"What are you doing here?"
The voice came low but sharp, floating in from behind just as Mateo was hunched down, fingers tugging on the knot of his right shoelace.
He looked up slowly—eyebrows rising slightly as he caught sight of Gavi, standing there in the doorway, arms folded loosely, hair still damp from the shower, staring at him with an expression that was more tangled than angry. Not cold, not exactly confrontational—just… complicated.
Mateo blinked. Then cracked a grin.
"Well…" he said, dragging out the word with a grin as he rose to one knee like he was about to propose to the air, "...one second I was tying my shoelace. Next thing you know, boom—I'm back home having a heart-to-heart with my grumpy-ass roommate."
He glanced up at Gavi with that lopsided, cheeky smile—the one that always looked like he was seconds away from starting trouble.
"Right now though," he muttered dryly, eyes dropping back to his shoe, "I'm hopefully just tying this damn lace without falling over. Fingers crossed."
He tugged at the stubborn knot again. Classic Mateo—trying to sneak humor into tension like it was a shield. But Gavi didn't flinch, didn't smirk, didn't budge.
Stone-faced.
"Thought you said you were gone for the entire day," Gavi said, his voice low, not confrontational—more… quiet. Measured. "Something really important to do, remember? So... why are you back?"
He wasn't mad. Not really. Not even disappointed. The way he looked at Mateo—it was something softer. Like someone who didn't want to feel left out, but already had.
Mateo froze for a moment.
The silence stretched just a bit too long before he sighed, rising slowly to his feet, brushing off the side of his shorts as he straightened up to face him.
"Okay, jokes aside," Mateo said, voice low now—tone shifting completely. "I owe you an apology, man."
He looked Gavi dead in the eye now, shoulders falling ever so slightly.
"I'm sorry I dismissed you earlier. I really am. I've just got... way too much stuff bouncing around in my head right now. Expectations. Pressure. All of it. But that's not an excuse. Not for brushing off people who actually give a damn about me."
His words hung in the air, sincere. Unrushed.
When he finished, his eyes drifted down again—staring at the floor, almost afraid to look up.
There was no response. No sound.
"What—you not talking now?" Mateo asked, peeking up.
That's when he saw it.
Gavi was standing there—grinning. That annoying, smug little smile that looked like he was trying not to laugh but doing a terrible job hiding it.
"What the fuck are you smiling at, dude?"
Gavi couldn't help it now. He burst out laughing, shaking his head.
"Bro," he snorted, "you are a horrible apologist."
Mateo blinked, caught between confusion and amusement.
"Like seriously," Gavi added between chuckles, "that whole speech? 10 outta 10 for effort, but you looked like someone trying to disarm a bomb with shoelaces."
Mateo rolled his eyes, tossing a towel at him that barely missed.
Gavi ducked, still laughing, then muttered under his breath—quiet, almost too quiet to hear:
"Well… it's not your fault. We're just the ones who can't catch up."
Mateo narrowed his eyes, eyebrows twitching.
"Ehn? What was that?"
Gavi was already turning toward the door.
"Nothing, man," he called over his shoulder. "Just wear your shoes—the game's starting."
Mateo snorted, dropping back to the bench.
"Wasn't that what I was doing before you came?"
...
"Good day, Barcelona!"
The voice rang out, smooth and warm, carried across the mild afternoon air like an old friend calling home.
A man stood at the edge of the pitch—broad-chested, a little round in the middle, with silver-touched black hair and a face weathered by years of sun and joy. His shirt, a crisp navy blue polo tucked into khaki trousers, fluttered slightly in the breeze. He looked to be in his fifties, unmistakably Catalan—his accent rich with hometown pride, his smile bright enough to reach the far ends of the stands.
His name was Alejandro Martín, and today, he wasn't just the dorm supervisor of La Masia.
He was the host. The star. The voice behind the mic.
Behind him stretched the sacred training fields of La Masia—flat, green, perfect. The kind of pitch kids across Spain dreamed of running on. And in the modest stands around it, just over two thousand people sat buzzing with quiet excitement. Families, academy staff, talent scouts, and loyal Barça fans—many with children of their own in today's match. There were small camera rigs set up along the sidelines, phones recording, and plenty of smiles, laughter, and proud voices echoing across the place.
It didn't feel like a stadium. It felt like home—and Alejandro? He was beaming.
For most of the year, he was the guy kids tried to sneak past after lights-out. The man shouting up stairwells to tell them to keep it down. The one who had to clean up after teenage arguments and messy rooms. But today?
Today, they were all looking at him. Listening to him.
"Welcome," he said again, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome to the annual intra-Barcelona Cadets Showcase Match!"
His voice had rhythm. Melody. Like he'd practiced it in the mirror that morning—and maybe he had.
"Ahhh, what a day, what a day," he chuckled, pacing across the grass with a small handheld mic, his steps relaxed. "The sun is out, the air is cool, and I only had to yell at three kids before breakfast. That's a record, by the way."
A few soft laughs drifted out from the stands. It wasn't a comedy show, but Alejandro had charm—the familiar kind that made people feel good just being in the same place. And today, that place was here.
