"Goallll!"
Alejandro's voice cracked through the speakers like a firecracker in a summer sky. "Wow! What a goal! Juvenil A are destroying the competition here!"
His excitement held for only a second—then it dipped, just slightly. Like even he had to admit what everyone else could see.
"Well… it's not exactly surprising, is it?" he muttered. "Not with that front line."
He let out a short breath as the camera panned to the scoreboard:
Juvenil A 4 - 1 U16
Five minutes to go.
"I guess we have our first finalist."
But Alejandro wasn't the only one falling quiet. In the stands, the celebratory tone had begun to shift—just slightly. Among the clusters of parents, scouts, and casual fans, murmurs began to rise like smoke. Small. Disjointed. But unmistakable.
"Come on, this isn't fair…" someone whispered.
"Why would they even let him play?"
"He's just destroying everyone."
"Mateo King doesn't belong here. This is youth matches, not La Liga."
"Yeah, maybe the club should've blocked it."
But not everyone agreed. Someone in the back row cut in, half-laughing.
"Bro, are you hearing yourselves? This is Juvenil A. They're Barca's U19s! They would've won even without him."
"Exactly. And let's be honest—don't act like you didn't come here because he's playing. Don't lie i saw you all come after the matches started."
"He's seventeen. Look at him. What, you're telling me he doesn't deserve to play in his own age group now?"
That last line seemed to still the grumbles. The fans turned their gaze back to the field.
And there he was.
Mateo King. Laughing. Grinning wide, light bouncing off his sweat-slicked curls. His arms casually around the shoulders of two teammates, walking back toward the halfway line like he hadn't just curled in a left-footed rocket into the top corner. No ego. No theatrics.
Just joy.
And it was infectious. The boys around him—yes, boys, not just teammates—were all laughing too. You didn't need commentary to feel it: this wasn't just a football team. This was a friend group reunited after months apart.
"Dude, that goal was INSANE!" one of them shouted, swatting Mateo's chest.
Another grinned, pointing dramatically at himself. "Can I just say—I did the pre-assist, by the way. Where's my praise?"
Laughter exploded around him.
"Man, pre-assist?" someone scoffed. "Stop that. What are you, an agent now?"
"He's gonna start asking for Praises on chances created before the actual assist," another joked.
"Hey hey hey, relax!" someone else cut in, raising both hands. "Did any of you see me clear that ball off the line? The Head Coach definitely saw it. You'll all be clapping when I'm promoted next year."
"Oh please," another boy laughed, "You cleared the ball because you gave it away in the first place! That's minus points!"
"Get outta here, man!"
They were teasing each other like brothers who knew every mistake and every miracle from training pitches all over Catalonia.
Mateo laughed, eyes crinkled, body loose. He wasn't just enjoying the moment—he was living it. Really living.
And as he strolled back into position, waiting for the restart, a small thought floated to the front of his mind:
God, I'd missed this.
He did love playing with the first team—of course he did. There was glory there. Messi. Pedri. Koeman on the sidelines calling his name. The lights. The cameras. The roar of Camp Nou. He even had a genuine friend up there in Pedri. Someone who got him.
But this?
This was different.
This was freedom.
This was home.
The quality might've dropped slightly compared to the main stage, but the feeling—the joy, the mischief, the love—had only grown stronger. These were the boys he'd sweated with in summer drills, shared bus rides with to away matches in the rain, stayed up laughing with on tournament nights in hotel rooms.
This was where he started. And for a few minutes today, he got to come back.
Mateo smiled to himself as the referee blew the whistle.
The ball rolled. The game continued.
And so did his joy.
As the high-pitched blast of the whistle echoed through the training grounds, Mateo King surged forward like a shot. The U16 boys were just beginning their buildup from the back, but Mateo didn't hesitate—he pressed high, fast, forcing them to think quicker, play sharper. It was instinct. Even in an intra-squad scrimmage, even if the stakes were nothing compared to a Champions League night at the Parc des Princes, his body still moved like this was war.
But this wasn't war. Not to him.
