapped a final time, his expression unreadable, "let's see what you're made of then."
The meeting rolled on, but it was clear from the atmosphere that this was more of a welcome briefing than any hardcore tactical session. No training drills. No video breakdowns. Just words and introductions. Luis Enrique had made it clear—training wouldn't start until tomorrow. For now, it was about acclimatization.
The assistant coaches went over the logistics, flipping through papers, pointing at schedules projected onto the wall. Luckily, Spain's upcoming matches were all set on home soil. No flights. No jet lag. They were staying in Spain. That, at least, was a small mercy.
But make no mistake.
These were still World Cup Qualifiers.
Spain was in Group B, alongside Sweden, Greece, Georgia, and Kosovo. On paper, it wasn't the "Group of Death." But Spain's recent form had left little room for arrogance. The golden years of tiki-taka dominance had dimmed. The world had caught up, and now Spain was fighting not just to win, but to reclaim respect.
Even so, these teams weren't on Spain's level.
Not yet.
Spain sat at the top of the group table. The upcoming fixtures—Greece, Georgia, and Kosovo—were seen as manageable hurdles. Important, yes, but winnable. The kind of matches that sharpen a team's rhythm heading into bigger tournaments. Luis Enrique described them as a "warm-up campaign"—preparation for the real battle that loomed later in the year.
The Euros.
"This is where we build chemistry," Enrique said, pacing casually in front of the seated players. "What we do in these games will dictate who we are when we step into the Euros. That's the focus."
He ran through tactical basics—Spain's traditional possession-heavy approach, emphasizing movement, controlling the middle third, suffocating teams into submission. But he also stressed adaptability. The world had evolved. So must Spain. Players listened, some nodding, others absorbing in silence. It wasn't a deep dive into formations yet. That would come tomorrow. For now, it was about planting the seeds.
After an hour, the meeting wrapped up. The players were dismissed with a simple instruction:
"Don't leave the building."
It wasn't a prison, but it was a controlled environment. Focus had to be maintained. Distractions were the enemy now.
For Mateo and Pedri, the words of Alba and Busquets still echoed in their heads. Their easy-going, carefree behavior had been checked. They still joked around, still smiled and chatted with Olmo and Ferran Torres. They even mingled with a few other younger players around their age. But their mannerisms had shifted.
They weren't just kids hanging out anymore.
They were Barcelona representatives at the Spanish national level. Everything they did, every conversation, every movement—was being watched.
For the next two days, life moved in a blur.
Tactics. Talks. Training.
The "Three T's" became their entire existence.
Sessions on pressing triggers. Positional drills. Video analysis. Tactical theory. Fitness circuits. Media protocols. Every hour was accounted for. Every moment designed to fine-tune the machine.
And before they even realized it—
Match day arrived.
Spain vs. Greece.
The first hurdle.
The Estadio Nuevo Los Cármenes in Granada hummed with anticipation. The lineup sheet had dropped earlier that morning, and it sent a quiet shockwave through the camp.
Mateo King.
Starting.
For a second, he had stared at the announcement, half expecting it to be a typo. His name. In the starting eleven. His first professional game for the Spanish national team was officially underway.
He was no longer the La Masia prodigy.
He was Spain's number nine today.
A/N
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