"Ehn! Mothe—oh sorry, I mean Jefe! (Boss!) Ehn, sorry—we're outside! Mr. Alejandro! What happened? Why the long stare?"
The voice was sharp, teasing, and unmistakably troublemaking. Alejandro didn't even need to turn. He already knew who it was. Only one boy could sound like he was being dramatic and unserious at the same time.
Still, he didn't answer. Not at first.
He just kept his eyes on Mateo, squinting like he was trying to solve a puzzle he'd already solved years ago. Then, quietly, with a roll of his eyes, he sighed and thought:
"This brat."
His gaze drifted—slowly—from Mateo back to the crowd. And what he saw made him pause again.
People weren't just murmuring anymore—they were buzzing. Hands cupped over mouths. Fans elbowing each other. One guy literally stood up, pointed, and had to sit back down like he just remembered where he was. Phones were up. Flashlights blinking like fireflies in a storm.
And Alejandro?
He smiled.
Just a little.
One of those proud, reluctant, tired-old-man kind of smiles. The kind you give when someone who used to drive you crazy actually proves you wrong in the best way possible.
"I'm happy for you, kid."
"You're really doing it."
He stood there, nodding gently to himself for a second, soaking in the energy. But then he snapped out of it—shaking his head like he had just caught himself being soft.
"Alright. Let's get back to it."
And just like that, he turned to face the crowd again. The mic in his hand came back to his lips as his voice rang out—sharp, dry, and playful.
"Wow You people have turned this place into a celebrity red carpet!"
The crowd laughed—immediate, warm, electric.
"Mateo hasn't even touched the ball and you lot are already building him a statue—let the boy breathe!"
More laughter. Even Mateo cracked a smirk from where he stood.
Alejandro pointed at him with mock suspicion.
"See him there, pretending to be shy—when you were small you used to steal snacks from the locker room fridge! Don't act like a superstar here!"
The stadium was laughing now, clapping, shouting, loving every moment.
Alejandro chuckled to himself, then raised a hand like a conductor settling his orchestra.
"Alright, alright—back to business! Now that all the teams are here…"
He looked around, smiling.
"...it's time to get the show on the road."
He gestured toward the center of the pitch, his voice calm but commanding—like a man who'd done this a thousand times and still loved every second.
"Captains, please step forward. Let's draw lots and find out where you all land on the table."
He gave a nod, eyes gleaming under the stadium lights.
"Let the games begin. Time for some football."
...
There was a sound—sharp, erratic, echoing down a hallway like thunder on polished tiles. A rhythmic pounding. Fast. Furious. Like a storm brewing in a man's footsteps.
Roughly 500 meters from where the Intra-Youth Matches were unfolding with all the joy and noise of early footballing dreams, a man was storming down a long corridor.
He wasn't running. Not quite.
But his walk was furious. Purposeful. Driven like a man chasing something he couldn't afford to lose.
His shoes—sleek black leather, once polished to perfection—were now slamming the floor with an impatient beat. The sleeves of his navy jacket swung at his sides as his stride grew faster... and faster... until the walk was nearly a jog, fueled not by fear, but by fire.
People turned as he passed—interns, assistants, club staffers. Some moved aside. Some blinked in confusion. He didn't look at any of them. He didn't see them.
His eyes were locked forward, burning with purpose.
And then—finally—he stopped.
Right in front of a door. Not just any door.
A heavy, polished, guarded piece of wood with a plaque etched in gold.
"President – FC Barcelona"
He stood there, breath stuttering. His chest rising and falling beneath his dress shirt. Sweat was forming on his neck. His body was slightly shaking—but if you looked at his face, you'd be unsure if it was exhaustion... or excitement.
His eyes were wide. His lips almost curled upward.
That expression—half-mad, half-inspired—bordered on something unreal.
It was Deco.
The former star. Now footballing mind. A man who, just minutes ago, had been watching a youth match like any other. Until something clicked.
And ever since that click, he hadn't stopped.