His brow furrowed slightly as he closed the space. It didn't matter to him, not really. This was just a tune-up, a match to stretch the legs and entertain the academy cameras. He'd been here, done this, conquered it. The headlines had moved on to him scoring in front of Camp Nou and nutmegging seasoned internationals. But as he glanced across the pitch—into the eyes of his own teammates, of the U16 boys standing their ground despite the mismatch—he paused, even just in his mind.
They were different now.
Gone were the goofy grins and carefree warmups from earlier. Once the whistle blew, their expressions hardened—brows tense, backs straight, jaws locked. Even the youngest of them had fire in their eyes. Mateo saw it and understood. They were fighting. For a spot. For pride. For the badge. For something he no longer had to worry about.
And that's why he had to honor it.
He wouldn't go full throttle. If he unleashed everything—the lethal dribbling, the shoulder feints, the savage turns in tight spaces, the eyes-in-the-back-of-his-head passes—it would've been 10–0 by halftime. He was one of the top three strikers in world football. That wasn't ego. That was fact. And facts like that came with responsibility.
So he toned it down.
Instead of slicing through the backline, he floated—moving wide, dragging defenders, creating channels. He barely clung to the ball more than two touches, always feeding it off, letting the others paint the picture. The only gift he kept for himself to unleash this match was his speed. That, he couldn't switch off. He tried. But it leaked out like light through the cracks.
And it wasn't fair. Not even a little.
When he ran, it was like pressing fast-forward on a film reel. His acceleration from zero to top gear was absurd—Mbappé-esque well after that match in Paris maybe it should be called mateo-esque now, defenders turning their heads like passengers watching a bullet train zip by.
As the match ticked into its final minutes, Mateo found himself near the edge of the right flank, a little detached from the action. He glanced up.
His teammates were attacking in waves now. Youthful hunger, raw momentum. The U16s looked tired, legs heavy from chasing. Mateo jogged slowly, letting the rhythm of the game flow past him. But then he noticed it—two of the opposition defenders peeling off and sticking to him like glue.
He smirked to himself. So green.
They were marking him, yes—but not the space he could be in.
He tilted his head, scanning the field—and then his eyes locked with Gavi's across the pitch.
That was all it took.
No signal. No gesture. No shout. Just eye contact.
Gavi already knew.
Mateo turned and exploded into the vacuum behind the defense—gone in an instant. The two boys marking him reacted late, too late, and by then the ball was already in the air. A cross—perfectly arced, bending ahead into space. It was the kind of pass only someone who'd grown up beside him could deliver. Before Messi, before Pedri, there had been Gavi. Their chemistry was built from days like this. Years of silent understanding.
The crowd stirred—murmurs rising into shouts.
Even Alejandro, on commentary, gasped. "What a crazy run—and the vision from Gavi! Mateo is 1v1, and I guess we can expect our first hat-trick of the competition—"
He paused.
Mateo didn't shoot.
Instead, just before the keeper committed, he slid the ball sideways to his left. Cool. Calm. Clean.
There, unmarked at the edge of the six-yard box, was Fermín López.
The ball rolled into his stride like it was on rails.
Fermín didn't need to think twice. He slotted it neatly into the bottom right corner—goal number two for him, goal number five for the team.
Alejandro laughed in disbelief. "Oooh, guess I spoke too soon! What is this? Instead of going for his hat-trick, Mateo squares it to Fermín! And it is—a nice slotted hit to the bottom right corner! Fermín López scores his second goal of the game, and that seals it. 5–1. Our defending champions have taken a massive step toward securing their trophy again."
The stadium was loud now. Small, but thunderous in emotion.
Alejandro added, "They'll face whoever wins between the U15 squad and the Juvenil B match happening on the second pitch, which should be entering its second half right now…"
...
A tired voice groaned—drawn out and breathless—like someone collapsing into a chair after a long day.
"Ooowaoohhh…"
Mateo, drenched in sweat, had all but dropped to the cool tiled floor of the training locker room, his back flat against the ground, chest rising with deep, exhausted breaths His stamina outside the camp nou was still shit. The game was over, the win was clear, and now… his body just gave in. His eyes blinked slowly, staring at the ceiling lights above, unfocused, until footsteps and muffled chatter drifted into his ears.
