From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

"Mateo?"

The room fell silent. The hum of background conversations, once full of chatter about the "Paris Bleed" survivors—yes, that was the name the media had landed on, the survivors—now thinned out into a fog of stillness.

Everyone turned slowly.

Sarah's voice had sliced through the atmosphere like a pin through fabric. And the name she had spoken wasn't just any name. No. Not in this building. Not in this room. Not with these people.

Mateo King.

A name that, within Barcelona's media division, meant tension. Fire. Politics. Pressure. If you worked in this department, from the highest producer to the newest intern, it was drilled into you like a first-aid procedure: Know the players. Know the drama. Know Mateo.

The boy who had become a prince far too soon.

The wonderkid who had turned a football stadium into a furnace with one celebration.

So when Sarah, barely looking up from her editing screen, had whispered that name in this context—this context of survivors and campaigns and fan optics—it was like lightning cracking in a clear blue sky.

Jack, the senior campaign coordinator, broke the silence first. His voice was light, a bit nervous, like someone easing into a room where something fragile had just fallen."Ehn… Mateo?"

He didn't even finish it like a sentence. It was more of a question tossed into the air, hoping someone else would catch it.

But instead, it sparked a chain reaction.

A woman near the back, in charge of scheduling media appointments, exhaled loudly."Why are you mentioning him now?" she asked, her voice already coated in preemptive fatigue.

Someone else muttered sharply, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand."God, please don't tell me we have to talk to those media channels again. I just got back from a meeting with Sky Sports. I'm too weak."

"Too weak?" another voice chimed in from the far side of the editing suite. "At least you got Sky Sports. I had to sit in with OneFootball. Those bastards hate us. I had to promise them an exclusive just to shift their tone—just one notch."

The room buzzed again, now not with idle chatter, but rising defensive dread. They'd fought tooth and nail to rein in the wildfire narrative that had spun out after Paris. They'd battled hashtags, headlines, viral clips, misquotes, and opinion pieces dressed as journalism.

And then it began.

The murmurs exploded into groans, exasperated sighs, and scattered complaints. The room, just moments ago filled with mild chatter and editing noise, turned into a mini battlefield of media fatigue and suppressed panic.

And at the center of it all stood Sarah Salahpour.

She snapped out of her focused daze, her fingers still half-hovering over her editing controls. Realizing the room had shifted because of her, she blinked, then waved both hands like she was trying to swat away smoke."Hey! Hey, relax! What's wrong with you guys? I only mentioned his name because I had an idea about him!"

That froze the air.

The complaints stopped mid-groan.

One of the assistants tilted his head, confused."Idea?" he repeated, his voice both skeptical and curious.

Sarah had already stood up. She grabbed her notebook, camera bag, and her charger from the desk in quick motion—her thoughts now sprinting ahead of her.

"Yes, an idea," she said quickly, her voice breathless but buzzing with adrenaline. She was already stuffing her camera into its case."Something clean. Something real. Something that clears up the message around him. The stuff they're still saying about Mateo online, all those recycled clips, that whole damn celebration narrative—it's stale. But this… this will throw that out completely."

They just watched as she tossed her media pass around her neck, speaking as she walked, fast—too fast for anyone to interrupt her.

"Help me stall the victims. Just a few minutes. I just need Mateo," she added, tightening her ponytail as she power-walked toward the door.

Jack, standing closest to her, tried to call out, half-raising his hand like a kid in class."Wait, Sarah—the players, they're all still in the tactics room now—"

But she was already gone.

Door open.Door closed.Gone like a flash of wind.

The media room was silent again—but a different kind of silence. A stunned one. A watching-her-leave kind of silence.

Jack stood there, blinking.Then he exhaled, slouching forward slightly.

"There she goes again…" he muttered, rubbing his forehead.

He turned around to complain, maybe say something snarky—but froze when he saw all their faces staring directly at him.

Wide-eyed. Waiting.

"…What?" he asked suspiciously.

One of them, a young guy from the graphics team, raised his eyebrows."Didn't she ask you to stall the victims?"

