From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

"And there," Mateo said under his breath, pressing a small magnet onto the laminated wall schedule that hung beside his bed.

It was a hand-drawn chart—lined and labelled, names and symbols marked in careful, bold strokes. At the very top in dark blue ink: Getafe. Next to it, a large capital H circled twice. Below that, another name: Athletic Bilbao, this time tagged with a thick A—standing for "Away". A few lines below remained blank, waiting.

Mateo looked at it with a quiet, satisfied smile, arms folded over his chest.

A voice broke the moment.

"So that's your schedule for the season, ehn?"

Mateo turned slightly. Gavi stood at the entrance of their shared dorm room, shirt rumpled, spoon hanging out the side of his mouth as he walked in with a bowl of cereal in hand. Milk sloshed around dangerously with every step.

Mateo nodded, stepping aside so Gavi could get a closer look. "Yeah," he replied, brushing his fingers lightly over the laminated surface. "Just wanted to put everything out. Get my mind locked in, you know? Primed for it all."

Gavi gave a lazy hum and moved closer, chewing noisily, the soft crunch of cereal echoing in the quiet room.

Mateo's eyes flicked sideways. His stomach let out a small, traitorous growl as he eyed the bowl in Gavi's hands. Cereal with banana slices and honey—this guy always eats like it's Saturday morning, Mateo thought, suppressing the urge to ask for a bite.

But Gavi, blissfully unaware, leaned in and squinted at the calendar.

"Why are some of the dates blank?"

Mateo blinked. "Ehn?"

"Your schedule," Gavi said, pointing with his spoon. "Some lines are empty."

"Oh, that." Mateo scratched the back of his neck. "That's for the Champions League quarter-finals. We don't know who we're facing yet. The draw's next week."

Gavi let out an "oooh," nodding as he scooped another spoonful. "So who do you want to get? Porto should be the most ideal, right? Their defense isn't all that. Not like last year."

Mateo nodded. "Yeah, Porto would be the dream draw. But they're not the only ones I wouldn't mind getting."

Gavi raised a brow. "Ehn? Who else?"

He leaned against the wall, cereal in hand, thinking. "Ooo, maybe Chelsea? They just sacked their coach, right? Still in that weird transition. Shouldn't be too dangerous." He paused, then added with a grin, "Or Dortmund. You versus Haaland? The media would eat that up Battle for the golden boy it would probably get a catchy title like that."

Mateo smirked. "Yeah, those would be good. But... that's not who I was talking about."

Gavi tilted his head, curious. He turned to fully face Mateo now, still holding his bowl. "Ehn? Then who?"

He looked at the calendar again, eyes running down the blank spaces. "Let me see… still left are... Liverpool, right?"

He trailed off.

His eyes widened suddenly—recognition dawning.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face.

Mateo's lips curled up too, the grin returning like muscle memory.

For the two lifelong La Masia students, just the thought of one name was enough to spark a thousand emotions.

Their eternal rivals.

Real Madrid.

Gavi's grin widened. "Ooo, I like how you think."

Mateo let out a low chuckle, eyes dancing as he imagined it. "The scenes, bro. Us knocking Madrid out of the Champions League? Eliminating them from what they call 'their competition'?" He clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a sly smile. "Bro, that kind of win would feed generations. Generations, Gavi."

They both laughed, not just from the thrill of rivalry, but the wild, intoxicating idea of making history. Of putting their stamp on El Clásico in the grandest way possible.

"Just can't wait," Mateo murmured, voice almost to himself.

Then his expression changed.

"…Anything but Bayern though," he added with a half-laugh, shaking his head. "Last season's treble winners? That would be a long one."

He mimicked a shiver. Gavi chuckled.

"But nah," Mateo said, straightening up, eyes sharper now. "Let's not think like that. We're Barça. We face whoever. And we beat whoever."

"That's the spirit, man," Gavi said, raising his spoon like a glass. "Visca Barça," he added with a grin, puffing out his chest in mock pride.

Spirit.

That was one thing Mateo didn't lack.

Not now.

Not ever.

On the schedule behind him—his self-made roadmap to glory—beside the eight remaining league games and the upcoming three-match slate of Spain's national team qualifiers… there were five more slots.

Five blank squares.

Each one sitting like unopened doors to destiny.

Each one representing hope.

Each one a dream.

Each one… a step.

Especially the final one at the bottom of the chart. No opponent's name. No location. Just a bold circle drawn around the date:

May 29th, 2021.

The day every football lover knew by heart.

Champions League Final.

It wasn't just a match to Mateo—it was the summit. The ultimate goal. The Everest of everything he had ever trained for. And despite the noise, the hate, the attacks, the trending hashtags… that date remained untouched.

Unbothered.

Untouched.

Unshaken.