He turned his head and saw Balde approaching, gesturing animatedly, Fermin walking beside him with that skeptical look on his face. Behind them, Gavi and Casadó followed at a slower pace, bottles of water in hand, casually tossing one toward Mateo.
He caught it with one hand and muttered, "Thanks," before cracking it open.
"Dude, I'm telling you," Balde's voice rang clearer now as he neared, still full of conviction. "He pointed at me, then this guy beside him wrote something down. I swear, man."
Fermin let out a sigh, as if this wasn't the first time he'd heard the story. "He was probably pointing at someone else, bro. You were just in the line of sight. How do you even know he wrote your name down?"
"I know what I saw, okay?" Balde insisted, eyebrows furrowed, eyes wide. "Don't be shocked when you hear my name called up. Alba's old, man. They need a new left-back in the main squad. What's so crazy about the coach scoping me out?"
"Maybe," Fermin deadpanned, "because you're a pace merchant."
A beat of silence. Then Balde broke into mock laughter—loud, fake, and theatrical. "Ha. Ha. So funny. You just watch."
The two dropped down beside Mateo, still bickering lightly as their conversation drifted into the background. Gavi and Casadó sat on the bench close by, handing around more water bottles. Mateo took a long sip, then turned toward them.
"What are those two even arguing about?" he asked, nodding toward Balde and Fermin, who were still going at it like a broken record.
Casadó chuckled. "Something about the head coach. Balde swears he was 'singled out' or something."
"Oh?" Mateo raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah," Balde overheard and turned. "Don't 'oh' me. I was singled out. I saw it."
Gavi leaned back, arms behind his head. "Come on, dude. That match was barely a warm-up. I'm just counting down till the final so we can actually get a challenge—hopefully then later face the B squad. Then we'll really show them what we're made of."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Balde replied with a wave. "But did y'all see my pre-assist, though?"
Everyone groaned.
"Again with this pre-assist talk?" Fermin said, shaking his head as laughter broke out around the locker room.
"Bro, the coach was watching!" Balde insisted.
"Watching you lose the ball before their goal," Casadó muttered, which earned a round of loud laughs, even from Mateo.
After a few more playful jabs and banter, Fermin leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "Mateo, come on… you know him, right? Can't you introduce us or something? Let him actually know our names."
Balde jumped in, smug grin on his face. "I'm sure he already knows mine. I told you, he pointed."
Casadó just sighed. "Not this again…"
Mateo sat up now, bottle still in hand, a sly grin playing on his lips. "Wait, wait, you guys want me to introduce you to the gaffer?"
Before anyone could answer, a familiar voice chimed in from the side—smooth, laced with feigned hurt.
"Oooh… that one stung. Calling someone else gaffer now, huh?"
Every head turned toward the door—and froze.
Standing there was Oscar López, the coach of the U19 squad, arms crossed, a playful smirk on his face. His presence commanded instant respect. They all jumped up, half-startled, half-guilty.
"Boss!" they chorused.
He walked in slowly, eyes scanning the group. "I'm so proud of you boys," he said softly. "All of you. What a performance."
Then his eyes landed on Mateo.
"Our very own, now lighting up Camp Nou."
The room lit up in proud smiles. Even Mateo looked down, a little bashful, cheeks warming slightly.
Oscar blinked, and for a moment, a tear threatened to fall. The boys noticed—some stepping forward.
"Gaffer?"
Oscar quickly wiped his eye and smiled. "Ah, don't worry about that. I'm just… proud."
Then, with a sudden clap, he turned toward the rest of the squad.
"Alright, alright. Gather around, everyone. Come on, bring it in."
The boys circled up instinctively, quieting down as Oscar looked at each of them with a softness only a mentor who'd watched them grow could show.
"I know," he began, "you've all been hearing the rumors."
Some of the boys groaned, others grinned, some even nudged each other knowingly.
"Rumors about me leaving," Oscar continued. "Well… they're true."
Murmurs. Eyes widened. Gavi raised an eyebrow. Fermin let out a soft "Woah."
Oscar grinned. "I've just been appointed the head coach of Espanyol's senior team in the Segunda División." (this is an executive original decision)
Cheers exploded.
"No way!"
"Gaffer!"
Oscar raised his hands, laughing. "Okay, okay! Settle down. Thank you."