"Now, let's get to what we all came here for," he said, voice rising. "It's time to see the future of FC Barcelona! It's time for football!"
That line landed. The biggest cheer yet rolled over the training ground like a wave—claps, whistles, even a chant or two. Cameras clicked. A few little kids waved homemade signs in the crowd.
Alejandro grinned, pacing back toward midfield.
"Let's meet the teams, shall we?" he said, gesturing grandly. "Starting with our youngest warriors, the mighty, the brave, the never-shy—Benjamín U10!"
A small group of boys ran out, maybe twenty in total, decked in navy-and-red kits a size too big for most of them. Their captain—a spiky-haired boy named Martí—stood up front with their coach, Coach Raúl, a tall, kind-eyed man waving proudly.
"Give it up for Coach Raúl and the little legends of tomorrow!"
The crowd clapped warmly, many people standing to wave at their sons, nephews, or younger siblings. These kids weren't expected to win anything today, and they knew it. But they didn't care. They were beaming—waving to the stands, grinning wide, chest-puffed and laughing as they took their spot at the far end of the field. Their day had already been made.
Alejandro gave them a proud nod.
"Now! Onto our spirited adventurers from the next age group—Alevín U12! Led by Coach Clara and their captain, little maestro Guille Fernández!"
Another set of applause followed as this group jogged out—more organized, more serious, a bit taller but just as excited. They gave quick waves and bowed dramatically like professionals, drawing smiles from the fans.
Alejandro gave them a playful salute before turning back to the stands.
"Moving on to the warriors of thirteen—our clever, quick, and sometimes a bit too clever, Infantil B (U13)!" he said. "Led by Captain Toni and Coach Luis!"
The reception for Infantil B was strong but steady, more muted than the younger squads but full of pride from the parents.
Alejandro continued without missing a beat.
"Next up—our U14 battalion, Infantil A! With their captain, the steady Mario, and longtime academy coach Paco Alcaraz!"
Another round of claps came, some louder this time, as a few fans recognized names that had popped up in online youth tournament clips.
Everything was rolling along predictably—until the next team stepped up.
"And now," Alejandro said, a touch more enthusiasm in his tone, "make some noise for our U15 squad—Cadet B!"
This time, the crowd leaned in.
Out walked the Cadet B team, and while most of them looked solid—average height for their age, cleanly trained—the captain caused a noticeable stir.
He was small. Like... really small.
Standing at the front of the line, armband tight on his arm, was a wiry, bright-eyed kid who looked like he belonged with the U13s.
Lamine Yamal.
A few whispers ran through the crowd—recognition mixed with amusement, and even more curiosity. A kid that small, leading a U15 team? A few chuckles from older teens and some parents. But the applause was still generous. People had heard the name.
But as quick as the attention came, it moved on.
Alejandro gave them their due, then pivoted with his usual charm.
"Up next—our seasoned U16s, the always-sharp Cadet A, with Captain Jan Virgili and Coach Oriol!"
Standard applause followed. Predictable. Controlled.
"And finally, before we begin—our oldest young guns, the Juvenil B (U17–U18) team! Led by the experienced Arnau and Coach Victor Bernal!"
This time, the claps were more respectful than enthusiastic. These were the kids closest to the professional level—but the crowd knew today wasn't about who was best. It was about watching Barça's future in bloom.
And now... that future was all lined up.
"Okay then," Alejandro said with a wide grin, dragging the mic back to his lips with the showman's flair of someone who had waited years for this one moment of spotlight. He stretched out his arm toward the tunnel like a magician introducing his grandest illusion. "And now… for the final team!"
The crowd leaned forward.
Alejandro's voice swelled with pride, his chest rising.
"The reigning, defending champions. The heart, soul, and spine of this entire operation. Walked in steady with their captain—Barcelona's own pitbull—Marc Casadó Torras, and led by the brilliant architect of La Masia's new golden generation, Coach Óscar López himself!"
He paused for dramatic effect. A hum ran through the crowd. Cameras zoomed in. Banners were raised. People stood.
Alejandro took a deep breath and roared,"Give it up… for the backbone of the greatest youth academy in the world. The kings of youth football! The UEFA Youth League winners, last year's finalists, and this year's already qualified semi-finalists. The indomitable… the unstoppable… the unforgettable… Juvenil A!!"
The crowd erupted.
Like thunder rolling across the Catalan hills, the applause exploded. Cheers rained from every corner of the 2,000-strong stands. Flags waved. Children screamed. Some of the academy parents even stood on their seats, waving at the cameras and whistling as the music blared through the loudspeakers.
And then…
Silence.
Not all at once, but gradually—like a wave pulling back after a high tide.
Clapping slowed. Voices lowered. Heads turned toward the tunnel, squinting.
Alejandro blinked, confused. He was still facing the audience, his smile faltering as the electric energy he'd just unleashed dissolved into confusion.
What's going on? he thought. Did I say something wrong? Did I mispronounce Marc's name again?
