"Congratulations!" The deep, commanding voice of Deco filled the room, carrying weight and warmth at the same time. He continued clapping, each clap deliberate, echoing off the walls as if marking the moment with ceremony. "This," he said, his voice steady but infused with genuine pride, "is a step in the right direction for both of us. Congratulations, Mateo."
Mateo's face lit up, a wide, uncontainable smile spreading across his features. "Thank you, sir," he said politely, his voice still tinged with excitement.
Deco chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Oh, just call me Deco," he replied instantly. "And I hope we'll both be the ones signing your renewal next time."
Mateo froze, eyes wide. "Renewal?" he asked, almost whispering, caught off guard by the implication.
Deco leaned back slightly, an easy confidence in his posture. "Of course, Mateo. You should know, this is only the start. At Barcelona, we are very much willing — if you can become a club legend, our next Messi."
Mateo muttered the name softly, almost to himself. "Messi…"
"That's the faith we have in you," Deco said firmly, his tone warm but resolute. "This is the first of many more contracts, many more milestones to come. The journey doesn't stop here."
He paused, then continued, his voice shifting to practical matters. "Someone should be outside waiting for you now. Now that you've signed, there are a few things you need to do: your promotional video, changing your jersey number, media interviews, meeting the executives, getting familiar with the first-team schedule, and some other things. All of this is part of starting your journey properly."
As he finished, Deco smiled again, a gesture that seemed to lighten the weight of all the formalities. "Come on, let me lead you out."
Andrew, who had been quiet for most of the discussion, spoke up calmly. "Don't worry, Mr. Deco. We'll be good."
Deco's smile widened, appreciative and slightly amused. "Okay then, Mr. King. It was a pleasure doing business with you this time. And don't worry about what we discussed — I'll also give our sponsors your number if that's okay. Plenty of them have been dying to introduce themselves to you."
Andrew cleared his throat and spoke with calm authority, "That's fine, Mr. Deco. I just want to clarify that while Barcelona sponsors will naturally be given priority, any personal endorsement opportunities for Mateo will ultimately be decided based on his own terms and agreements. We'll make sure there's no conflict and no hard feelings — it's simply about balancing the club's interests but still prioritizing Mateo's personal arrangements."
Deco smiled warmly, waving a hand dismissively. "That's fine, that's fine," he said, his voice light, almost teasing. Then, letting out a hearty laugh, he added, "Once again, congratulations!"
They all rose from their seats. Deco extended a hand to Andrew, shaking it firmly, then turned to Mateo and gave him a strong, encouraging handshake. "And also, regarding the whole registration issue," Deco said, his tone shifting to something more serious, "we would really appreciate it if this news could remain between us. It could otherwise cause unnecessary drama and affect the team's morale, especially with the next matches coming up."
Mateo could see that Deco's eyes, despite the words, were mostly fixed on him. Feeling the weight of the trust and expectation, he simply nodded in agreement.
Andrew and Mateo then steadily made their way out of the office. Once outside, Andrew let out a deep breath, one he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Honestly, this meeting hadn't fully gone the way he had planned. He had been caught off guard, blindsided in many ways. If not for Mateo's firm wishes, he would have had to assert more control, but instead, he had felt almost submissive, with Deco practically steering the flow of the meeting from start to finish.
He exhaled again, shaking his head lightly, and glanced to the side. Mateo was in his own little world, lost in thought, his expression unreadable. Andrew couldn't help but wonder, Is he disappointed in me as his agent? Did I look useless back there?
He reached out, about to touch him lightly to get his attention, when Mateo suddenly blurted out, practically shouting, "950 thousand euros!"
"Ehn," Andrew muttered, his brow furrowed in confusion. He was quickly met with even more confusion as Mateo scratched the back of his head, muttering out loud, "God… I can't believe I lost 950 thousand! Why didn't I sign sooner?"
Andrew was still processing what Mateo had just said, completely lost, when Mateo spun to face him, eyes wide and voice rising with excitement and disbelief. "Uncle! We lost 950 thousand euros! That's… I could buy—what can't I even buy with that?"
Andrew blinked, trying to process the words. "I… I'm lost here. What are you talking about?"
Mateo's hands flew in the air as he started pacing slightly, almost frantic. "My goals and assists! I already have 28 goals and 11 assists! Calculating that… that's 950 thousand euros!" He flopped back onto a nearby chair in the hallway, throwing his hands up in exaggerated frustration, groaning, "Ahhh, this is crazy!"
Andrew's eyes went wide, then he quickly intervened. "Wait… aren't they already giving you a million euros for past performances?"