The energy in the room calmed slowly, the moment hitting with gravity now.
"This…" he continued, "is going to be my last match as your coach. At least here. And I just want to say… thank you."
His voice softened again.
"I've watched you all grow—not just into great players—but into men. Into teammates. Into brothers. It's been the honor of my career. And now, this… our last ride together? Let's win it all."
The boys nodded, the mood suddenly reverent.
"Let me let you in on a little secret," Oscar said, leaning in slightly. "Thanks to someone's little breakout performance in the first team—" he gestured toward Mateo, who shook his head modestly as the others hooted and shoved him playfully—"the Barça head coach is watching you all."
Laughter, pride, disbelief.
Oscar nodded. "He's looking for talent. And if any of you light up the final, he's ready to take you up. I swear, and if they are not careful… I'll come sign you myself!"
Mateo jumped in. "Coach, come sign me then!"
Oscar grinned. "You little…"
Laughter again. Jokes, pats on the back, shoulders bumped with affection.
Then Oscar's tone changed again—sincere, warm.
"I really mean it, boys. I couldn't have asked for a better group. Go out there… and make history. If anyone can do it—it's you i promise i would come watch, you guys beat the Barca B squad then even the women and finally the first team i know you guys can do it."
A beat of silence.
Then Gavi exploded. "YES! That's what I'm talking about! First we win this final, then we smash the B squad and show the suits who the fuck we are!"
"Dude! Language!" Casadó shouted, to more laughter.
Mateo chuckled. "Wait… who are we even playing in the final? Shouldn't the other game be done by now?"
Casadó looked around. "Not sure, but it should be the U18s, right? They're the oldest left besides us."
Fermin added, "And they've got a solid team. We shouldn't underestimate them."
Oscar nodded. "Especially their striker. Guiu—sharp lad. In fact, there's talk of him being promoted to this squad… to replace you, Mateo, now that you're basically locked in with the first team."
Mateo's eyes widened. "Me?"
Balde cackled. "I guess it is them we're playing!"
Just then, the locker room door swung open.
Everyone turned.
It was the assistant coach. A tall man with close-cropped dark hair and a sharp jawline—Coach Baptiste.
Oscar looked up with a smile. "Ah, Baptiste! What's the word?"
The room fell silent as Baptiste's voice echoed calmly:
"Our next opponents for the final… have been decided."
Casadó raised a hand. "We figured. We were just about to go over the U18s' game plan."
Baptiste paused, then said simply:
"That's the thing. The U15 squad beat them. 3–2."
The room went completely still.
"We're playing the U15s in the final."
...
The small stands of La Masia weren't built for grandeur—just a few rows of concrete benches tucked tightly around the modest pitch, shaded by canvas canopies that fluttered with the breeze. But right now, it was as if Camp Nou's heart had been transplanted here. Fans stood shoulder-to-shoulder, some leaning against the railings, others holding their phones up in shaky hands to record the final seconds of a thrilling youth semi-final. The match had ended, but the energy still pulsed in the air like leftover thunder.
Parents, scouts, academy staff, and a few curious neutrals all lingered behind. Conversations buzzed through the humid July air, blending into a patchwork of admiration, wonder, and football gossip.
"That was an insane match," someone muttered, still catching their breath.
"I swear—did you see that dribble at the end?" another voice chimed in, more animated. "And people were laughing at that small kid earlier? He's fucking good. What was his name again?"
"His name is Lamine Yamal," came the booming, pride-filled voice of a man standing near the middle of the second row. "He's my son, isn't he something! Ha ha ha!"
A few heads turned toward him with curious grins.
"That's your son? Damn, he's really good. How old is he?"
"Thirteen. Well—going to fourteen."
"Thirteen?!" The disbelief practically echoed. But another voice cut in quickly.
"Yeah, yeah, he's good, but you lot are ignoring that last-minute defending. What was that defender's name? Curba? Curbala?" The man scratched his head. "God, I can't remember his name. He was so calm for his age."
"And not just him—the DM. I think his name was Bernald or something? That kid plays like a Busquets clone, I swear. Where do we keep finding these players, man?"
Laughter mixed with murmurs.
"You guys think they can actually win it?"
