"Nah, this is insane!" Mateo's voice echoed at the back of the van, excitement clear even over the soft hum of the engine. He held the announcement video in his hands, eyes glued to the screen. The footage wasn't final — there were still edits and tweaks to come — but even in its rough form, Mateo could tell it was going to be sick.
"Who thought of this? It's really good! And… how did you get those old videos of them? I've seen Messi's own, obviously, but not the rest," he said, his voice a mix of awe and curiosity. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from the camera in his hands and looked around at the media team crammed into the van with him.
They were on their way to the Gamper Training Center. Mateo had requested a ride — his car hadn't arrived yet, and even if it had, he didn't have a driver's license, nor did he really have the skills to drive safely yet. Mental note: remember to start practicing. Shit, should have done it back then. He remembered in La Masia, there was a local driving school that came to train students interested in learning, but he and some friends would often sneak out. They'd skip the classes to watch matches, play games, or just goof off. He had no idea those little rebellions would come back to bite him now.
As his thoughts drifted, John, who had been behind the wheel the whole time, brought him back to reality. "The club has a habit of doing these kinds of videos for their students," John explained, keeping his eyes on the road. "You just didn't know about it because after Messi's blew up, we changed our methods. You should be familiar with the new ones… the pictures of the bathing scenes…"
Mateo's eyes widened. "Ooo…" he breathed, caught between shock and curiosity.
John continued, casual but precise. "Yeah, the others didn't blow up the way we intended. But then Sarah got the idea — we could use them to make a kind of oldie collab. Honestly, I didn't think it would really fit… or rather, I wasn't sure if we should do it."
"Ehn?" Mateo muttered, both surprised and confused, trying to process what John had just said.
"What do you mean, 'if we should do it'? The video is sick! I'm sure it's going to get people talking," Mateo said, a grin spreading across his face as he remembered the clips. He could already picture the fans reacting online, memes flying, and the buzz building around him. The excitement in his chest made him almost bounce in his seat.
John, catching a glimpse of Mateo's smile through the rearview mirror, simply sighed. "That's exactly the issue," he muttered, eyes still fixed on the road, leaving Mateo even more frustrated.
"Dude, what's with this Yoda shit? Speak if you want to speak! You're just making me more confused here," Mateo snapped, his hands gesturing slightly as he leaned forward.
A vein twitched at John's temple, and he finally raised his voice. "See? Stop disturbing me. Ask Sarah — she was the one who came up with the idea. I'm driving here!"
John rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath so only he could hear, "Also, what's wrong with how I speak? My girlfriend said the same thing yesterday…"
As John went into a mini-epiphany about driving responsibilities and creative disagreements, Mateo let him be. Instead, he turned his attention to Sarah, sitting beside him. She was completely absorbed, headphones on, aggressively typing away on her laptop. She was clearly immersed in editing the video, oblivious to the tension building between him and John.
"Sarah… Sarah," Mateo called softly at first, leaning slightly to get her attention. When she didn't respond, he lightly tapped her arm. She jolted, pulled her headphones down a little, and blinked at him, startled.
Before she could ask what was up, Mateo jumped straight in: "Do you know what John means? What's wrong with the video?"
"Ehn… is something wrong with the video?" Sarah asked, a hint of panic creeping into her voice. She had been so focused on editing that she hadn't even caught their side conversation, and now she feared something serious had gone wrong with the footage.
"Calm down," John interjected quickly, seeing her worry. "Nothing's wrong with the video. I was just trying to explain the kind of image shift the video could create once it's released — the attention it would generate. That's all."
Sarah's shoulders relaxed, a small smile appearing. "Oo…" she said, finally understanding, relief flooding her face.
"Yeah," John confirmed, nodding slightly as he kept his focus on the road.
Mateo, having listened patiently while they sorted out the confusion, finally spoke up. "Yeah, okay… he said something about being worried about the media attention it would release. But I thought that's what we wanted, though?"
"Yeah, but I also understand what he's talking about," Sarah said, her voice carrying loud enough that John in the front seat could hear clearly. "It's something we've already weighed and discussed extensively, and we still decided to go through with it. So I don't know why he's still mentioning it."
John, hands on the wheel, let out a short, dismissive sigh. "Just relax. I was just trying to explain it to the kid, that's all," he said, eyes still on the road.
"Told you to stop calling me that," Mateo shot back, his tone sharp but not angry.