Jack blinked."…Me?"

"Yes. You."

He gestured at himself with a look of exasperation.

"Come on, be serious. I'm the campaign coordinator—I plan rollouts, handle media tone, prep scripts. I'm not trained to ad-lib comfort speeches to riot survivors. That's not what I do. One wrong word and we've got a headline, not a healing."

"Good luck, buddy," another muttered, chuckling as Jack groaned dramatically.

Meanwhile…

Two doors down, the mood was far lighter.

Mateo and Pedri walked out of the tactics room, blending into the slow-moving stream of players filtering out behind them—some heading toward the showers, others to the recovery zone, a few already laughing in their tight-knit cliques.

Mateo had a soft grin on his face, that rare mix of pride and disbelief still flickering in his eyes.

"Are you serious?" Pedri asked, still chewing on a piece of gum.

Mateo nodded."Yeah. My uncle said the call's not official yet, but it's looking good. He spoke to the Federation. I might get called up this week."

Pedri tilted his head with a casual shrug."Well, I'm not really surprised, to be honest. After the way you've been playing? It's only natural Spain wants you now."

"Yeah," Mateo said, a quiet but unmistakable glow of pride slipping into his voice. It was subtle—barely above a breath—but the warmth in it was unmistakable. That single word carried months of struggle, headlines, late goals, and pressure no 17-year-old should have to bear… and still, he said it like someone finally tasting the reward.

"Congrats, Mateo. I can't wait to share the pitch with you out there," Pedri replied, his smile wide and genuine, clapping his friend on the shoulder with boyish energy.

"Thanks, man," Mateo began, turning toward him to respond properly—but before he could finish the sentence, a presence came flying into their space.

A hurried shuffle of boots. A camera bag swinging on one shoulder. And then—there she was.

Sarah.

Mateo barely turned in time to catch her expression: sharp, focused, and just slightly flushed from rushing. She locked eyes with him and exhaled with relief.

"Oh, good—there you are! Mateo, come with me, please."

She didn't waste a second. Her tone was clipped, urgent—too urgent. Her hands made little beckoning gestures even before she fully stopped walking. Everything about her screamed now.

Mateo blinked.

"Whoa, whoa, hey—Sarah… what's wrong?"

It wasn't the first time he'd dealt with her impulsive bursts. Since being enrolled in club-mandated media training months ago, he'd become well acquainted with the entire Barcelona media department, and none more than Sarah Salahpour. She was driven. Passionate. Smart. And—if you asked around—very persistent when something grabbed her attention.

Which apparently, today, was him.

"Sarah, calm down—what is all this?" he said, slowing his pace, eyebrows folding. His voice wasn't harsh, but the flicker of irritation was there. Enough to stop her.

She came to a pause, realizing she was practically dragging him by the arm. Her breath caught, and she looked up sheepishly.

"Oh—I'm so sorry," she said, pulling her hands back and standing upright again. "Really, I didn't mean to come at you like that, Mateo. It's just… I'm on a clock. I need to catch the victims before they leave. It's for the media piece. I swear I'll explain everything, but we need to go now—just trust me, please?"

Her voice was fast but earnest, her eyes darting back and forth like she was already halfway out the door again. It was clear she believed whatever she was working on mattered. A lot.

But Mateo wasn't budging.

He shook his head slightly, exhaled a slow breath, then raised a hand in peace.

"Later, Sarah. I'll come by the media suite and we can talk then," he said, his tone firmer now. "But right now, I've got somewhere I need to be."

He nodded toward Pedri, who stood silently watching the whole thing unfold, looking equally surprised and amused.

"Massage room," Mateo added casually, tossing an arm around Pedri's shoulder. "Let's go."

Mateo had already turned halfway, his arm still slung lazily around Pedri's shoulder, ready to leave the whole thing behind.

But then—

"Mateo, I'm sorry," Sarah's voice called again, this time more firm, almost trembling with insistence. "But this can't wait."

