Inside the heart of Camp Nou, deep within the walls of power where decisions shaped the fate of an institution, the president's office stood unusually silent. Joan Laporta—who just days ago had been celebrating like a madman in this very stadium, fists raised, voice hoarse, drunk on victory—was now living through what felt like the worst days of his life.
And it was all because of a single piece of paper.
The paper trembled in his hands. Not because of the air in the room, nor because of exhaustion, but because his hands themselves were no longer steady. His grip, usually firm, authoritative, commanding, had become unstable, betraying the turmoil raging inside him. His shoulders were slumped, his back no longer straight. The weight pressing down on him was invisible, yet crushing.
This was the president of FC Barcelona—one of the biggest clubs in world football, reduced to silence by ink and numbers. A massive crisis, not born on the pitch, not from a defeat or humiliation, but from figures laid bare on a sheet of paper. Figures that told a story far uglier than any scoreboard ever could.
His mouth opened slightly, lips dry, breath uneven. When his voice finally came out, it was scruffy, broken, shaking—low, almost unrecognizable compared to the confident tone he was known for.
"Is this… true?"
The words barely held together, fractured, as though each syllable struggled to escape his throat.
Reverter, the CEO, was the only other person in the room. He stood there in silence, hearing that broken, weak voice—the voice of a man who was usually strong-willed, imposing, unshakable. And in that moment, something inside him cracked. He felt it, something broke quietly in his chest. He swallowed a lump of spit he didn't even know he had, his throat suddenly tight, before finally responding.
"Yes, sir," he said carefully. "It's true." the words came out destroying any delusions Laporta was trying to have.
He closed his eyes. Slowly. Deliberately. As if shutting out the world for just a second might change what was written on that page.
'So, it really is it, 'he thought.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked down at the paper one more time. The room felt heavier, the silence thicker, the tension so sharp it could have been cut with a knife.
After a long moment, Laporta straightened. He steadied his hands, forcing them into stillness, gripping the paper firmly now. The despair he had felt only seconds ago was pushed aside, thrown away, buried deep. He was the president of the club. If even he fell into despair, then the club had no future. And Laporta would rather die than let Barcelona fall.
He scanned the report again, from top to bottom, slower this time, more deliberate. His tongue clicked once against his teeth, a small sound in the otherwise silent room, as a single thought crossed his mind:
'Shit… I knew it was bad, but I didn't know it was this bad.'
In Laporta's hands were the estimated financial reports for the season. Football clubs—unlike regular companies—did not calculate their annual reports by calendar year, but by the footballing cycle, from the start of one season to the end of the next. In this case, the period ran from 1 July 2020 to 30 June 2021.
The figures in front of him were not yet finalized. The season was still nearing its end, accounts still being wrapped up, minor adjustments yet to be made. But Laporta knew better than anyone that these numbers were already close to the truth. At the very least, he estimated them to be 97% accurate.
And that was exactly what horrified him.
He exhaled slowly and began from the top, as if easing his way into the damage might somehow soften the blow. The first thing listed was revenue—the most difficult figure to calculate. Not because it was unclear, but because it depended on success. Four different projections stared back at him, each one tied to a different possible outcome of the season.
The first was the most straightforward estimate: the normal revenue the club was heading toward, projected at €640 million.
The second rose to €680 million, but only on the condition that the team won the Champions League.
The third stood at €669 million, dependent on winning the domestic league.
And then there was the final figure—€780 million—but that number came with the most demanding condition of all: winning both the league and the Champions League.
Laporta knew exactly why the numbers shifted so dramatically. It wasn't just prize money or bonuses. Winning competitions caused massive spikes in merchandise sales—shirts, scarves, memorabilia flooding stores worldwide. Sponsors paid more when their logos were associated with champions, broadcasting deals carried added value, global exposure increased, and success compounded success. A double, or even a treble, didn't just bring trophies—it multiplied income across every revenue stream.