No car. No waiting.
Just a ten-minute walk through the depths of the Ciutat Esportiva. A walk that had become a brainstorm session. Each step refining the idea. Sharpening the angle. Trimming the fluff from what would soon become a pitch.
Yes. A pitch. A pitch where he was ready to demonstrate his brilliant idea.
Because now, Deco wasn't just a man chasing a hunch.
He was a man standing in front of the most powerful office at FC Barcelona.
The office that governed everything.
Of course, the secretary had let him through. It had been easy, really. He wasn't just anyone. He was Deco—Head Informal Advisor and Scout for Barça's South American market.
But he knew, standing here now, that if what he was about to propose worked… that title was going to change.
Significantly.
He took a deep breath—so deep his shoulders rose and held like he was filling himself with courage. But the excitement was eating at him.
Before he could stop himself—before even hearing an answer from inside—his hand twisted the handle.
The door opened.
He walked in.
And what greeted him…
Was not the room he'd imagined.
Not the elegant, crisp, marble-touched space you might expect from the president of one of the largest sporting institutions on Earth.
No.
This room was chaos.
There were papers—hundreds—stacked across the long desk like a small mountain range. File folders peeked out of drawers that hadn't been closed in weeks. A coat was thrown over a chair. Three coffee mugs. Two still half-full. One empty with a tea bag dried at the bottom.
Deco's shoes pressed into the thick, red rug as his eyes followed the mess.
And then… his gaze settled.
Across the room, near the center of the chaos, sat a man. Head low. Shoulders slumped. The posture of someone carrying something heavier than anyone could see.
The weight of a club. Of a legacy. Of a hundred burning questions.
He didn't look up.
But Deco knew.
He didn't need a nameplate. Didn't need eye contact.He knew exactly who sat in that chair.
It was Laporta.
Laporta hadn't even looked up.
His head was bowed, hands loosely clasped, resting on the mess of papers before him. His brows were furrowed. Eyes scanning nothing. Lips tight and still. His breath, shallow. His entire posture hunched in a way that almost looked... small. Not because the man himself was small—but because the weight on his shoulders had made him so.
He was alone in a storm of responsibility, deaf to the sound of the door opening, blind to the figure who had just stepped inside.
Deco took a single step forward.
A small smile flickered onto his face.
He had been so completely caught up in his idea—so laser-focused on pitching something perfect—that he hadn't even scanned the room properly. He hadn't noticed the stiff, upright posture of another man seated just to the side of Laporta's desk.
But that man noticed him.
Ferran Reverter.
The CEO of FC Barcelona.
And the second most powerful man in the room and club.
Ferran had been standing across from Laporta for the last 4 hours—trapped in a silent war zone. His expensive suit had creases from how many times he'd leaned forward and back in frustration. His brow was sweaty—not from heat, but from heat of a different kind. A verbal storm. Laporta's.
He hadn't even been allowed to defend himself properly.
He'd taken the full force of the president's fury like a wall meant to absorb cannonballs.
And now, miraculously, fate had delivered him a release valve.
He saw Deco step in—unauthorized, unannounced—and for a moment, it was as if the footballing gods had handed him a scapegoat wrapped in a navy blazer.
Ferran straightened.
His lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. But it wasn't kind. No, it was the kind of smile a man wears when he sees a pressure valve that he wants to break.
"Excuse me."
The words sliced through the air — calm, clear, and authoritative.
Deco had just stepped in, eyes focused, body leaning forward like he was halfway into a point already.
Ferran Reverter, seated behind the desk, didn't even look up at first. But the second he recognized the voice, he straightened — posture tightening like a coiled spring.
"Deco," he said, tone clipped, eyes narrowing. "You didn't knock."
Deco blinked once, registering the atmosphere — Ferran's furrowed brow, Laporta's hand paused mid-gesture, the tension thick in the room.
"I assumed it was alright," Deco replied, calmly. "I've got something important. Time-sensitive."