"Yeah, yeah," John muttered, waving a hand without looking back. Mateo, already used to John's tendencies, ignored him, his attention shifting back to Sarah.
"So… what does he mean?" Mateo asked, leaning slightly forward, curious and eager for clarity.
Sarah paused, as if weighing her words. "Well… how can I explain this…" She then brightened, snapping her fingers as if a sudden idea had struck her. "Oo, let me put it like this."
"You know what PR is, right?" she asked, turning to him.
"Of course," Mateo said confidently, "public relations, right?"
"Yeah, exactly," she replied. "But most people think PR is just about how much the public is talking about you."
"Yeah, isn't that it?" Mateo asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well… it's a bit more nuanced than that," Sarah explained, leaning back slightly. "It's about what the public is saying about you. Are they talking positively or negatively? PR is PR, but the image you project matters a lot — more than just chatter."
Mateo nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of her words. Sarah, muttering to herself, continued, "The reason John and the others are worried is because we're not exactly using our standard methods with you. Barcelona has a very defined way of managing player PR, but with you, we're going in a completely different direction."
Mateo's eyes widened. "Wait… what? How different?"
Ehn. Sarah leaned forward slightly, her tone casual but instructive. "Think of it like this: you play FIFA, right?"
"Yeah," Mateo said.
"You know the Journey mode, right?" she continued. "When Alex talks to the media, there are always three choices: Fiery, Balanced, and Cool and how they each create a different outcome."
Mateo nodded again, recalling how each choice affected the outcome of the game.
"Exactly," Sarah said. "Even in the real world, the way your image and PR are managed can affect your endorsements, your sponsorships, and even public perception. Normally, for players we've had in the past, we tend to lean more towards the 'cool' approach. But with you… we're thinking of pushing slightly towards 'balanced,' with a hint of 'fiery.'"
"Ooo," Mateo murmured, intrigued.
John, glancing back from the front seat, added, "Think of it like this: in football, there's Messi and there's Ronaldo. Two completely different PR styles. You'd be somewhere in the middle of that spectrum."
Mateo kept nodding, the concept slowly clicking in his mind. Sarah smiled at him, a spark of enthusiasm in her eyes. "Honestly, when you told me about the kind of image you wanted to snap at the Bayern game, I started thinking about this idea. I truly believe this style suits you better. Trust me… or better yet, trust your instincts. There's a reason you loved the video and the concept. This approach matches your personality and your playing style. You're a footballer first — PR will follow naturally. Just focus on your performance on the pitch; everything else will fall into place."
The discussion left Mateo's mind buzzing with new insights. Before this, he had thought popularity was enough — that being talked about was all that mattered. Now he realized there was far more to consider: the subtleties of image, perception, and narrative. "Well," he thought to himself, "I guess we keep learning."
With that mindset, energized and enlightened, Mateo entered the Gamper Training Center main gate, ready for the next phase of his journey.
"Okay then, Mateo. See you later. The video should be up by, let's say, 9 PM. You can check it out then. Bye!" Sarah called over, waving energetically as she walked away. Mateo didn't respond verbally, simply lifting a hand in acknowledgment before letting it drop. Over the past few weeks, ever since he had started working closely with the media team, he had grown comfortable around them. He knew most of their faces, their habits, even the little inside jokes they shared. Watching Sarah move toward the center of the building, Mateo relaxed slightly and began walking, hands loosely at his sides.
Almost immediately, he noticed the eyes. So many eyes. While this wasn't new—he had long been accustomed to people watching him since joining the first team—there was something different about this attention. It felt more intense, more curious. As he walked, he caught glimpses of people whispering, turning to their colleagues with rapid, excited movements. He strained his ears to pick up bits and pieces of the louder voices.
"I heard he just signed here at the stadium. My friend over there said they saw him with the executives," one voice said, clearly trying to impress a nearby coworker.
"Yeah, I heard he's even our new number 9. That's insane," another added.
"Didn't they have to send someone over to the previous player to get him to release it? Heard he was really angry," a third voice chimed in.
"You guys aren't even mentioning the main issue—his contract is over six million dollars!"
"Six million? That's insane! Isn't he, like… 17 years old?"
"I swear, I can't even remember what I was doing at that age. Even now, my yearly salary is what… thirty thousand? And this kid is making millions. That's crazy."
"Well, if you want to earn that much, you should have gone to play a sport," someone else muttered.