On paper, it looked impressive. In fact, Laporta wasn't sure how many clubs in world football could even reach the lowest of those figures. They could likely be counted on one hand. And if Barcelona won the double, he was almost certain no other club on the planet would earn more than them.
Yet he couldn't smile.
Because right beneath those hopeful numbers—lined up neatly, mercilessly—sat the expenses for the season. And they were cruel. The total expenditure read €1.2 billion. Almost double what the club would earn.
His jaw tightened. The wage bill alone made his stomach turn: €570 million. More than twice what it had been the last time he was president. Granted, that had been in 2010. Salaries had risen across football since then. But even accounting for inflation, for market growth, for superstar contracts, this was ridiculous. Unsustainable. They weren't just spending money. They were bleeding it.
And it didn't end there.
As his eyes moved lower and lower down the page, the bad news kept coming. The Net Debt (LFP) stood at €680 million, a figure that included the bank debt of €533 million. Then came the Total Liabilities, estimated at a staggering €1.35 billion. Line after line followed—details about obligations, deferred payments, outstanding balances.
There was a brief mention of cash available: €63 million. A number so small compared to everything above it that it almost felt like a cruel joke.
But the final blow came at the very bottom of the report. The icing on the cake. The number that made everything else fall into place in the worst possible way.
The Net Loss.
Even under the most optimistic scenario, after accounting for everything, even if they won both the league and the Champions League-the lowest estimate for the loss still stood at a staggering €481 million.
Laporta, seeing that, felt all the negative emotions flooding back in at once. The numbers blurred for a moment before sharpening again, cruel and unmistakable. His lips moved almost without his permission as he muttered under his breath, "Four hundred and eighty million…" The words sounded unreal even as he said them. His heart dropped all over again when the weight of the figure truly sank in—an amount that sat frighteningly close to the club's entire revenue.
From what Laporta remembered, the biggest loss ever recorded by a football club had been Manchester City during the 2010/11 season. Even now, that year stood out vividly in his memory. The reaction back then had been absolute disbelief. A loss of roughly €227 million had driven the football world insane. Pundits, executives, fans—no one could wrap their heads around how a club could bleed money on that scale. Even Laporta himself, already retired at the time, had been stunned by the news. He had never believed that just a few years later he would be staring at a number nearly double that amount—and worse, that it would belong to his own club. FC Barcelona.
As the thought settled, the negative emotions only grew heavier. Manchester City losing that much in a single year had already been considered impossible, something that simply should not happen in football. And yet City had survived. They had resources beyond normal logic. They had a state behind them, pumping their books full of money drawn from liquid gold. Their loss, massive as it was, had never truly threatened their existence. They had safety nets. They had guarantees.
Barcelona did not.
Barcelona was fan-owned. Every euro mattered. Every mistake carried consequences. There was no external power ready to erase deficits with a signature. Losses like this didn't just hurt—they endangered the club itself. Structures, traditions, futures. Everything was at risk.
And suddenly, almost absurdly, the problem that had been plaguing him for weeks—the inability to register Messi felt so trivial. Laughably small compared to what now lay in front of him. 'Only God knows what would happen,' he thought grimly, as the full scale of it revealed itself. How bad it truly was. How deep the rot ran. How many things would have to go. How much would have to be cut, sold, sacrificed. The weight of it pressed down on him until his chest felt tight.
He kept thinking, spiraling deeper, and then he couldn't help himself anymore. Anger surged up and drowned out everything else.
He had promised himself against despair. He had said nothing about anger.
Reading the figures again only made it worse. The more he looked, the livider he became, until restraint finally snapped. Over the next few minutes, he unleashed a stream of curses and abuses directed at the previous administration, every reckless decision, every inflated contract, every lie dressed up as ambition. The words poured out unchecked, sharp and bitter, years of frustration boiling over at once.