Ferran stood now, slow but deliberate. His voice didn't rise, but every syllable was sharp.
"With all due respect, this is a private meeting. Protocol matters, Deco. Especially when decisions at this level are involved."
Deco gave a dry half-smile, not backing down. "And with all due respect, this concerns the club. And a solution you've all been trying to find for a while."
Laporta glanced between them, eyebrows rising — the silence a little too long to be comfortable.
Ferran exhaled slowly, folding his arms. "Then I hope, for your sake, it's worth the interruption."
Deco stepped forward, unshaken. "It is."
Deco glanced between Ferran and Laporta. His mouth parted again—unsure, caught between obedience and passion. But before he could utter another syllable…
A voice broke the tension.
Soft.
Calm.
But commanding.
"Deco?"
Both men froze.
Like statues mid-breath, they turned slowly, as if the very sound had anchored their feet.
The voice had come from the only place it could—from the man still seated at the center of the storm.
Joan Laporta.
Now, finally, his head was lifted.
And he was looking right at them.
The same Laporta who once ruled European football with a hand firm but filled with charm. The man with the grin of a king and the mind of a builder. The man whose vision had lifted Barcelona from a sleeping giant to an empire.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't scold. He didn't ask questions.
Just that name—spoken with a slight tone of curiosity and surprise. Like someone recognizing an old friend at a train station.
"Deco?" he repeated again, slower now. Like a man adjusting back into his past.
Ferran stiffened but remained silent. He might have been the CEO, but in this room, only one man had the final word. Still, his glare lingered on Deco, sharp and disapproving, even as he stood aside.
Laporta's eyes softened.
Deco was still standing near the doorway, awkward, like a schoolboy caught between two teachers. But now… now he stood straighter.
Because Laporta was smiling.
It was a faint thing—but it was there. The edge of a memory curling at the corners of his mouth.
Deco.
The midfielder he had signed in 2004 during the beginning of his legendary first presidency. A raw gem pulled from Porto for just 15 million. A magician in midfield. One of his first signings.
And one of his best.
It had been Deco who helped carry that early 2000s team through turbulent tides. Deco who stood strong between stars and brought steel and elegance. Deco who had helped lift the Champions League just two years after his arrival.
Yes.
Laporta had always had a soft spot for him.
Even after Deco had hung up his boots and drifted into the shadows of football—as a scout—Laporta had pulled strings to bring him closer to the club again.
Even before returning to the presidency, Laporta had helped secure him a position within the scouting network.
And now… here he was.
Standing at the edge of a storm. Trying to speak.
Laporta leaned back slightly in his chair. His shoulders relaxed.
His voice came again, smoother now. Polished like a man used to diplomatic rooms but still full of warmth.
"Oooh, Deco… how are you?"
He gestured lightly, as if pushing the tension out of the room with one hand.
"What brings you here?" he added, eyes twinkling just a bit.
Then came the line—the one that pulled all power in the room back to the rightful throne.
"Come, come… sit."
Ferran leaned slightly forward, tightening his jaw. "Sir, what about what we were discussing?"
Laporta didn't even turn to look at him.
"It's not like we've made any headway," he muttered, lifting a hand wearily. "A few minutes of fresh air and break won't hurt."
The silence that followed was thick. Ferran swallowed his irritation. Deco, on the other hand, offered a polite smile and eased himself into the seat opposite the president.
Laporta gave a tired chuckle, his voice hoarse but laced with warmth. "I'm sorry about the state of the office. I just moved back in. We're… doing some slight renovations."
The word slight couldn't have been more ironic.
He swept his hand through the air as if gesturing to the chaos surrounding them.
"And some very rough work just came out of nowhere. Things that need fixing. Fast. It's stressful, troubling… and quite frankly, overwhelming."
He smiled at the end of that sentence, but it was the smile of a man hiding an avalanche behind his teeth.
Deco leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming.
"That's exactly what brought me here," he said calmly. "I've figured out how to solve it."
