Barcelona.
Inside a luxurious villa in the heart of the city.
Luis Enrique stared at the phone on the table in a daze.
"What is Iniesta playing at?"
His mind was spinning with confusion.
He knew the state of Barcelona B inside and out. There weren't any so-called geniuses among them.
Pujic and Araujo had potential, sure—but genius? Not even close.
As for Traoré and Llorenç… he'd been looking for a chance to offload them anyway. They were raw and inconsistent.
Could Iniesta be referring to a Real Madrid Castilla player?
Still lost in thought, Enrique wandered downstairs to the living room.
His daughter, Sira, was lounging on the couch, watching a drama.
"Sira, change the channel. I want to see the B team's match."
Sira groaned in protest. "Ugh, why would anyone watch a B team game?"
Still, she picked up the remote and flicked over to the broadcast.
"Woah!"
Her eyes instantly lit up with a sparkle.
"Who is that? He's so handsome!"
Sira pointed excitedly at the screen, now showing a close-up of the Barcelona B midfielder.
The player in question? Romeo Teixeira.
With striking azure-blue eyes and the elegant features of a royalty, Romeo stood out like a star. The camera loved him, and it wasn't just his looks—it was his presence.
Even without football, he could've been a celebrity.
"What's his name? Who is he?" Sira grabbed Enrique's arm.
Enrique narrowed his eyes, vaguely recognizing the face. "Romeo... Romeo Teixeira, I think."
"I want his number!" Sira beamed, practically bouncing on the couch.
Enrique scoffed, clearly unimpressed with his daughter's sudden obsession. He took a seat, eyes fixed on the game.
On the pitch, the pressure was mounting.
Real Madrid Castilla, down a goal, had turned up the heat.
Barcelona B were under siege.
Traoré fumbled possession, and Castilla immediately launched an all-out assault.
A swift wing break.
A chipped cross into the box.
Their striker soared above the defenders and powered a header toward goal.
The crowd held its breath—
Wide!
The ball skimmed the post and rolled out for a goal kick.
"Defend tighter! Press higher! Control possession!"
Coach Herald was shouting himself hoarse from the sidelines, sweat forming on his brow.
One goal could swing everything.
Don't let the calm fool you—football is a game of momentum, and morale is its invisible fuel.
Enrique furrowed his brow. He hadn't meant to focus on Romeo, but his daughter's obsession drew his attention to him.
And what he saw bothered him.
No defensive contribution.
When the team was under pressure, Romeo's impact was minimal.
In the age of modern football, the days of luxury playmakers were over. Even forwards had to press and track back.
Halftime.
Barcelona B held the lead—barely.
In the locker room, Herald wasted no time adjusting tactics.
They would switch from a 4-3-3 to a 4-2-3-1.
Romeo would be pushed upfield, granted the freedom to shoot from distance.
Meanwhile, Castilla's coach, Santiago Solari, was also reshuffling the chessboard.
"That Teixeira kid—he can't defend. He's the crack in their armor," Solari pointed at the tactical board. "Break through him."
"And keep Pujic pinned! If Romeo gets the ball, so what? Let him have it—we'll cut off his options."
"Get fired up, boys. Let's send this lot into relegation!"
Second half.
Kickoff: Real Madrid Castilla in possession.
A pass to the wing—and that's where Traoré made his mark.
The Barcelona powerhouse muscled through like a tank, stealing the ball cleanly.
In one motion, he laid it off to Pujic.
Pujic glanced up, spotted Romeo unmarked—and with a flick of his left toe, stabbed the ball forward.
It was magic.
The ball split under the Castilla midfielder's legs and glided perfectly toward Romeo.
Romeo received it calmly, dragging it back with his left foot and spinning with an elegant flourish.
It was like watching a ballet dancer on a pitch.
The ball obeyed him like a loyal companion.
Then it came—the killer pass.
Romeo's instep sliced through the ball, sending it spinning along the turf with surgical precision.
It bisected the entire Castilla backline like a red-hot scalpel.
Barcelona's striker, Navel, ran onto it at full speed, breaking past his marker.
Fake shot. Zidane dived.
Real shot. Net rippled.
2–0.
"Romeooooo!"
Navel charged toward his teammate and bear-hugged him.
"That pass was unreal, man!"
In the villa.
Sira jumped up with a squeal. "Dad! Did you see that?!"
"A perfect assist! He's like a magician!"
"No… wait… he had the first assist too!"
The broadcast confirmed it: Romeo Teixeira was involved in both goals.
Enrique leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
He was no amateur. He'd played at the top level. He could spot greatness.
And Romeo's vision—was something else entirely.
Only Xavi and Pep had made him feel that before.
"The weight… the timing… the imagination…" he muttered.
If this kid can keep that up—
And then he pictured it.
Romeo pulling strings behind Messi, Suárez, and Neymar.
It sent a chill down his spine.
Meanwhile, Solari was losing his mind.
"What are you doing?! Letting Teixeira roam?! Are you stupid?!"
His players froze in confusion.
"But coach… you said—"
"I told you to mark him!" he screamed at his assistant.
"I reminded you—twice," the assistant mumbled, exasperated.
Solari kicked a water bottle in frustration. "Shut up! Mark him now!"
Back on the pitch, Romeo took a brutal tackle from behind.
He collapsed instantly.
"HEY!" Herald stormed the touchline. "You going for the ball or trying to break legs?! That's a red!"
"Team doctor! Move! Don't just stand there! That's our star midfielder on the ground!"
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