"Come on, I'm 34 now, but know this—I'm enrolling my son. I've already bought kits, applied him… everything," another voice boasted.
"Isn't your kid, like, one year old?"
Mateo could feel their eyes on him as he moved through the crowd, whispers ricocheting off the walls, his presence drawing attention without him even trying. It was awkward, but in a way, it also felt… validating. Despite the team having a match against Cádiz tomorrow, he wasn't included in the lineup sheet. The first time he would miss a game since returning, a precautionary measure recommended by the medical staff after the intense Bayern match.
His steps carried him toward the medical zone of the training facility. The area was massive, almost a small hospital in itself: medical rooms, consultation offices, a therapy center, rehabilitation suites, a recovery room, gym area, and the performance science lab. Everything was designed to optimize player health and recovery. Mateo's eyes scanned the space as he walked, taking in the pristine, state-of-the-art equipment and organized chaos of staff moving between rooms, checking charts, and assisting players. He didn't linger; he had a destination in mind and moved with purpose, weaving past staff and all as he moved toward the office he needed to reach.
...
"So you want to cut back on your training?"
Shortly after stepping into the pristine, white-tiled office, Mateo found himself facing Dr. Ramon Canal, the head of Barcelona's medical services. The man's gaze was sharp, clinical, but not unkind, as he processed the request the young star had just made.
"No, no," Mateo hurriedly clarified, leaning slightly forward, "I'm not saying I want to cut back exactly. I just want to adjust some of the specialized drills I've been doing and focus more on stamina training." His voice carried a mix of determination and urgency. The memory of the previous game in Munich still stung—he had been caught off guard, stranded at the wrong moments, and felt weaker than he ever wanted to feel again. That day had left a mark, and now he was determined to change things, to ensure he would never feel powerless on the pitch.
"Hmmm… I see," Dr. Ramon replied, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Mateo had only met him in person now, but the doctor already knew the boy's history. He had designed the very training regime Mateo wanted to modify, carefully balancing skill development, stamina, and tactical awareness.
"Mateo, this is complicated," Dr. Ramon began, leaning back slightly in his chair. "A lot of thought has gone into your current training. Adjusting it isn't just about swapping drills—it affects your diet, your recovery periods, and even your other abilities. Focusing too much on one area could unintentionally cause a decline in another. Everything has been calibrated to maintain balance."
Mateo opened his mouth to argue, but the doctor raised a hand gently, cutting him off. "Listen… with the way you're progressing—if you truly stick to the training, maintain consistency and focus—by the middle of next season, you should be able to play a full ninety minutes without feeling drained. You could even handle some minutes of extra time."
"Next season?!" Mateo's voice shot up, startling Dr. Ramon. The teen's face was a mixture of disbelief and frustration, eyes wide.
Realizing his reaction, Mateo quickly added, "Sorry, sir! It's just… that's too long. I've already spoken to the coach. He said there's no issue; I just need your clearance, and I can start the new training immediately." His words came in a rush, each sentence tumbling over the next. "And if it's about my other abilities—you're worried they'll decline—don't be. I know my talent and my abilities better than anyone," he added, a confident smile tugging at his lips.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his stats on the status screen and not just the numbers or even the subtle improvements but more on the new abilities he had unlocked after that intense Munich match. It was proof that his plan wasn't reckless—it was calculated, informed, and if done right before the end of the season he should be able to do a full 90 minutes of playing time.
After a long moment, Dr. Ramon's stern expression softened slightly. Mateo could tell he had made an impression. Feeling satisfied with the discussion and having convinced the medical head, Mateo stepped out of the office, a surge of energy pushing him forward. He had finished his business here, but there were messages waiting at the dorm from his friends, and he planned to head there soon.
Yet, before he could take another step, a slight turn in the hallway revealed an unexpected presence—a surprise he hadn't anticipated.
As Mateo turned the corner, his eyes caught sight of someone standing there, small cast wrapped around one knee, talking intently to another staff member. At first, he froze, caught between surprise and disbelief. The figure looked familiar, yet seeing him here, so unexpectedly, made Mateo's heart skip a beat.
"Fati," Mateo breathed out, recognition lighting up his face.
It was Anssumane Fati Vieira, his former senior at La Masia and now his teammate, standing there in the middle of the hallway. Mateo's initial shock melted into a wide grin as Fati turned, eyes widening briefly before breaking into a smile.