Laporta's smile faded slowly, like a dying candle. His brows twitched, his face falling into a confused but focused stare. Ferran, sitting to his right, stiffened. The CEO's entire posture changed—his spine went straight, his eyes widened with realization, and before he could speak to interrupt what he feared was coming…
Laporta's voice cut in, low but cutting. "And what issue would that be?"
Deco straightened up and smiled with the confident air of a man unveiling a masterpiece. "It's about the signing contract issue with—"
But he didn't finish.
His eyes, which had been focused on selling the idea, flicked up and locked onto Laporta's. And in that instant, Deco froze.
Gone was the weariness. Gone was the soft smile.
Laporta was staring at him with cold, sharp eyes—icy and surgical. All the warmth, all the sentimentality, all the goodwill Deco once enjoyed vanished in a heartbeat.
His voice was quiet—but deadly.
"How do you know about that?" Laporta said slowly. "Where did you hear it from?"
Tension cracked through the room like a lightning bolt. Deco's lips parted, ready to explain, but Laporta's voice rose—not at him this time, but toward Ferran.
"I thought I told you this issue was to be under absolute lock," he snapped. "How did it get out? I want you to find out exactly how far this has spread—and to who—"
"Sir," Ferran interrupted, finally, "it was—"
But again, he didn't finish.
Because Deco spoke. Calmly. Truthfully.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know this was a secret."
He turned slightly in his chair. "I was with a few executives earlier—some from the youth division. They were talking about finances and the summer restructure. And while they were discussing priorities and cutbacks, I overheard… issues about the club struggling to sign Mateo."
The room froze.
Both men turned to him sharply, their eyes narrowed. For a moment, all three were still—trapped in a heavy silence.
Laporta, who just moments ago was shouting, suddenly stopped. His breathing slowed. His mind, however, didn't.
"Wait," he said, carefully. "The issue you're talking about… is Mateo's contract?"
"Yes," Deco said, nodding. "I heard the club was having issues finalizing it—mainly due to the financial restraints with the 1:1 rule. But I have an idea—a really good one—to bypass it."
Laporta blinked.
So it's Mateo he's talking about, eh? he thought.
A chill ran down his spine. A name that's been hunting him recently
Messi.
The word echoed in his brain like a drumbeat. Ever since he'd received word that they might lose Messi, it had consumed him—his thoughts, his nights, even his breathing. The panic had crept in slowly, then violently. The fear of letting go of the greatest player in the club's history had overtaken every other priority.
And in that takeover… he had forgotten.
Forgotten that before Messi's chaos, there had been another crisis brewing—one just as dangerous to their future. Mateo King. The generational jewel.
Only a handful of people in the entire boardroom even knew the full details for messi. Laporta had made sure of that. Because if it leaked—if it even so much as whispered into the wrong ears that Barça might lose HIM—the chaos would be uncontrollable. The fans. The media. The rivals.
He looked over at Ferran.
A sharp, wordless glance passed between them. One that only high-level men understood. It said: We Need to do better.
Then, Laporta turned to Deco. The man who had once danced through the midfield for him, and now, who might just hold the key to keeping his dream from unraveling.
"And what would that solution be?" Laporta asked.
His voice was quiet.
But everything about the room—the silence, the tension, the history—shouted louder than any words could.
Deco leaned forward slightly, the flicker in his eyes betraying the uncontainable rush inside him. The energy that brought him walking fast—no, charging—for ten straight minutes from the training ground to this office was still burning in his voice.
Deco leaned forward, his eyes glinting with purpose. "Before coming here," he said, "I was actually watching the intra-youth matches."
Laporta's brows furrowed with mild curiosity. He turned to Ferran.
"Wait… that was today?"
Ferran nodded. "Yeah. U19s are playing the mixed La Masia sides. Showcasing depth."
Laporta exhaled, slumping slightly in his chair. "And I really wanted to go. My first week fully back, and I've missed it."