"Come on, now," said a Mans with a skeptical chuckle. "I know they were good—but let's not get ahead of ourselves. The U19 squad is stacked. Not to even mention they've got freaking Mateo King on their team. There's no way they don't win. They could probably beat the Barça B squad also, maybe even the women's team, to be honest."
"Oh, here we go again," another voice huffed. "Thinking a bunch of kids are gonna beat our women's team? You guys are just misogynistic."
Back and forth it went, a low murmur of excited voices brewing as the anticipation for the final reached a peak. But while the fans processed what they'd just witnessed and argued over what was to come, something entirely different was happening in the hallway behind the stands.
"Let me! You've already taken yours—it's my turn!"
"No! I was next!"
The hallway was chaos.
A swarm of kids—academy players from various age groups—had practically barricaded the corridor outside the players' tunnel. They were shouting, laughing, jumping around as they pushed and pulled at each other, all clamoring for the same thing: a picture with Mateo King.
The 17-year-old stood at the center of the madness, trying not to laugh as he gently pushed them off him. His arms spread out in mock frustration. "Okay, that's it. That's it. I'm not taking another one."
He knew almost all of them. This wasn't some celebrity appearance. These were kids he'd trained alongside, eaten with, some he'd even seen grow up in the dorms. Especially this one—this little brat currently hanging on his arm like a koala.
"Mateo, did you actually meet Neymar when you were in Paris?" the boy asked in one excited breath. "How was he? Did you meet him? I read online that you guys hung out together—did you stay at his house?"
Mateo let out a laugh as he looked down. "Yamal, you talk way too much," he said, ruffling the boy's Curly Afro hair.
"It's all love, bro. We've got a match now, alright? You can come to my room another time and I'll tell you all the Neymar stories. But right now—remember—you're the captain of your team. They need you."
Lamine blinked, then nodded with sudden seriousness. "That's true…"
"Exactly. So go meet them—and get ready. 'Cause I'm not going easy on you."
Yamal grinned. "You better not. I'm not going easy either. I'm winning this thing!"
Mateo raised an eyebrow, grinning back. "Let's see if you can walk the talk."
"Always," Lamine replied, eyes twinkling, before jogging off to join his teammates.
As the younger boy disappeared into the locker area, Mateo shook his head and muttered under his breath, "I like that kid."
"Of course you do," came a voice beside him—Gavi, standing with his arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his lips. "He's like your carbon copy."
Mateo chuckled, then turned. "So. You ready?"
"Yeah," Gavi replied, nodding as he glanced toward the tunnel. "Despite them beating the U18 squad… we should still have the upper hand."
He paused, then added quietly, "Especially with you around."
The words struck something in Mateo—pride, maybe. Or nostalgia. His smile widened naturally, just as Alejandro's voice crackled through the stadium speakers again.
"Ladies and gentlemen," came the familiar baritone of the announcer, now charged with drama, "it's time… for the final showdown!"
The crowd erupted in applause. Drums began to beat faintly from one corner of the stand.
Mateo cracked his knuckles, then shook his hands out with a little bounce in his step. He let out a low laugh as the tunnel lights turned green.
"Let's do this thing."
...
While the players were emerging from the tunnel and warming up on the sidelines, Mateo had just finished a brief conversation with 13-year-old prodigy Lamine Yamal. At the same time, up in the stands, their families were being introduced.
A loud cheer and a sharp whistle cut through the air. "Let's go, Lamine! You're the best! Win this thing!" shouted a man in his middle thirties, voice bursting with pride. He looked almost too young to be a parent of anyone on the pitch.
David King, Mateo's father, turned toward the voice, having brought his entire family along after closing the family restaurant. The lean, middle-aged man studied the young-looking man a few rows down and said with a friendly smile, "Your son is really good he is the short dribbling one right?."
The youthful man beamed. "Oh yeah, I'm the father of that boy right there." He pointed proudly toward Lamine on the pitch.
"Yeah, I guessed from how loud you were cheering," David said, chuckling.
Lamine's father laughed sheepishly. "Sorry, I just get really excited watching him play."