Mateo froze, his expression slowly turning blank as realization dawned. "Oo… that's true," he whispered, his excitement momentarily crashing into sheepishness.
Andrew couldn't hold it in anymore and burst into laughter, loud and contagious, shaking his head at the scene before him.
"What?" Mateo exclaimed, flustered, throwing his hands up. "I forgot about that one! And it's even 50 thousand more! That 50 alone is already more than what I earned per year… or what I earned per year before!"
Andrew leaned against a wall, trying to contain his amusement as he watched Mateo wildly calculate with his hands, fingers flailing, eyes darting back and forth. Mateo's sides hurt slightly from the effort, and Andrew tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Don't stress yourself so much at this stage. It takes more than your hands and fingers to calculate everything — plus, with the taxes and all…"
"Taxes?" Mateo interrupted sharply, eyes wide.
Andrew gave a small laugh, shaking his head. "Of course, taxes. You didn't think you'd earn that much and keep it all, did you? The government's cut doesn't just disappear because you wish it."
Mateo's face fell, a mix of shock and disbelief. "Yeah, but… I thought since I'm under 18 I wouldn't have to worry about that."
"You're hilarious," Andrew said with a chuckle. "You really underestimate the government's appetite." He leaned closer, lowering his voice in mock seriousness. "Based on your income, the rate should be… I think around 47%. Slightly higher than England's 45% Welcome to the land of income earners."
Mateo let out a scream, his hands flying in the air again. "47%?! That's… that's—" He shook his head, trying to recalculate, pulling out his phone. "That's… 10 million times 100 divided by—"
Andrew held up a hand, stopping him. "Don't worry about this right now. I have a colleague flying in today — an accountant at the firm. I'll go pick her up. She can help you with all the calculations and money issues. Just tell me when you're free, and after meeting and approving her, we'll add her to your team."
Mateo raised his head slightly, curiosity breaking through the panic. "The team?"
Andrew smiled, ready to explain. "Yes, I have a plan to get you specialized people in different fields to help you manage everything."
Before he could continue, someone approached after a few minutes of still being near Deco's office. A man in his thirties walked over, professional but friendly. "Hello, I'm sorry for being late. I was asked to escort Mr. Mateo King around to finalize things."
Mateo smiled politely. "Oo, no issue. I'm coming — let me just finish talking with my uncle."
Andrew quickly cut in, shaking his head with a grin. "Oo, don't worry. We can discuss this later. I should probably start heading out now. Later, Mateo."
"Bye!" Mateo called, waving as Andrew turned to leave.
Mateo stood there for a moment, absorbing everything. Even without receiving a single euro yet from the contract, he already felt the strange mix of excitement and frustration — the same sensation people feel after losing a bet. You place a wager of two thousand to win thirty thousand, and when the bet goes wrong with an error of just one game, you scream about how you lost thirty thousand instead of the two thousand — except Mateo's situation was far more tangible. He could get injured, face setbacks, and on top of it, nearly half of what he earned would go to the government.
But before he could spiral further into worry, his mind shifted focus, consumed with the next set of tasks.
Not even a few minutes later, walking with the club staff, Mateo was led into a room filled with the senior executives of Barcelona. The atmosphere was intimidating — men and women in their forties, fifties, and sixties chatting casually, laughing, and making small talk. Mateo felt awkward, the kind of uncomfortable pressure that comes from being the youngest and least experienced in a room full of powerful people.
Yet, the CEO of Barcelona proved surprisingly approachable. Mateo stuck close to him, grateful for the anchor amidst the overwhelming presence of high-ranking executives. After around twenty minutes of mingling taking pictures even signing autographs for them and their families, the staff guided him to another location: a private box at the top of Camp Nou.
He was informed that this would be his personal booth, reserved for family and friends. As he stepped inside, Mateo's eyes widened. The space was luxurious, overlooking the pitch with perfect sightlines, plush seating, and private amenities — everything from climate control to custom branding with his name. From the thrill of trying to get tickets for a match to having his own private box, Mateo felt a rush of pride.
He couldn't wait to tell his mother and the rest of his family especially her side many of which are huge Barca fans. They would be absolutely stunned. And his friends? They'd lose it with excitement. Despite the earlier meeting with the executives and all the money headaches, this experience immediately filled him with joy, masking any lingering anxiety from the earlier discussions.