Mateo paused, brows tightening slightly as he turned back toward her. His eyes searched her face for any real urgency—this again? She was always running on fire. But something in her expression now wasn't just focused. It was pleading.

He sighed, trying not to sound annoyed. "What could possibly be so important it can't wait, Sarah?"

She didn't hesitate.

"It's the Paris victims. They're here. I need your help with an idea."

Time froze.

Just like that—three words, and Mateo stopped breathing.

"The… them?" he whispered, his voice falling out of him like air leaving a balloon. His body went rigid, still, as if someone had paused him mid-frame. His gaze dropped, lost in something only he could see, while his breath barely caught in his throat.

The shadows that had been trailing him for days—the headlines, the screams, the chants, the guilt he tried to bury under match fitness and media smiles—all came rushing back in a wave.

Seeing him frozen, Sarah wasted no time. She saw the gap and leapt through it.

"Yeah," she said quickly. "They're here. Let's go."

And just like that—she took his hand.

Again.

Her fingers curled around his without hesitation, and before Mateo could process the gesture—before he could think of what to say or even how to breathe properly—she was pulling him forward.

This time, he didn't resist.

His body moved, but not because he willed it. It moved because he didn't know how not to move. His thoughts were a mess, legs sluggish under him, as if each step was carrying the weight of the past week's silence.

He didn't even look back.

But someone else did.

Pedri, left standing where they'd split, blinked twice in sheer confusion. He turned slightly, following their disappearing forms with his eyes.

"What the hell just happened?"

A voice came beside him. Araújo, strolling casually with a protein shake in hand, leaned close with a puzzled glance.

Pedri didn't answer immediately. He just stared, watching the door Sarah and Mateo had vanished through, his mouth slightly parted as if trying to put words to a question even he didn't fully understand.

Meanwhile—

Mateo's steps slowed slightly as they approached a quiet hallway near the media wing. His voice, soft but unsure, finally broke the silence:

"Sarah, are you… sure about this?" His tone held hesitation now, the uncertainty creeping back in like a cold draft beneath a door.

Sarah, still a few steps ahead and scrolling rapidly on her phone, didn't even look up.

"Jack says they're here," she said flatly, focused and moving. "Let's go in."

From Mateo's point of view, it was all coming back again. So much for letting this go… for forgetting.

His jaw tightened slightly, eyes lowering as Sarah tugged him along the hallway. Every step closer made his heartbeat louder. The media had calmed, the noise had faded, but inside, a dull ache still hummed—quiet but present. He hadn't been blaming himself for what happened in Paris anymore.

Still, deep inside, there was a weight. He couldn't lie to himself.

Blaming a celebration? A goal celebration? That was ridiculous. He knew it now, just as he'd known it when the first few accusations trickled online. But that hadn't stopped him from spiraling the night he came back—staring at his phone screen until morning, playing videos over and over again: the stampede, the shouting, the swinging fists and boots, fans screaming, bloodied faces…

His stomach turned slightly at the memory. He remembered turning in bed, blanket pulled to his chin like a shield as the glow of his screen illuminated teary eyes. He hadn't cried, not really. But it sat in his chest like a stone.

And now he was about to walk into a room with them. The people from those clips.

He swallowed thickly.

"Hey, Sarah…" he said quietly, gently tugging his arm back. "I don't think I can do this."

He wasn't trying to cause a scene. He wasn't trying to be dramatic. He just didn't know if he was ready to look them in the eye—not yet.

But before he could say anything else, Sarah was already pushing a door open, her voice breezy but her urgency clear: "Let's go. They're already waiting."

Mateo barely had time to respond. His feet moved without thinking.

The room was bright and clean, well-lit by soft overhead lights. Chairs arranged in small clusters. Water bottles stacked neatly on the side. But none of that mattered—his eyes were instantly drawn to the group at the center.

He saw them.

The "Paris Bleeds," as the media called them now.

Real people, not headlines.