"It's all fine. I get what you mean. My son's playing too, so I understand," David replied. Then he turned, gesturing to those around him. "Oh, how rude of me. This is my wife, Isabella. And that grump sitting over there is my younger brother, Andrew. Don't mind him, he's the lawyer of the family—you know how they are. Though, I guess it worked out. He's my son's agent now."
Everyone laughed politely. Lamine's dad greeted them warmly. Isabella, standing beside David, smiled and said, "Wow, you look really young."
"Isabella," David whispered, nudging her lightly.
"Pardon?" Lamine's dad asked, slightly confused.
David laughed and covered quickly. "Oh, she just said your son is really good. That last match? That solo goal to seal the game—incredible."
Lamine's father chuckled proudly. "Thank you, thank you. He learned it from me." He grinned playfully. "You said your son is playing too? Who is he?"
"Oh, yeah. He is with the older kids but unlike yours he didn't learn it from me" David laughed as he turned back toward the field, pointing with his chin. "There he is—the one with the ball, about to start the kickoff."
Lamine's father squinted toward the pitch. "The one about to start the kickoff?" he echoed.
As he followed David's finger, his eyes landed on a boy with a bright, almost mischievous smile standing in the center circle. Recognition hit him like a wave.
"Ehn? Isn't that—"
David turned, catching the shock on the man's face. His own face lit up with quiet, oozing pride. "Yes," he said with a smile that needed no explanation. "That's my son. Mateo King."
At that moment, the referee's whistle blew.
The match that followed was one-sided but never dull. After watching the U15 team perform a miracle by beating the U18 squad last week, many in the crowd began to wonder if lightning could strike twice the human nature to root for the underdog clearly at play. And for the first four minutes, that hope was very much alive. The U15s played with a spark—relentless pressing, two early attacks, and an undeniable fire.
But by the fifth minute, reality began to reassert itself. The cracks showed.
Despite Bernal's incredible promise, the U15 midfield was swallowed by the trio of Gavi, Casado, and Fermin. They didn't just play; they orchestrated, dominated, dictated.
Lamine Yamal still posed problems, dancing past defenders with his dribbles, but even he couldn't overcome the numbers. The U19s began doubling and tripling up on him a testement to how insane he was. Balde, with more freedom, began pushing higher up the pitch.
Then there was the attack. Mateo, despite clearly holding back, was terrifying. He limited himself to bursts of pace—but that was more than enough. His sheer speed shredded the U15 backline, and by the 40th minute, he calmly netted his third goal of the day, completing his hat trick and the team's fifth goal of the day.
The U15s had managed one goal—a penalty drawn by Lamine with his unpredictable footwork—but the match was never really in doubt.
...
"Better luck next time. Your son played really well," David said sincerely, looking toward Lamine's father, who was clapping as the U19 squad walked up to collect their medals.
Lamine's dad just smiled, nodding. "Yeah, he played well," he said, his voice carrying a touch of pride but also a whisper of disappointment.
He looked toward the center of the field where Lamine stood, surrounded by teammates, shoulders heavy with the loss. He knew what his son was feeling—the frustration of watching someone else lift the trophy. But he also knew this would fuel him.
His gaze drifted back toward the U19s, specifically toward the boy who had dismantled his son's squad with disturbing ease.
"The U19s have some really good players," he thought. "Some of them already look professional level... especially that kid."
He glanced to the side, spotting David again, laughing with Isabella and Andrew.
"That Mateo kid... he's a monster. He was ten steps ahead of everyone else. That boy is going to become a huge name in world football," he thought. "It wouldn't be a bad idea to stay close with them... to tie some things together."
A sly smile played across his face.
Decision made, he stepped forward with casual confidence and said with a laugh, "Mr. King!"
David turned.
"Mr. Andrew King," Lamine's father said, shifting his gaze to the sharply dressed younger man. "How would you like to be my son's agent as well?"
While Lamine's father was deep in his thoughts—calculating futures, testing possibilities, and quietly plotting how to secure his son's destiny—the celebrations around the stadium carried on in full color and sound.
Down on the field, the core of the commanding U19 squad—Fermín, Balde, Gavi, Casadó, and Mateo King—stood like war heroes, gold medals swinging from their necks, jerseys drenched with both sweat and victory. But even with the crowd still buzzing and the anthem of the academy echoing in the background, they found themselves faced with a new kind of pressure.