Reverter simply stood there, silent, watching as his president spent the next few minutes tearing apart the entire past leadership of Barcelona.
Laporta stood there puffing, chest rising and falling heavily, his breathing rough and uneven. Sweat clung to his skin, beading along his temples and soaking into the collar of his shirt, despite the air-conditioning humming softly above them. The room was cool—almost cold—yet his body burned as if the heat came from inside him. He wiped a hand across his face, steadying himself, then lifted his head and looked straight at Reverter.
"What about Herbert," he asked, his voice still edged with strain, "has he gotten back to us on what he wants?"
As the words left his mouth, he stopped moving. His gaze lingered on Reverter, but his thoughts were already racing ahead. 'Yes… it's not over,' he thought grimly. 'It seems I need to get serious. Double my efforts.' The idea he had resisted once before forced its way back to the front of his mind: the Super League. 'That might solve all our problems.'
Before he had become president, back during the election when it was becoming clear he would likely win, he had received a visit from a very old acquaintance, Florentino Pérez, the president of Real Madrid. Laporta had been genuinely shocked by it. They knew each other, of course, but they were hardly friends. The president of FC Barcelona and the president of Real Madrid being friends? That alone sounded like a joke. So Laporta had known immediately that Pérez was not there to congratulate him on a future victory. There had to be something else and he was right.
When Pérez spoke of a Super League he was planning, Laporta had been stunned. The idea was enormous—dangerous. It would overturn modern football entirely, destroy the existing order. Domestic leagues, the Champions League, UEFA's grip on the sport—everything would be uprooted.
The first time he heard it, Laporta had dismissed Pérez as a madman in his own mind. He had quickly distanced himself from the idea. He knew exactly what it would mean. Football fans were conservative to the core. They didn't even like celebrities singing before big matches, let alone changing the very foundation of the sport itself. And for a fan-owned club like Barcelona, supporting something like that could get him thrown out before he even truly settled into the presidency again.
So he had washed his hands of it, or at least tried to. Laporta shoved the meeting to the back of his mind. That had been the plan. But the world loved watching plans fail, and his own hadn't even lasted a few weeks. After winning the election and finally seeing the real numbers, after getting a true sense of how bad things really were, after facing the very real possibility of losing the club's greatest player ever, the idea he had tossed aside so quickly began to look dangerously appealing.
He abandoned his earlier stance without ceremony and chose to take the risk—even if it meant angering the fans. In his own words, it's better for the fans to hate him than for them to watch their club fall. As for his relationship with Pérez, everyone at their level understood one simple truth: in business, there were no eternal enemies—only interests. And right now, Barcelona's interests aligned perfectly with Madrid's, drawing both presidents closer than they had ever been before.
Now, after seeing just how bad the finances really were, his resolve hardened even further. What had once felt like a dangerous gamble now looked like a necessary evil. Supporting the Super League was no longer just an option—it felt inevitable. Laporta, who had quickly agreed to join Pérez, had soon become a founding partner alongside him. Pérez, for his part, had been thrilled. The one club in world football that could truly match Real Madrid in influence, history, and global pull had chosen to stand on his side.
And the effects had paid off almost immediately. Deals began coming in left and right, faster than Laporta had even dared to imagine. The most important of them all was the massive agreement with JP Morgan, who had promised to invest a staggering €3.5 billion to help launch the league. On top of that, they had pledged to give each founding club an additional €200 million to €300 million as a welcome bonus. There were even ongoing talks—still unofficial, but very real—of Barcelona and Madrid receiving an extra €1 billion each for being the first two clubs to truly start and anchor the project.
Of course, it wasn't without risks. And not small ones. They would be making enemies of the very powerful UEFA and its power-obsessed president, men who had ruled European football unchecked for decades. Then there was the madman at the helm of La Liga, whose opposition was almost guaranteed. But money really was the root of all evil, Laporta thought grimly. Even knowing all that, the allure of that billion euros was simply too much. That would solve everything, he told himself. It would balance the books instantly. A pure cash inflow of that magnitude—one billion—would help the club immediately, no matter how bad things are.