"Mateo!" Fati called, voice bright and genuine.
The two of them immediately laughed, the kind of laugh that carried years of shared memories and camaraderie. They shook hands and bumped shoulders, a mix of excitement and relief in their movements.
"Dude! Why didn't you tell me you were back?" Mateo said, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "How's the leg? Are you okay?"
Fati laughed again, a rich, warm sound that made the hallway feel lighter. " It is so nice seeing you how's the guys i have been watching you dude you are insane I'm busy now, but we'll talk soon. Ahh, it's so good seeing you! We have to grab lunch sometime." He ruffled Mateo's hair playfully before turning, his casted leg swaying slightly as he walked toward the medical wing.
Mateo watched him go, a huge smile still plastered on his face, feeling the warmth of seeing an old friend and teammate after such a long time.
With that small encounter lifting his spirits, Mateo made his way toward the tactics room, anticipation buzzing through him. Pushing the door open silently, he was immediately met with a wave of noise—shouts, yells, and groans echoing off the walls.
"Oooooo! No! No! No! Away! Away!"
The chorus of different voices hit him all at once. Mateo paused for a second, taking in the scene. Inside, every player, even the coach, was fixated on the massive screen at the front of the room. Mateo's eyes immediately followed the screen and the reason for the commotion became clear: the match between Real Sociedad and Atlético Madrid was playing, and the cause of all the chaos was obvious.
Real Sociedad were leading 1-0.
"Fuck, that's true… it's time for their match," Mateo muttered under his breath, his heart rate picking up as the realization hit him. He knew just how critical this game was. Without wasting a second, he moved swiftly toward his usual spot beside Pedri, the 18-year-old midfield genius, who was completely absorbed in the unfolding action on the screen. Mateo didn't care that Pedri hadn't even noticed him settle in; like everyone else in the room, he was glued to the match, fully aware of the stakes at hand.
Right now, Atlético Madrid sat three points clear of Them, with a game in hand that was currently in progress. If Atlético won this match, they would extend their lead to six points, effectively taking the initiative to win the league away from Barcelona. But if Atlético slipped up, They would remain just three points behind. That would mean Barcelona, if they won all their remaining fixtures—including the final-day showdown against Atlético—could still claim the league title. Even if both sides ended the season on equal points, Barcelona would win, not because of goal difference, but thanks to the league's head-to-head rule.
La Liga, unlike most other top-five European leagues, uses a head-to-head system. In short, if two teams finish the season tied on points, the results between those two teams determine the higher-placed side. Goal difference only comes into play if the head-to-head is also equal. For Barcelona, this worked in their favor—they had drawn the first fixture against Atlético earlier in the season. If they won their remaining matches, they could still lift the title, and given their insane Winning streak in recent months, that seemed entirely possible.
But all of that strategic calculus melted away in Mateo's mind as his eyes locked on the screen. Alexander Isak, Real Sociedad's striker, was barreling down the pitch, one-on-one with Oblak after a perfectly timed through ball. No defenders were in sight. The tension in the room ratcheted up instantly, players muttering under their breath, "Go… go… score!" The air was thick with anticipation.
Isak's first touch, however, betrayed him. The ball skidded away slightly, giving Oblak a chance to recover, and the two men collided heavily. Isak went down hard, the ball rolling just out of his immediate reach.
Pedri, sitting frozen beside him, opened his mouth to scream in frustration, but before a sound could escape, a deafening shout pierced the room.
"PEN! PEN! THAT'S A PENALTY!"
Startled, Pedri whipped his head to the side, his eyes widening. Mateo was standing, arms raised high, his voice booming over everyone else's as he screamed at the top of his lungs.
"Ehn, Mateo? When did you get here?" Pedri said, his voice a mix of shock and amusement as he tried to process the scene.
Pedri's voice rang through the room, cutting through the excitement and tension of the match.
"They're checking VAR!" one player shouted, the collective eyes of the team fixed on the screen.
"Why is that? That's a clear penalty… what's going on?" another chimed in, disbelief in his voice.
Amidst the chaos, all eyes briefly shifted from the game to the source of a new commotion.
"Mateo, when did you get here?" a few voices called out, laughter and teasing laced through their tones.
"Didn't the coach give you a break? What did you miss us, ehn, ehn?"