Some wore heavy bandages—legs propped up, arms in slings. A few leaned slightly to one side as they sat, body still sore. One girl in a grey hoodie had faint bruising along her cheekbone, but her smile was soft as she chatted with someone beside her.

Mateo felt his back straighten. Then curve. Then straighten again.

He wasn't sure how to carry himself. The jersey on his back suddenly felt heavier. His shoulders tightened. The air wasn't cold, but he felt a chill.

They hadn't even fully noticed him yet, but he already felt smaller than he had walking into the tunnel for his Champions League debut. Then, at least, he was running out onto grass. Here… he was walking into pain.

Then the whispers began.

"Wait… is that him? "That's Mateo. "No way, Mateo King? He's here? "Oh my God, they said there was going to be a surprise. Is this it?""Ugh, I should've worn my lashes…""My boyfriend's going to be pissed, he skipped out early. "He looks so young… seventeen? Are you serious?"

Mateo stood quietly to the side, hands brushing his pants, pretending to be casual.

Jack, who'd been awkwardly hovering by a window, quickly walked up to Sarah. "Sarah, what are you doing?" he whispered, his voice hushed but tense. "If Jordi finds out about this—"

"Relax," Sarah said quickly, brushing her hair behind her ear as she kept her eyes on the group. "Just calm down. I have an idea, okay? For a photo. It could work."

"What photo—" Jack began, but he never got the full sentence out.

"Hello, everyone," a voice called out across the room. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

It was Mateo.

He was standing at the front now, his hands awkwardly linked in front of him, eyes flicking across the seated group.

The room fell into a hush. The buzz of conversation cut instantly. Some turned in surprise, others leaned forward, blinking.

Sarah froze, mouth still half-open from speaking to Jack. Then her eyes widened.

"Jack," she hissed, grabbing his sleeve. "Quick. Camera. Get the camera. Record. Don't miss a thing."

Mateo stood there—frozen.

His palms, damp with sweat, rubbed nervously against the sides of his pants. His eyes scanned the room, flicking from one face to the next. They weren't just strangers. These were the people. The ones from the videos. From the headlines. From the chaos. From his nightmares.

Some of them were smiling, polite, curious.

Some sat in silence, arms crossed over bandaged ribs or knees wrapped in braces.

Some just watched, unreadable.

But they were all looking at him.

What the hell am I doing?The thought struck him like a slap. His breathing faltered. His throat tightened.

He hadn't planned what to say. He didn't know how to start. He didn't even know if this was a good idea. It all felt too raw. Too unfiltered. He wasn't built for speeches. He was a footballer—not a spokesperson. Not a healer.

His heart thudded in his chest.

"Calm down, Mateo," he thought to himself, repeating it quietly, like a chant. "Just breathe. Calm down. Your uncle's right. You can't keep bottling this up forever."

His hands clenched and unclenched once. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaled slowly.

"I owe it to them… No—" he corrected himself in his mind, "I owe it to myself."

Then, he spoke.

"I… I know I'm not supposed to be here like this," he began, his voice a little hoarse. "And maybe this is too soon, or maybe it's already too late, but… I just need to say something."

The room grew still. You could hear a pin drop.

He looked at them again. The fans. Young. Old. Wounded, some with visible bruises and others with invisible ones. The weight of their presence made him feel even smaller.

"I know I didn't cause what happened that night," he continued, "and I know that in the grand scheme of things, my pain doesn't matter—not compared to yours. I know no one died, thank God, but… what you went through, it wasn't fair. None of it."

His eyes fell to the floor.

"And even if I had nothing to do with it directly, I just—" he stopped, inhaled again, trying to force the words out. "I celebrated. I celebrated that goal, and the world went mad. And for some reason, I blamed myself… even when I knew deep down it wasn't logical."

He looked up again, just for a moment.

"I've watched the videos," he admitted. "I've seen the fear, the pain… I couldn't sleep for days. I couldn't stop thinking, 'What if I hadn't celebrated like that?' I know it's stupid. But I just—"

His voice cracked slightly.