Which is why it would be helpful to get Herbert on our side, he thought next. With Barcelona and Madrid at the forefront and JP Morgan promising to handle the financial backbone, other major clubs had quickly been drawn in. From what Laporta knew, five of the Premier League's so-called Big Six had already promised to join, with the last one very close to committing. In Spain, Atlético Madrid had also agreed to side with their two main rivals—those who had suppressed them for years in the league. Over in Italy, Juventus and the Milan twins had followed suit.
Of course, not everything had been smooth sailing. Herbert's disinterest in the league remained a serious obstacle, and Nasser over in Paris hated the idea outright, actively seeking ways to undermine and destroy it from within the footballing ecosystem.
But then, after all of that, Bayern had suddenly reached out and shown interest in the idea. 'With Bayern joining,' Laporta thought, 'another world-class giant coming on board, this becomes a massive boost—an extra layer of legitimacy no one can ignore.' He could feel it then, the shift inside him. As he allowed himself a small smile, the weight of the preliminary financial report finally began to lift, its bitterness fading away as he saw light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel.
Ferran Reverter stood frozen for a moment, his eyes fixed on Laporta. He watched the faint, almost imperceptible smile begin to tug at the corners of his president's lips, a small flicker that betrayed the thoughts running through Laporta's mind. Ferran felt a knot tighten in his chest. He knew the message he was about to deliver would sting, even though he had rehearsed it countless times. Bayern's demand was unreasonable—borderline insulting—but there was no way around it. He had to say it.
He drew in a long, slow breath, letting it fill him as if steadying a body teetering on the edge. Then, forcing himself to speak, he let the words out carefully, measured, precise. "The Bayern president says he would seriously consider joining the proposed Super League if we can be reasonable about transferring Mateo over to them."
The words barely left his mouth when Ferran felt a strange, paradoxical relief—a weight he hadn't realized he'd been carrying seemed to lift from his chest. He turned to Laporta immediately, bracing himself, ready for the anger he expected to explode. But instead of fury, there was only confusion etched across the president's face, raw and unfiltered, a stark contrast to the tension Ferran had anticipated.
Sensing the silence stretching uncomfortably, Ferran quickly added, "Of course, he also said we can set a price, and he would pay fair market value for Mateo."
Before he could continue, Laporta's hand shot into the air, waving dismissively as he interrupted, voice sharp and urgent: "Wait, wait, wait, wait!" He leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto Ferran, confusion still lingering as if he could not fully process the words. "He said he would join if we sell him… Mateo?"
Ferran's reply came quietly, almost reluctantly: "Yes, sir."
Laporta blinked slowly, disbelief creeping into his tone as he spoke, each word deliberate, measured by the shock it carried: "Mateo? As in… Mateo King?"
Reverter's answer was calm but firm, a repetition that only seemed to fuel the disbelief on Laporta's face: "Yes, sir."
As those words left Ferran's mouth, the confusion that had lingered on Laporta's face vanished in an instant, replaced by a storm of pure, unrestrained rage. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and the veins in his neck tightened as the reality of the demand hit him.
Laporta erupted, his voice booming through the office, sharp and furious. "Reject the deal immediately! I can't believe you even brought this rubbish to me in the first place!" Every word dripped with incredulity and anger. Ferran instinctively lowered his head slightly, murmuring, "Sorry, sir," his voice careful, almost apologetic in the face of the storm as he grew more and more dissatisfied with Ferran.
Laporta waved his hand dismissively, a single gesture cutting through the tension, and snapped, his tone final, uncompromising: "Don't waste time. Don't even let them think we're considering this. Go—quickly. Call them and tell them there is no deal to make, and there will never be a deal to make as long as the condition is Mateo King."