After this, the perks started rolling in, one after another, almost like a wave crashing over Mateo. First, he was handed a sleek tablet and shown a variety of options and choices. The first set were Nike products — an array of sneakers, kits, and training gear. He had expected them already from the contract, but seeing it laid out in real life or in this case through pictures in a tab as opposed to just ink on paper, the quality, the attention to detail, and the sheer scale of it, made his heart race. Each item seemed custom-made for him, and he couldn't help but grin as he couldn't wait to see the real thing, being a footballer was way more enjoyable than he actually thought.
From there, the perks escalated rapidly. Next came a lineup of devices from Barcelona's TV sponsor, Ambilight. Mateo didn't waste a second before making his choices — the latest smart TVs, sound systems, and media accessories that seemed like they belonged in a futuristic tech showroom.
Then came Rakuten, Barcelona's main official partner a major Japan tech company. Mateo's eyes nearly popped out as he scrolled through the options: phones, laptops, tablets, smartwatches, heart trackers, headphones, even a complete home system. Gaming consoles were included as well — from the newest PlayStation to Xbox units, all top-of-the-line. For a moment, Mateo's mind whirled. He had seen some of these perks on paper before, but the reality of holding them, touching them, knowing they were all his to pick… it was dizzying.
And yet, he wasn't finished. The next choice brought him Cupra cars, sleek, shiny, and powerful. He chuckled to himself, remembering that some first-team players, like Pedri, already had them. He calmed down, reminding himself to make a rational choice, and selected the car he knew would suit him best.
But just when he thought he had reached the peak of excitement, the next perk appeared: apartments. Not just one, but four incredible options. Mateo's jaw nearly dropped. He could actually pick one himself. This was serious business, not something to rush through like the sneakers or the gadgets. He took over twenty minutes, walking through floor plans, imagining sunlight streaming through the windows, picturing where he would put his furniture, thinking about how it would feel to come home after training or a match even calling and showing his parents to get their opinion. Finally, he chose the apartment that felt like home — the one he knew would be perfect for him.
With the perks sorted, Mateo was guided down to the field, where the media team was waiting. Among them was Sarah and her crew, bustling with energy and excitement. They explained how Mateo would shoot some promotional videos before recording his official announcement videos. After changing into his kit and completing some preliminary shots, it was finally time for the announcement video.
Sarah explained her concept — she had gotten the idea after seeing Mateo's iconic picture from his Bayern match celebration — but just as they were about to start, they hit a snag. Mateo's jersey, or more specifically, his jersey number, became the first hurdle to overcome.
La Liga had a strict rule: first-team players had to wear numbers between 1 and 25. Mateo's current number, 36, immediately posed a problem — it was too high. At first, he didn't think it would be such a big deal, but the more he realized the restrictions, the more complicated it became. Number 1 was always reserved for the goalkeeper, which meant Mateo was limited to numbers 2 through 25. But as he glanced around, he saw that nearly all the numbers were already taken by other first-team players. After a brief tally in his head, Mateo realized that the only truly free options left were 2 and 25.
He didn't hesitate. Mateo quickly chose 25. Low numbers were traditionally given to defenders, and he wasn't a defender, also number 25 had a sharp, bold ring to it. It was a choice that made sense, and it felt right for him at that moment. However, before he could even slide into the jersey that had already been prepared, a staff member approached him with a serious expression. "You're not allowed to wear that," the person said.
Mateo froze. For a moment, confusion took over, and he tried to process the information. But then the staff member explained that the board had actually preselected a number for him, one they had thought best for the team and for Mateo's image. Mateo's brow furrowed, a knot forming in his stomach. He watched as they carried over a number 9 jersey. Immediately, recognition hit him. In his memory, he knew this was Braithwaite's number, the striker who had been out on injury since Mateo had joined the main squad. Mateo had barely seen him in action if at all, yet here was his number now being offered to him.
At first, Mateo was uncomfortable. It felt strange, almost like he was stepping on someone else's stuff he didn't want to have issues with Braithwaite. But as the staff assured him that Braithwaite had been informed and had given his blessing, Mateo reluctantly accepted. A small part of him was thrilled — he just didn't want to admit it too soon.
Truthfully, he wanted it badly, fuck what he said about number 25 having a nice ring to it that was just to console himself i mean who actually knew any player offhand who wore number 25. Number 9 on the other hand wasn't just any number; it carried weight, history, and prestige easily the most recognizable number in football only dragged with by number 1 and 10. While number 10 had its own legendary aura in Barcelona, number 9 wasn't far behind. It had been worn by greats like Cesar Rodriguez, Rivaldo, Eto'o, and more recently Luis Suárez. And now, in a surreal and exhilarating moment, Mateo's name would stand alongside theirs: Mateo King, printed on the back of number 9, ready to carve his own legacy on the pitch.
A/N
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