The room collectively turned toward Mateo, leaving the match momentarily forgotten. The players' smiles and playful jabs reflected the camaraderie and warmth they had for the young striker. Mateo felt the genuine affection from his teammates and grinned in return, ready to respond.
Before he could even speak, someone from the front of the room shouted, "They gave it! PEN! PEN!"
All attention snapped back to the screen as Isak prepared to take the penalty. The energy in the room surged instantly, tension and excitement mingling in equal measure.
Pedri leaned slightly toward Mateo, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Hey, didn't know you were coming."
"Yeah, man," Mateo replied, his tone casual but carrying enthusiasm. "Went to visit the medical team. Then said I should come greet you all… and I saw you were watching the match anyway."
Pedri opened his mouth to respond with a question about the signing, "Oo, well, how—"
But before Mateo could answer, the room erupted in a deafening roar.
"GOALLLL! GOALLL!"
Isak had struck the ball perfectly into the top-right corner. Oblak dived, but his outstretched hands couldn't reach it. The room exploded in chaos—screams, shouts, claps, and whistles filled every corner.
The minutes that followed were a blur of energy. Even seasoned first-team players, professionals who had spent years in elite matches, were completely absorbed. They shouted, groaned, cheered, and debated every play. Their passion for the game shone through in every reaction, especially since the result directly impacted Barcelona's title hopes.
Atlético's aggressive attacks in the final minutes failed to break through, and when the referee finally blew the whistle, the result was sealed: Real Sociedad had beaten the league leaders 2-0 at home. But the real celebration was happening in this room at Barcelona's training facility.
"Yesss! Wooo!" players shouted, jumping and slapping each other on the back. Laughter and chants filled the space. Just being there, it felt like they had already won the title.
"Dude, I'm telling you," one player said to another, gesturing animatedly. "Isak was unreal today—maybe we should think about signing him. At least by then we would have a striker who play a full 90 minutes!"
Mateo laughed and shook his head, "Ah ah, funny, funny. But please, De Jong, you can only talk back to me when you score a hat trick in the Champions League quarter-finals!"
"Ooooo!" the room shouted in unison, teasing him further.
"Look at him, fangs out today! He isn't even afraid of his seniors anymore, ehn kid!" another chimed in.
The atmosphere was harmonious, electric with laughter, jokes, and the playful ribbing that only teammates who respected and trusted each other could share. Even Messi, sitting in the middle, leaned back and laughed straight from the heart, thoroughly enjoying the moment.
"Okay, okay, settle down, settle down!" Koeman's voice cut through the noise as he strode to the front of the room. The team gradually quieted, eyes on their coach as he prepared to speak.
"I know you guys are happy, as I am," Koeman began, "but there's still a long way to go. We still have six games to play in the league, and next week, we face Bayern. Despite winning the first leg, it's not over. Do you hear me? It's not over!"
His voice grew more intense, resonant with authority. "This is the final stretch. We cannot let up now. The next few matches will be the most important of the season. This is where we show up—now, more than ever!"
He let the words sink in, then raised his voice again, shouting, "Are you ready, team?"
"YES, GAFFER!" came the collective reply, thunderous and unified.
"I'm not hearing you!" he barked, prompting a louder response.
"YES, GAFFER!"
"That's the spirit! Now, go, go, go! The field is waiting. Let's get a solid workout in before tomorrow's match!"
"Oh man… we just finished one before the match started," Pedri groaned, massaging his calves as he trudged out of the tactics room, clearly exhausted. Mateo couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head at his teammate's dramatic display. He started jogging after him, the sound of his own laughter mingling with the murmurs and movement of the other players around him.
Just as he was about to turn a corner, a soft, authoritative voice called from behind him.
"What's funny?"
Startled, Mateo spun around, only to find Koeman standing just a few steps away, arms crossed and a curious look on his face. Mateo quickly straightened, trying to hide his amusement.
"Oo… nothing, Gaffer," Mateo said, forcing a casual tone. "Was just discussing something with the guys, that's all."
Koeman hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes scanning Mateo with a mix of amusement and seriousness. "Hmm… well, what are you doing here? From what I know, you shouldn't be on the training ground until Monday."
Mateo nodded respectfully. "I know, sir. I just came over to check on the team, that's all."
"That's good," Koeman said, his voice softening slightly. "Just don't stress yourself. The medical staff insist you rest—your legs need it. Honestly, it's all my fault. If I had just pulled you earlier, none of this would have happened."