Mateo stared at it like a lighthouse cutting through the storm.

Suddenly, the loud sound of Gavi tipping his bowl to his mouth snapped him out of his thoughts. The younger midfielder tilted it high, slurping every last drop of milk until the bowl made that unmistakable hollow gulp.

"Wooow," Gavi said, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist. "That just saved my life."

Mateo was still staring.

Gavi blinked… and then smirked.

Mateo's face was practically etched with longing—his eyes locked on the empty bowl like it was the golden boot.

Gavi leaned closer, holding the bowl just out of reach, and said with a wicked grin—

"You wish it was you, ehn?"

Clack.

The sharp sound of metal scraping against ceramic echoed softly through the nearly quiet cafeteria—a fork dragged lazily across a half-eaten plate.

A mocking voice followed, mimicking with high-pitched dramatics, "You wish it was you, ehn?"

Mateo.

Slouched slightly in his seat, he muttered it to himself with a crooked smirk, shaking his head at the memory of Gavi's cheeky face earlier that morning.

He sat now in the cafeteria of the Joan Gamper Training Facility, Barça's world-class fortress for development. In front of him was a plate of soul-crushing food. A pale mound of steamed quinoa. Dry grilled chicken breast. Boiled carrots with no seasoning. All washed down with a grey-looking smoothie meant to be "super fuel."

His fork twirled through it once more before he dropped it entirely. He stared at the dish with a kind of distant disgust, then leaned back and exhaled slowly.

He closed his eyes.

"Yeah," he whispered, voice soft and amused, "I do."

Just then, a voice called out from behind.

"Mateo! Hey!"

He turned his head slightly.

Standing by the edge of the hallway entrance was Pedri, already in his training gear, one hand on the wall, the other holding a Gatorade bottle.

"Coach is calling you," Pedri said, smiling. "Tactics room. Game talk."

Mateo wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up with a nod. "Coming."

He glanced down at the depressing plate one last time, grabbed it, and took it over to the return window. The cafeteria woman behind the counter—older, warm, and always humming a song—smiled as he approached.

"Didn't like it today, Mateo?" she asked in Spanish with a soft chuckle, noticing how little was eaten.

He chuckled back, rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm just not a carrots guy."

"Don't worry. They'll turn you into a champion," she teased, taking the tray.

"Gracias, señora," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Thank you."

She laughed. "Always so polite, this one."

With that, Mateo made his way out, stepping into the quiet corridors of the training center. His footsteps echoed off the pristine floors as he weaved through the maze of glass walls, turf-smelling hallways, and distant echoes of coaches shouting instructions from another room.

As he rounded the next corner, a few ball boys from the youth teams—barely teenagers—stood chatting. The moment they spotted him, they lit up like fans meeting a superstar.

"Mateo!"

"Your goal against PSG—broo, insane!"

"You nutmegged that guy twice!"

Mateo laughed and fist-bumped them as he passed, tousling one of their haircuts playfully.

"Thanks, guys. You better be working on your stepovers though would join you guys later," he teased.

They grinned wide as he walked on.

But in that moment, as the laughter faded behind him, his mind wandered back.

His first week here.

Joan Gamper. A place that once felt like a fortress of giants and legends. He remembered stepping into this same hallway Months ago, just a wide-eyed boy with no friends, no fanfare, and barely any confidence.

Nobody smiled.

Nobody greeted.

He was invisible.

Now? Now people called his name down the halls. Staff shook his hand. Fans requested selfies outside. Ball boys knew his stats. The cafeteria woman remembered his meal preferences. Sixteen goals later, and he wasn't just another academy product.

He was part of the story.

But he knew better than to believe his own hype.

So he smiled, shook his head slightly, and thought, Nah. Second darling. Messi still breathes here.

Then his eyes moved to the entrance of the tactics room—just a few meters ahead. The door he'd once stood outside, nervous, afraid to walk in.

Now they're calling you in, he thought. Now they want to hear what you think. Now they expect.

And all of it…

Every inch of it…

Was thanks to one thing.

Sign in.

His system.

A simple phrase, a quiet ritual, a sacred habit that no one else saw. He didn't know where it had come from, or how long it would last—but every time he did it, things clicked. Performances flowed. Games shifted.

"It brought me here," he thought.

His fingers flexed at his side. His heart steady.

And tomorrow…

Another match.

Another test.

Another sign in.

What will I get this time? Mateo thought as he walked down the hallway toward the tactics room, his footsteps steady, his heart already thinking two steps ahead.

It was at Camp Nou, their cathedral. The same turf once graced by footballing gods. His mind flickered through names as his fingers tapped idly against his thigh.

Ronaldinho's elastico. Xavi's half-turns. Eto'o's bursts. Iniesta's ghost runs. Suarez's instinct. Messi's… magic.