"I just want to say I'm sorry. Not because I caused it. But because I wish I could undo it. I wish you didn't have to go through that. Any of it."

Then, quietly, almost ashamed, he bowed his head—eyes closed, the silence of the room filling his ears like ocean waves.

There.I said it.Finally.

But silence followed. Too long a silence.

No one's saying anything…They're angry. I've messed it up. I shouldn't have—

Then a voice rang out:

"Wait… why are you apologizing to us for?"

Mateo's eyes blinked open.

"Yeah," another said. "It's not like you're one of those French bastards who caused this."

Someone else chimed in: "You even scored the winner for us! Man, if a little scar is the price for that, I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

A few people laughed.

"Now we just need you to score in the next match," someone said, and another immediately added, "Next match? Please. We're going all the way. Semis minimum."

"What do you mean semis?" a guy barked. "Did you see our performance last game? This is our year."

"Yeah, the other teams this season don't even look that strong. Bayern's struggling. Madrid's shaky. I'm telling you—we can win the Champions League."

More voices piled in. More chatter. Laughter. Buzz. Excitement.

Mateo stood there, blinking—his posture still tight, but his body slowly relaxing.

Then someone said it.

As Mateo stood there, the warmth of their words still echoing in his ears, he felt something shift inside him. It was subtle, quiet—but real.

His chest, once heavy like a stone lodged between his lungs, now felt lighter. His heartbeat slowed. A calmness he hadn't felt in weeks began to wrap itself around him like a soft scarf. For the first time since that awful night, he allowed himself to breathe—fully, freely.

His shoulders relaxed. His fingers, once clenched into nervous fists, opened.

His eyes, too, began to shimmer a little.

He hadn't noticed it at first—the gentle sting behind his eyelids, the warmth collecting there. It wasn't a sob or anything loud, just a quiet tide rising within him. Gratitude. Relief. Humility. The feeling of being seen and… forgiven.

And that's when he heard it.

"Wow. Are you really crying, dude?"

Mateo nearly jumped out of his skin.

He turned sharply, startled, blinking through the emotion still resting in his eyes.

It was Pedri.

Standing there, arms folded, smirking like he'd just caught Mateo doing something deeply embarrassing. His brown curls bounced slightly as he tilted his head, grinning wide.

"You are never, ever living this down," Pedri said, chuckling.

Mateo's eyes went wide. "What are you talking about?" he said, immediately wiping at his face like he could erase the evidence. "Who's crying? I'm not crying. What are you even talking about?"

Pedri raised an eyebrow dramatically. "Sure. Sure you weren't."

"I'm serious," Mateo said, crossing his arms in defense. "You're imagining things. I was just—there was dust or something—"

"Bro," Pedri cut in, amused. "When that girl—what's her name, Sarah—when she carried you off like a mother hen, we all got curious. So we asked around. Then we heard the Paris fans were here, and, well… we figured we should check in on you."

Mateo's expression flattened, half-embarrassed, half-suspicious.

"Wait," he said slowly. "What do you mean 'we'?"

Before Pedri could answer, it began.

A murmur in the crowd.

"Is that… Pedri?"

"Wait—is he here too? Oh my God, I heard he and Mateo are close. Did he come to support him?"

More footsteps echoed through the room.

"Wait… isn't that Alba? And Piqué?!"

"Look! Look—oh my God—IS THAT MESSI?!"

Suddenly the quiet, heartfelt tension in the room melted into buzzing energy. It was like someone flipped a switch. Faces that had moments ago been wounded with grief and guarded by caution now lit up with disbelief and excitement.

Because now the legends were here.

The Barcelona first team—almost all of them—were walking in. Some in tracksuits, some still with their gym towels slung over their shoulders. Jordi Alba entered first, flashing his easy grin and offering nods of recognition. Piqué followed, tall and composed, shaking hands with fans as he moved through the space.

And then came the man himself.

Lionel Messi.

Clad in a simple black hoodie and jeans, beard neatly trimmed, hands tucked casually in his pockets—but when he walked in, the room shrank.

Or at least, it felt that way.