Mateo shook his head, smiling faintly. "Oo, don't stress it, coach. It's my fault for being weak. If I were more fit, you wouldn't have thought to rest me for such important matches."
He didn't mention the fact that, with the Camp Nou thanks to his system, he could technically handle a full ninety minutes and then some. Explaining that to the medical staff—or even the team—would be impossible. Their insistence after the Bayern match was unusually strict, and he wasn't about to argue with them or expose his secrets.
"That's great, kid," Koeman said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Honestly, we need you back at full condition for the game on Wednesday against Bayern. So get plenty of rest."
"Of course, Gaffer," Mateo replied, nodding firmly. "You can count on me."
After his conversation with the gaffer, Mateo didn't linger. He turned on his heel and headed straight toward the dorm area of the training center. His pace was brisk, a mix of excitement and responsibility driving him forward. As he walked, he idly checked the La Liga table on his phone, eyes flicking over the standings and mentally calculating scenarios for the upcoming matches.
Position | Team | Played | Wins | Draws | Losses | Points
----------------------------------------------------------------------
1 | Atlético Madrid | 32 | 24 | 5 | 3 | 77
2 | Barcelona | 32 | 23 | 5 | 4 | 74
3 | Real Madrid | 32 | 21 | 8 | 3 | 71
4 | Real Sociedad | 32 | 18 | 7 | 7 | 61
5 | Sevilla | 32 | 18 | 6 | 8 | 60
Barcelona were, as expected, just three points behind Atlético. Mateo's body practically trembled with excitement. Despite it being his very first season with the first team, he couldn't help but dream big. "Imagine… I win La Liga and the Champions League in my first season," he thought, a wide grin spreading across his face as he walked toward his room. His energy was almost uncontrollable; he bounced slightly with each step, barely able to keep his focus steady.
He opened the door, still glued to his phone, replying to a flood of messages—some from Gavi, some from his mom, dad, uncles, aunts. His mother had even reminded him to find a spare moment so they could visit her family home so he could meet his grandmother who had apparently been looking for him to speak with. Mateo's fingers flew across the screen, responding as he walked deeper into the room.
Then, out of nowhere, a booming voice shouted, "Surpriseee!"
Mateo froze mid-step, heart pounding in his chest. He looked up and saw the room packed with familiar faces—his La Masia trainers, the dorm "mother," his closest friends Gavi, Fermin, Baldé, and the rest. Even Lamine, his uncle's latest signing, was there. Javi, the ever-watchful gateman, stood near the doorway, grinning. Smiles and laughter filled the space, and Mateo's chest tightened with a mix of shock and joy.
"What… what's this?" he exclaimed, a small smile beginning to creep onto his face despite the initial scare.
Laughter erupted around him, and Baldé stepped forward, clapping him on the shoulder. "Dude! We heard the news! You're officially a first-team player! Congrats, mahn!"
Mateo's grin widened as Baldé extended his hand. One by one, congratulations poured in, hands were shaken, pats on the back given, and cheers echoed throughout the already cramped dorm room.
The room, once tight, seemed even smaller as everyone squeezed in to celebrate. Slowly, the visitors began to leave—Javi first, returning to the gate, followed by the trainers, until only Mateo's closest friends remained, along with one particularly persistent junior.
....
"Mateo… let me stay here tonight!" Lamine, the thirteen-year-old prodigy, pleaded, looking up at Mateo with wide, hopeful eyes as the other seniors teased him and nudged him toward the door.
Gavi shook his head with a laugh. "Lamine, go back to your room. It's already late—time for curfew."
Lamine pouted, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "But… but I still wanted to ask some things! What was it like? Did you meet Laporta? Which pen did you use? Is there like… a special pen or something?"
Mateo couldn't help but burst into laughter at the rapid-fire questions. "What special pen?" he said between chuckles, shaking his head. "See, Lamine, it's already late. Don't worry. Tomorrow, you and your friend Curbasi just get dressed, and I'll carry you guys to watch the match. Then, I'll answer all your questions—every single one."
Lamine's eyes lit up as he bolted toward the door. "Wait, seriously? It's a promise? Don't forget—I can't wait to tell Curbasi!"
Mateo leaned against the wall, still laughing as he watched Lamine disappear down the hallway. "That kid… he's something else," he muttered.
Gavi snickered from the corner of the room. "Like you're one to talk."