He bit his lip softly, almost smiling at the thought.

Hope I get something from him, he thought. From Messi. Even just a sliver. A movement. A feint. Something. Anything from him would boost me massively.

The door to the tactics room slid open.

The cool blast of AC hit him first. Then the light hum of electronics and muffled footsteps. The room wasn't overly large but it was brilliant—modern, sterile, but elite. A huge electronic tactics board dominated the front wall, flickering softly with looping diagrams. Screens on either side displayed analytical stats, heat maps, and pass flow charts. Framed photos of legendary matches and Barça captains stared down from the side walls. A table with hydration packs and protein snacks was off to the left, and the floor had a faint scent of disinfectant and Gatorade.

At the front stood Ronald Koeman, arms folded, talking quietly with two of his assistants. Scribbles filled his iPad. The assistant behind him flipped through positional sheets.

Mateo quietly walked in, passing by members of the Barcelona 2020/21 first-team squad—Griezmann leaning against a chair, Busquets stretching one leg, Alba discussing something with Mingueza.

He drifted smoothly to his usual spot near the back-left side of the room. Always that corner. It gave him the right view—not too close, not too far. And as always, Pedri had already saved him a seat.

Beside Pedri sat Riqui Puig, busy spinning a pen between his fingers.

Mateo slid into the seat, eyes flickering to the screen as he whispered, "What did I miss?"

Pedri, still half-scrolling through his phone, whispered back, "Nothing. They're just about to start."

Mateo leaned back, getting comfortable as players trickled in steadily. Some came straight from gym sessions—sweat clinging to their compression shirts. Others had just finished pool recovery or light passing drills. There was laughter, stretching, whispers, and small talk. Ter Stegen passed by with his boots still untied. Dembélé hummed softly to himself as he entered.

Six minutes after Mateo had arrived, the entire available squad was present.

Then—

"Okay, settle down. Settle down."

Koeman's voice, firm but steady, echoed across the room as he stepped forward and all screens dimmed.

Silence.

He looked across the sea of faces. Young men who carried the weight of a city, a history, and now, recent tragedy.

"I know," he began, voice lower. "I know it's been a rough few days for everyone. I know there are still questions, emotions, frustration—"

Heads nodded.

"But now, for the next few weeks… we have to block that out."

He pointed to the screen behind him, which suddenly flashed to show a digital countdown timer.

"Eight."

Then, next to it, the La Liga trophy appeared.

"Eight finals stand between us and being crowned kings of Spain again."

Murmurs rose. Determination flickered in their eyes.

Koeman turned to the tactics board. "And tomorrow, here, at Camp Nou… we begin."

Click.

The board lit up. The Getafe CF crest appeared, shining blue and red under the projection light.

"Don't let the table fool you. They're at the bottom, yes. But Getafe are anything but soft."

The screens rotated—match footage playing from previous games. Harsh tackles. Midfield scrums. Sudden presses.

"They're aggressive. Relentless. Physically demanding. They foul to break rhythm, and they defend in numbers. They're not playing beautiful football—they're playing to frustrate. To exhaust."

"Now, for us, that means..."

The screen changed again to a passing network of Barcelona's current structure.

"We stick to our DNA. Possession, movement, triangles. But we adapt. Against Getafe, the key is control and timing. Their midfield collapses on the ball. So we attack the flanks, pull them wide, and exploit the gaps."

A moment later, Koeman looked up from his tablet.

"Mateo."

Mateo immediately straightened. "Yes, gaffer."

Koeman nodded. "How's your health? What are the medical reports saying?"

Mateo blinked. "They say I'm good, sir."

Koeman gave a half-smile. "Good. Because we pushed you hard last game. I know that. But I need you again."

Mateo's heart picked up.

"I need you not just in the box. Not just waiting for tap-ins. I need what I saw last match—that spark. That movement. The way you dropped into pockets, took on defenders, created for others…"

Koeman looked him dead in the eye.

"I need that to not be a one-time thing. I need you to be unpredictable. Alive. Creative. Think Messi and Neymar. Think Messi and Iniesta. Movement. Rotation. Pulse."

Mateo nodded firmly. "Yes sir."

Koeman turned slightly toward the room. "You and Messi—tomorrow, you're the heartbeat of this team. Everything flows through you two. I want rotations. I want combinations. I want movement. Link up. Drag defenders. Fight for spaces. Break lines. Complement each other. If one drops, the other runs. Make them dizzy."

Pedri gave him a nudge under the table.

Mateo didn't even smile. His jaw clenched, his chest quietly swelling with pressure—and pride.

Koeman looked at him one last time.

"Make the game yours."

Mateo nodded confidently. "No problem, sir."