For all the eyes that had once been fixed on Mateo, they now belonged wholly to the 5'7" magician whose name defined eras. Phones were raised. Jaws dropped. There was a stillness of awe in the air—as if the presence of Messi demanded the world pause for a moment and just look.

"God," one of the victims whispered, eyes wide, "my boyfriend's going to actually pass out when he finds out who I just stood in a room with…"

And then, something beautiful happened.

The atmosphere didn't stay worshipful. The team didn't keep their distance, waving like celebrities behind a velvet rope. They stepped in—fully.

The players greeted everyone. They shook hands, hugged, smiled, laughed. Piqué helped an older man to his feet for a picture. Jordi Alba posed with a group of teenagers, holding up bunny ears behind one of them. Busquets sat down and started chatting with a boy in a cast like they were childhood friends. Pedri—true to his word—nudged Mateo along, whispering, "Let's go make some people smile, tearboy."

Even Messi—quiet, often reserved—smiled as he walked slowly through the room, taking the time to greet each person, nodding and listening to their stories, offering warmth without ever having to raise his voice.

What had started as a tense, awkward visit had transformed into something warm. Something healing.

A small miracle of a moment.

And all because the first team—Barça's beating heart—had shown up not just for their teammate…

…but for their people.

"And that's it."

Sarah Salahpour lowered her camera slowly, the screen still glowing with the final image. A wide grin stretched across her face, pride rising in her chest like a tide.

This one… this one will get me a raise.

She knew it the moment she pressed the shutter. Everything about the picture felt right—the angle, the framing, the energy. But more than that, the feeling it carried. It wasn't just a photo.

It was a statement.

And by the time the sun dipped behind the Catalan skyline, FC Barcelona's media department had already launched into a full-throttle, heartfelt campaign.

That entire day, the club's platforms turned into a gallery of healing and unity.

Post after post showed the survivors of the "Paris Bleed"—as the fans now called it—wrapped in the arms of the first team. There was Jordi Alba pushing a wheelchair. Ter Stegen squatting to speak to a fan eye-to-eye. Busquets handing out shirts. Griezmann photobombing a group shot and then pretending to act innocent.

A video simply titled:

"Our Little Respectful Prince: La Masia Bred."

It was raw. No background music, no heavy edits. Just Mateo standing in front of the fans—voice steady, but heart heavy—as he opened up, apologized, and showed more maturity than most adults ever manage to.

And the fans?

They welcomed him like family.

The comments exploded with love."He didn't have to say all that… but he did. Prince Mateo indeed.""THIS is Barça. This is what we are.""We bleed together, we rise together."

And then, at 3:02 PM, the cherry on top dropped.

The most powerful Piece came in

A single image. Posted on every Barça account, titled in bold:

"Bulgarian Pride.We Bow to No One.Més Que Un Club.Barça is Family."📸🔴🔵

The picture hit the internet like lightning.

Within twenty minutes, it had crossed a million likes. Shared by nearly every Barcelona first-team player. Retweeted by Paris Saint-Germain's official page.Neymar reposted it with a red and blue heart.Mbappé added three clapping hands and wrote simply: "Respect."

The image?

A moment frozen in gold.

Mateo stood tall at the center of the frame—surrounded by players, fans, survivors.His posture was firm.His jaw was set.His eyes, sharp as a blade, stared down the lens with a defiant fire.

And there, raised proudly, his arms stretched in defiance and joy—was that celebration.

One arm up. One pointing to the turf.

Not a hint of apology. Only pride. Only love.

And he wasn't alone.

Every fan around him. Every teammate. Every staff member. All of them had their arms raised too. All of them united in a single pose, a single gesture. One that no longer symbolized disrespect or defiance…

But strength.

And the message beneath the photo said it all.

"They tried to shame us for celebrating.

So we turned celebration into resistance.

This is not just football.

This is family.

This is Barça."

A/N

If You want a bonus chapter when the power stones get to 150 i would post a bonus chapter 200 then 2 chapters .

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