Mateo raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"
Casado grinned, leaning back on his bed. "It means… you were exactly like that when you were younger."
Baldé laughed, shaking his head. "Younger? He's still like that!"
The group of friends erupted into laughter, the tension in the room melting away. Slowly, they started unpacking their PlayStation, controllers in hand, as the room transformed into a hub of jokes, teasing, and playful competition. For the moment, it wasn't about contracts, first-team promotions, or million-dollar deals—it was just a group of friends hanging out.
"I'm telling you, the apartment is insane," Mateo said, leaning back and gesturing animatedly. "You guys need to see it. It's massive, and the view…" He trailed off, his eyes lighting up with excitement.
The mood softened after a while, and Fermin let out a sigh. "So… that means you're leaving soon, huh?"
Mateo chuckled, shaking his head. "What's with the mood? The place isn't far from here. We can still see each other like always. Chill."
Gavi leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Dude, you don't need to cheer us up. Have you forgotten our goal?"
The whole room smiled, the familiar warmth of friendship settling over them. The five of them had made a pact: to make it in football together, all playing for Barcelona, earning millions, buying mansions side by side, driving luxury cars—living the dream as a team.
"Exactly," Casado said with a grin. "You're just going ahead first. Don't worry—we'll catch up soon."
Baldé smirked, nudging Gavi. "In fact… show him."
Mateo furrowed his brow in confusion. "Show me what?"
Gavi just smiled knowingly, reaching into his pillowcase. He pulled out a folded ticket and held it up. "See?"
Mateo's eyes went wide. "No way!"
Gavi chuckled. "The new coach gave it to me today after training."
Mateo jumped up, a grin splitting his face. "Dude, congrats, mahn! This is huge!"
The rest of the friends laughed, clapping and teasing him as the excitement in the room soared, everyone caught up in the thrill of football, friendship, and the dreams they shared.
If an outsider had walked into the dorm at that moment, they probably would have thought it was just a regular home-game ticket causing a minor excitement. But anyone who had been through La Masia knew better. That ticket wasn't just for a match—it was a signal, a subtle but powerful nod from the youth coaches. Receiving a ticket for the next home game meant one thing: "Go check out your new teammates, see how they play." It was almost an unspoken promise that promotion to the first team wasn't far off, that the club had its eyes on you and it was only a matter of time before your name would be called.
"Calm down, it's not that big a deal. Baldé also got one too," Gavi said, trying to remain cool, though the wide grin on his face betrayed him.
"Wait… really? Even you too, Baldé?" Mateo asked, eyes darting between his friend and the ticket in his hand.
Baldé just smirked and shook his head. "You're one to talk. We saw the pictures online, ehn… Mr. 9."
Mateo froze, confusion knitting his brows. "Ehn… pictures? What pictures?"
Before he could dwell on it, Fermin pulled out his phone and showed him. Mateo's eyes widened as he scrolled through the posts from Fabrizo. A few of them were shocking, almost jarring. Only minutes after he had signed his contract, Fabrizo had posted about it online—highlighting Mateo's new professional deal with Barcelona, even including some of the financials, though not in full detail.
And then Mateo saw the post Baldé had been talking about. His jaw nearly dropped. There it was, bold and unmistakable: a post announcing him as Barcelona's new number 9. There were pictures too—some from the signing, some from when he had first worn the jersey. It was a mix of pride, excitement, and disbelief all wrapped into one.
"Ooo… that's—" Mateo started, but then froze, catching sight of the clock in the corner: 9:15.
"Oh my God… 9 has passed! The video should have come out!" he exclaimed, fumbling for his phone. His fingers moved quickly, almost shaking, as he searched for Barcelona's official page. The rest of his friends leaned in, curious.
"What video?" someone asked.
Mateo barely looked up. "The Annoucement video I did… they said it would be out by 9," he said, his voice a mix of excitement and urgency.
As soon as the page loaded, Mateo didn't need to scroll far. Right at the top, Barcelona's official account had posted an acknowledgment of his signing to a professional contract. And just below it… there it was. A video, waiting for him.
The title was simple, yet iconic: it was just his name KING. Mateo stared at it for a moment, feeling a swell of pride and anticipation. The runtime read 2 minutes and 27 seconds. A smile slowly spread across his face as he turned to his friends.
"Oi! Come here! You guys need to see this!" he shouted, the excitement in his voice unmistakable, as he waved them over to gather around the screen.
A/N
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