Koeman raised an eyebrow slightly. "And you're fully fit for the next game? What's the situation with the stitch?"

Mateo grinned, straightening in his seat. "Don't worry, gaffer. As long as we're at Camp Nou, I can play the full ninety and then some. No problem at all."

A few players chuckled. Mateo gave his chest a playful thump, trying to psych himself up as he leaned back with mock bravado. Laughter echoed through the room.

"Too bad you can't do that in away games though, ehn?" a voice called out from the back—probably Griezmann.

"And after 70 minutes," another chimed in—likely De jong, "this guy's legs start saying goodbye one by one."

The room erupted.

Pedri doubled over in laughter. Jordi Alba clapped twice and pointed at Mateo, cracking up. Piqué leaned back in his chair, wheezing. Even Busquets, usually deadpan, smiled.

Mateo's face turned beet red, but he wasn't about to go down without swinging. He jumped up a little and shouted back playfully, "And yet I score the late winners, don't I?!"

"Ooooh!" the room chorused in unison.

Puig shouted, "The baby tiger's got fangs!"

"The cub is growing claws!" Dembélé added.

The entire squad was howling now, banging fists on their chairs and slapping tables.

Koeman raised his hands with a half-smile. "Okay, okay, enough now. Give the kid some peace."

Mateo grinned and slumped back into his chair. "Thank you, gaffer."

But Koeman wasn't quite done. He rubbed his chin and added slyly, "Who knows… maybe his girlfriend is always at Camp Nou, ehn? Makes him run harder."

Another wave of laughter swept through the room. Even Ter Stegen was grinning.

Mateo groaned, sinking into his seat, covering his face with both hands. "Ahhh, coach! Not you too!"

Koeman simply laughed, looking across his team—not just players, but a brotherhood.

But just a few feet away from the warm, glowing energy inside the tactics room… another scene was unfolding. One far less cheerful, but no less important.

Click.

Flash.

"And that's it."

A camera shutter snapped and echoed faintly.

The voice belonged to a young woman with sharp features and confident poise, a camera slung over her shoulder. She stepped back, reviewing the image on the small display screen with focused precision.

Around her, a large open room buzzed with quiet movement. It was a temporary holding area set up by FC Barcelona to assist the protest victims—the fans who had been caught in the chaos outside the Parc des Princes just days ago.

There were over two dozen people in the room. Some had bandaged wrists or bruises beneath their eyes. Others sat in wheelchairs, arms in slings. Medical volunteers moved through the space handing out bottled water and energy bars. Club reps were stationed near the exits, offering documents and follow-up support.

The young photographer stepped forward toward a smiling blonde woman who had been assisting the fans, clipboard in hand.

"Thank you again for your help," the photographer said.

The woman nodded. "The team's reps are waiting outside. They'll guide everyone to their next destination."

She turned toward the rest of the room. "Thank you all once again. Please, if you have any lingering pain or trauma, contact the helpline we gave you. You'll be taken care of."

The room gradually began to empty.

As the last few stepped out, the young woman remained, gazing down at the previewed image she'd captured. It was powerful—one fan holding a Barça scarf despite his cast, smiling. The kind of photo that could go viral… for the right reasons.

"We can use this," she muttered to herself. "This one's good… let me start editing."

She walked across the space to a workstation set up against the wall, where a few other journalists were quietly speaking among themselves.

"…those fans," one of them was saying, "I mean, would you call them lucky or unlucky? They got jumped, yeah, but look at everything they've gotten since."

"True," another replied. "Barça's given them free kits, signed merch, full season tickets for next season…"

"And PSG—believe it or not—are footing the entire medical bill. Even promised a mental health stipend for emotional stress."

"Don't forget," a third voice added, "the mayor of Paris gave them a formal apology and financial compensation too. Wild how things play out."

"Yeah," one of the journalists said, his voice now quieter, more somber, "but some of them… some are still in the hospital. Still fighting for their lives."

A silence settled over the corner of the room.

"I mean…" he sighed, glancing down at the tablet in his hand. "So I don't know if the trade-off was really worth it, you know?"

He looked up again, turning slightly toward the young woman standing across from him.

"What do you think, Sarah?"

Sarah Salahpour, the media team's rising star—barely 23, already handling some of Barça's most delicate media optics—was hunched over her laptop, fingers dancing across the touchpad. Her hijab was tucked neatly beneath her headset, sleeves slightly rolled up as she adjusted light balance and contrast on a photo—an image that would soon headline the club's campaign to show the world that Barcelona stood by its people.

She didn't look up.

She stared at the photo of the fans who were attacked from the brutal night at Paris.

"I'd need Mateo."

And that was all she said.

A/N

If You want a bonus chapter when the power stones get to 100 i would post a bonus chapter 150 then 2 chapters .

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