Deco chuckled lightly, then leaned back. "You shouldn't worry. The event's going perfectly. But that's actually why I'm here."
The room went quiet.
Deco's tone shifted, eyes locking with Laporta's. "Mateo King played. With the U19s."
Laporta blinked. Ferran tilted his head, confused.
"…Okay?" Laporta said slowly.
Deco's smile grew. "That is the solution. That's how we keep him."
The room fell silent again. Laporta leaned forward, brows knitting. "You're saying we can…?"
"Yes," Deco said, voice firm. "We keep him listed as a youth player. That's our legal loophole."
Now Ferran sat up, interested.
Deco stood and began to pace, talking quickly but clearly, like a man revealing the final move of a brilliant chess game. "La Liga's 1:1 rule prevents us from registering him to the first team due to our wage limit. But Mateo is still young. Seventeen. That gives us time."
"We delay official first-team registration," Deco continued. "Keep him registered with the youth team, but playing with the first team, keep the paperwork clean."
"But we've done that before—take Takefusa Kubo, or even Xavi Simons. We gave them the exposure, the platform… but none of them had Mateo's market pull. He's different. He'll be getting even more offers."
Deco nodded eagerly. "Yes. Which is why we sweeten the non-salary side."
Ferran interjected, eyes narrowing.
"Even with that structure, we're still boxed in. Spanish youth contracts have hard ceilings—barely six figures gross. That's pocket change compared to what Premier League or Ligue 1 clubs can float off-record. PSG, City, even Ajax—they'll be waving seven-figure guarantees the moment he turns eighteen."
Deco smiled slyly. "The salary cap is only on salary. Not image rights. Not bonuses. Not endorsements."
Laporta blinked.
"Image rights. Sponsorship cuts. Licensing. Structured bonus pools tied to development benchmarks—not match appearances. Performance-linked incentives via third-party partners. Private ambassadorial deals through Barça Corporate. Hell, even loyalty clauses disguised in merchandising revenue share."
"You're talking shadow valuation," Ferran murmured.
"I'm talking intelligent compensation," Deco said. "The kind Real Madrid used with Beckham. The kind PSG uses with Mbappé. We don't break rules—we reshape them."
"We make it clear he's the face of the new La Masia era. We bring back Cruyffian spirit. The boy wants Barça. He bleeds for the shirt. I watched him today, President. There's no doubt. He's ours emotionally. Let's make him ours contractually—before someone else does."
Ferran nodded slowly. "It's smart. It's tight. But it's smart."
Laporta exhaled, his fingers drumming against the desk. "And if Tebas finds out? If La Liga flags the structure?"
Deco shrugged. "Then we tighten it. Clean paperwork. No fronting. We loop in lawyers from Day One. It only needs to buy us six to nine months. Once we sell one or two of the big earners, we'll have room."
Laporta leaned back, nodding reluctantly. Ferran was already pulling up a tablet.
"This could actually work," Ferran muttered, "if done right…"
"I'll get Jordi Cruyff on it," Ferran said.
Laporta's face darkened slightly. "Are you sure Jordi can handle something this…delicate?"
Ferran looked up. "He is the sporting director, Joan."
Laporta sighed. "I know. I just—this isn't routine. This is chess on ice."
Then, Deco spoke again, calm and confident.
"I should handle it, sir."
The room paused.
Laporta raised an eyebrow. Ferran turned toward him, almost amused. "You're a scout, Deco. This is beyond that. This needs a surgical touch."
"I came up with the idea," Deco replied, firm but respectful. "I've studied every angle. I've watched what Real did with their Castilla talents. I know what City B did with Foden. I've read the fine print of the youth registration codebook. I've lived both sides of the game. Let me walk this tightrope."
Laporta watched him closely. He wasn't smiling anymore.
But Deco was.
Ferran opened his mouth, then closed it. Even Laporta looked faintly impressed now.
Deco simply smiled, eyes fixed on the horizon only he could see.
Sporting Director of FC Barcelona.
Here we go.
A/N
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