A different kind of challenge.
Mateo turned toward them, grinning.
"Come on, guys," he called out, jogging backward a few steps, playful arrogance in his voice. "Didn't you all say you wanted to meet the gaffer?"
The others—tired from the match, unsure in the face of what came next—hesitated. Gavi looked to Casadó. Casadó glanced at Balde. No one moved.
Mateo laughed, shaking his head.
"Wait, wait, don't tell me," he said, raising a brow. "You lot were begging to meet him just now. Now you're acting shy?" He mimicked their voices with exaggerated dramatics. "Mateo, do you think he's gonna stay long? Mateo, you think I should go? Mateo—"
"Shut up," Gavi muttered, cheeks slightly red. "We just... you know, he's the coach of the first team."
"And?" Mateo smirked. "What do you think we're playing for?"
With that, the group began to walk—slowly at first—nerves making their strides uncertain. Their medals clinked gently against their chests as if whispering, You earned this.
"There! That's him!" Balde whispered, suddenly pointing.
They all turned their eyes in the same direction.
Across the far end of the pitch, Ronald Koeman stood in a circle of executives and senior coaches, the navy blue of his blazer unmistakable even from a distance. He was nodding to someone, calm, professional, almost detached—until Mateo King caught his attention.
Casadó took a breath and straightened his posture. "Alright, boys," he said with the seriousness of a general about to lead a march. "This is the real deal. We're gonna need a strategy."
He rubbed his chin like a scheming tactician. "Okay. We'll start with Mateo. He's already got his attention—then we'll rotate in one by—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
"Wait... where's Mateo?"
All their heads turned, swiveling left and right, scanning the pitch. Gavi's gut twisted with dread.
"Don't tell me…" he muttered, already fearing the worst.
He turned—and there it was.
Mateo, casually standing in front of Ronald Koeman, chatting away like they'd known each other for years. The Barça first-team coach was actually laughing. And then—worst of all—Mateo turned his head and pointed at them.
He waved them over.
Balde groaned under his breath. "This guy…"
"No no no no…" Gavi muttered, stepping forward. "This guy didn't wait."
Casado froze. "Did he… already start talking to him?"
Mateo turned and grinned, waving them over. Casual. Like it was no big deal.
"We're so dead," Balde whispered.
One by one, like sheep dragged to slaughter, they shuffled forward—eyes low, nerves high.
When they arrived, Mateo beamed.
"Gaffer, these are my teammates from the youth squad," he said confidently. "That's Casadó, our captain. Fermin—attacking genius. Gavi, my roommate. And finally, that's—"
Before he could finish, Koeman raised a hand and pointed.
"Balde, right?"
Balde blinked in surprise. "Yes, sir!"
Koeman gave a small, approving smile. "Nice pre-assist earlier. Good vision."
The words struck like a lightning bolt. Balde's smile bloomed, stunned and proud all at once. The group stood a little taller, still awkward, but glowing.
For Mateo, this moment felt surreal—everything had aligned. He had walked onto the pitch that morning just hoping to find something… something small, maybe a ritual, an object, a boost anything. He had searched his childhood bedroom that morning, flipping through drawers, scanning shelves, thinking his lucky charm would be something from the past—some token, a photograph, a faded pair of socks.
But as he stood there now, surrounded by laughter, teammates, and medals, he realized something:
He'd been wrong and right.
The charm wasn't at home at least not his childhood home.
It was here.
In the bond he shared with these boys. In the joy of playing football not for scouts or spotlights, but for fun—for brotherhood—for the very love of the game. It was in their jokes, their fights, their shared ambition.
This wasn't the home he was born into.
This was the one he chose.
And as he stood there, smile wide and eyes reflecting the stadium lights, a soft [ding] rang in his mind, and the message appeared clear, steady, and radiant:
[Lucky charm found].
A/N
If you want to read 20 chapters ahead with daily uploads and to support me subscribe to my Patreon below There is also a picture of how mateo looks like posted and later there would be votes and all on the site some you wont need to pay to vote but you can if you want to support me thanks
patreon.com/David_Adetola
Thank You your support is greatly appreciated thank you all