He adjusted his earpiece. His eyes darted across the stands. People weren't looking at him anymore—they were whispering, nudging each other, necks craned toward something behind him. Something just past his right shoulder.
Something—or someone—that had killed the cheers.
Alejandro felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck.
His face twitched. He took a slow step, then turned.
Behind him stood the Juvenil A team. Most of them already out on the pitch, lined up in their clean blaugrana kits, shaking hands, waving to the crowd, doing what academy players always did.
But that wasn't it. That wasn't what had stolen the air from the room.
Alejandro's eyes scanned the formation—trailing from the main squad to the left end of the line.
And then he saw them.
Three players stood slightly apart from the others, also in their kits but draped in blue overalls. Standing loosely, not tense like the rest. Relaxed. Even playful.
At first glance, they looked like regular boys. Two of them were laughing, nudging each other. The third—leaning back slightly with his hands tucked in his jacket pockets—was grinning, talking, not even glancing at the stands.
They didn't seem fazed by the thousands watching them, or the camera drones hovering in the air. In fact, they barely seemed to register where they were.
But everyone else noticed them.
Because at the center of those three—like a sun orbited by two moons—stood a boy who looked like he'd just strolled in from a dream.
And Alejandro's gut sank.
"Oh," he whispered. "So that's why."
It wasn't the kids.
It wasn't the coach.
It was him.
Mateo King.
The new prince of the Camp Nou.
The hat-trick hero of Cádiz.
The Ramattanda Revival himself.
And a special nickname by Alejandro himself "pain in my ass"
A seventeen-year-old comet wrapped in boots and swagger, Mateo had lit up Spain like fireworks in a blackout. His face was already painted on fan banners, featured in magazine articles with titles like "The Future of Barça Is Now." And here he was—here—on Alejandro's quiet La Masia pitch, dressed like he hadn't even meant to show up, grinning like he was about to skip class.
The crowd wasn't quiet because they were confused.
They were starstruck.
Alejandro exhaled slowly.
His jaw clenched.
In thirty years of working at La Masia, he'd seen talent come and go. But Mateo? Mateo had been a menace since he was small. Loud, reckless, stubborn as hell. He broke curfew like it was a game. Hid energy drinks under floorboards. Once tried to sneak a cat into the dorms. Alejandro had spent years trying to tame him, discipline him, catch him red-handed doing God-knows-what in that room of his. He'd never found anything. Just mischief, oozing from every corner.
Alejandro narrowed his eyes.
In the sea of awe, he was the only one not smiling.
"What is he doing here?" he muttered.
But that question—"What is he doing here?"—wasn't just on Alejandro's lips.
It was everywhere.
The crowd, once stunned into silence, now buzzed like a disturbed hive. Whispers darted from row to row, leaking out in gasps and half-sentences.
"Isn't that… Mateo King?"
"Wait, what's he doing here?"
"No way he's playing, right?"
"He's in the kit though…"
"Maybe he's just here to support?"
"Support? My guy is in boots and warm-up gear. That's not support, that's combat readiness."
A group of teenage boys pointed in disbelief, one gripping his friend's hoodie like he'd just seen a ghost.
"Nahhh if he's playing, I pity the other team. This is like bringing a gun to a fistfight."
A girl near the aisle leaned over the railing, eyes wide.
"Gun? Babe, this is more like bringing a nuke to a campfire."
Someone else murmured low.
"But... isn't he already a senior team player? He plays at the Camp Nou last regularly now!"
"Yeah, but he's still seventeen."
"So why's everyone shocked?"
And then one voice—clearer than the others, just loud enough to cut through the static—asked the one question that changed the tone completely:
"Why are people that shocked? Mateo's still a U19 player. This is actually his registered team."
"His actual team on the register..."
The words hung in the air—quiet but sharp—as a man sitting up in the stands muttered them to himself.
He was dressed in a clean, navy-blue suit. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned halfway like someone who didn't come here to smile. His expression before had been cold, unreadable—like a man with too much on his mind and too little reason to care about a youth showcase. But the second he heard those whispers floating up from the crowd, something changed.
It started with a pause.
Then a blink.
And then... a smile.
Slow. Almost lazy. But dangerous.
Like a man who'd just cracked a code no one else knew existed.
He sat back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, still staring at the kid down there laughing like the world owed him nothing.
And then, in a whisper only meant for himself, the man muttered:
"I've gotten it."
His name? Deco.
Not just some ex-player.
A sharp-witted, cold-blooded chess player in a room full of checkers. A man who'd climbed his way from the midfield to the meeting rooms. And right now? He was a man chasing something bigger. Much bigger.
He wasn't just watching football.
He was plotting power.
And the second he realized Mateo King was not some guest, not some ceremonial trophy—but an actual registered member of the Juvenil A team—everything clicked.
Now his mind was running wild. Deals. Control. Leverage. Legacy. This wasn't just talent.
This was a ticket.
This boy… this grinning seventeen-year-old starlet in a warm-up kit and taped-up ankles…
This kid was his checkmate thank God I came down here.
And Deco?
He had just found the move that would change everything. He had just secured his future position
A/N
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