Ferran nodded sharply, the seriousness of the order clear on his face, and hurried from the office, voice firm as he said over his shoulder, "Yes, sir."
Laporta remained standing, rigid, eyes fixed on the door as Reverter disappeared down the hallway to relay his words to the Bayern executives. His mind raced, still processing the audacity of the proposal. They want Mateo? In their wildest dreams. He would never allow that.
Even as his anger burned, Laporta's mind was calculating, turning over every angle. Bayern joining the Super League would be a massive boost, a huge strategic advantage, but it was far from a guaranteed success. He refused to underestimate UEFA, their influence looming like a dark cloud over the plan. And the fans—their loyalty, their scrutiny—could not be ignored. There remained a very real chance that the entire project could collapse. As president, Laporta knew he could not afford complacency; he had to begin planning for every possible contingency, no matter how furious he felt in the moment.
If the Super League were to collapse, and he had allowed Mateo to be sold away, Laporta knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would go down as the greatest sinner in the history of FC Barcelona. Every soul at the club, from the fans in the stands to the staff in the back offices, knew that Mateo was their ultimate way out—a generational talent, already performing at levels beyond his seventeen years, and still so young that his potential was practically limitless. Whispers had already begun about shaping him into the face of the club for years to come, alongside Ansu Fati, a duo that could carry Barcelona's identity well into the future. To give all that away now, to hand him to another club as a bargaining chip, would be not just foolish—it would be insanity.
Laporta leaned back into his chair, feeling the soft yet firm resistance of the leather beneath him, the seat bowing slightly under his considerable weight. He exhaled, steadying himself, and allowed himself a moment to consider the sheer scale of the problems stacked before him. Time, as always, was an enemy. Reports had already reached him: journalists were sniffing trouble in Barcelona's corridors, circling like vultures over the smallest hint of instability. He had kept a firm grip, controlling the narrative, suppressing leaks, but he knew it was only a matter of time before someone discovered the cracks. And even if he could keep the press at bay, the League could not be deceived.
The Liga Nacional de Fútbol Profesional (LFP) the full Body of La Liga demanded detailed financial records from every club under its purview, their so-called "economic control system." No matter how clever Laporta might be, he could not evade the official, audited closing accounts submitted at the end of June. When those numbers were revealed, the storm would be merciless. And he knew, with an almost cold certainty, that the madman at La Liga, ever watchful, would seize this opportunity to strike, using Barcelona's vulnerabilities to extract a devastating toll.
The office felt impossibly dark. Shadows pooled in the corners, the evening light fading against the weight of the crisis. Laporta sat alone, the calm eye of a storm in a sea of chaos. He exuded a quiet, almost chilling composure—cool, measured, unshaken on the surface, yet inside burning with resolve. No one could see the pressure, the loneliness that came with being president of one of the world's greatest football clubs, the isolation of making decisions that would shape legacies, ruin careers, or save futures.
He reached for his phone, letting his fingers brush against the smooth metal, and felt the weight of the crisis settle in his mind. This was bad—but he would not go quietly. He would not let Barcelona be brought low. The club had fought through wars, economic collapses, and crises that would have shattered lesser institutions. And he, as its president, would see it rise again. They would fight. They would endure. And they would emerge on top. He placed the phone to his ear, the dial tone buzzing faintly, and turned his chair slightly, giving him the perfect view of the massive Barça logo embossed on the wall behind him.
The emblem reflected the fire in his eyes: a burning promise that failure was not an option. The pressure, the isolation, the responsibility, the looming threat of financial ruin—it all seemed to fuel him, sharpen him, make him more dangerous in the arena of power, politics, and football.
When the call picked up, he didn't flinch. He didn't hesitate. He stared at the club's crest as if drawing strength directly from its legacy, and spoke in a low, controlled voice that carried the weight of ambition, determination, and inevitability.
"Perez… no more waiting. Let's begin."
A/N
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