From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

"This is nice," Mateo murmured, his voice soft, almost surprised.

He sat alone on a padded bench just outside the massage room at Nou Camp, draped in his Barça warm-up gear—the iconic crest stitched proudly on his chest, the navy fabric hugging his lean frame as sunlight bled in through the tinted glass. His boots were untied, headphones resting around his neck, but his eyes were glued to the screen of his phone.

It was the picture.

The photo.

Him, standing shoulder to shoulder with survivors of the Paris incident. Fans. Families. Children. Surrounded by his teammates. All of them, from Messi to the newest youth player, arms raised in unison in that now-famous gesture—his celebration. A sign of defiance. Of pride. Of unity.

It had gone viral, of course. Shared by Barcelona's official account and reposted by nearly every major football page on Earth. At the top of the post, in bold font:

"Bulgarian Pride. We bow to no one. Més que un club. Barça is Family. 💙❤️💙"

Mateo scrolled slowly, his thumb gliding over the flood of comments.

"Give this kid the Golden Boy already."

"MESSI did the celebration too?? Nah this is legendary."

"This is how you show leadership. He's 17 and already more mature than most pros."

"Mbappé clears tho 💀"

"Future Ballon d'Or winner. Print this."

"I cried watching the video. Protect this boy at all costs."

"Barcelona DNA in full display. La Masia never fails."

He grinned. Some made him laugh—especially the ones tagging their friends with things like:

"Bro why didn't you go with me?? Now you missed Messi AND Mateo."

"The PR team ate with this one, not gonna lie."

"Wait, is that the same pose from Jude?? LMAO 😭 he made it look cooler tho mateo just jacked and owned his celebration I'm in tears."

He didn't bother with the few negative ones. The trolls, the comparisons, the Mbappé stans. He'd seen enough of that since he broke into the first team. Today wasn't the day to give them space.

Instead, he chuckled when he saw a comment from Micah Richards:

"Mateooooo! That picture is cold 🔥🔥🔥 Young king!"

He kept scrolling.

There was one from Gavi, naturally:

"Let me take credit as the creative director behind this masterpiece 😌"

Casadó replied with:

"You owe me breakfast for that camera angle, bro."

Fermín López had dropped a string of flame emojis. Even a few La Masia younger players chimed in—Lamine Yamal left:

"Can I borrow that celebration for my next youth game?"

Mateo laughed, then blinked in surprise when he saw the name that appeared next:

Ansu Fati.

"Proud of you, hermano. Can't wait to play with you soon. Big things ahead for you."

Mateo froze for half a second, his thumb hovering above the screen. He reread the comment again, this time slower. It wasn't long or dramatic—but it meant something.

They had been close, he and Ansu. Since the days in the youth squads, through cold training mornings and long post-match bus rides. Even when Ansu was called up first, there had never been jealousy. They were boys. Brothers, in a way. But with Ansu sidelined by injury and Mateo rising like a star, fans—media, even coaches—had started drawing comparisons.

And in that pressure, that noise… they had stopped talking as much with both od them busy Fati with his rehabilitation and him with all this.

But this? This message?

It made Mateo smile. A wide, warm, genuine smile. The kind that felt like it reached his chest. He leaned back against the wall, still staring at the screen, his lips curling upward again as the warmth spread.

For a moment, the world slowed. The pressure of games, the whispers of critics, the burden of expectations—all of it melted. He wasn't Barcelona's next big thing. He wasn't the "prince of La Masia." He was just Mateo.

And in that moment, he was happy.

Mateo scrolled down lazily, thumb flicking the screen as his feed refreshed. He checked the like count again—250,000 and climbing. His lips curled into a subtle smile, one that deepened when he glanced at the top of the screen.

Followers: 997K.

Closing in.

He let out a small exhale through his nose, amused. This was officially the most liked post he'd ever had. Not that there was much competition—since making his debut for the senior team, he'd barely posted anything at all.

That wasn't by accident.

During media training, the club had asked him to not post for a while—not until the noise around him settled. Too many eyes, too much attention. Focus on the pitch first, they said. Let your football speak. Mateo had listened. Quietly, patiently.

Now, it seemed, his football had done plenty of talking.

He went back to the comments, scrolling slowly, grinning at some of the replies. Fans, former teammates, even journalists. Some joking, some sentimental, others just sharing it for what it was—a moment. A message. A picture of pride and healing.

"Hey, Mateo."

The voice broke through his focus.

Mateo looked up, still holding his phone. One of the kit managers—a familiar face he saw almost daily—was standing at the edge of the locker room, hands tucked into the pockets of his training jacket.

"Mateo," the man repeated gently, "you know the rules. No phones this close to kickoff."

Mateo blinked. Right.

Today wasn't just a media day.

It was match day.

Barcelona vs. Getafe. Kickoff in just over 40 minutes.

He nodded quickly. "Ah—sorry. No problem." He stood up, already pressing the screen to turn off the phone.

"Thank you," the kit manager said with a smile. "The others are already heading out to warm up. You should join them. Let's keep that good form going, eh?"

Mateo grinned, replying with a lighthearted "Sí, sí, no problem, Jordi."

He gave the phone one last glance—just one more swipe across the screen, a final look at the sea of comments—then switched it off. Carefully, he tucked it into the locker, grabbed his jacket, and turned.

"Ey, Mateo—you heading out now?"

He looked toward the voice. Riqui Puig and Óscar Mingueza were standing by the doorway, boots on, already bouncing slightly as they waited.

"Yeah," Mateo replied, shutting the locker with a soft clack. "Let's go together."

The three of them stepped into the tunnel side by side, boots clapping lightly against the floor. The dim interior of the passage slowly gave way to the brightness of the stadium entrance.

As they approached the edge of the pitch, the world opened up.

Camp Nou.

It never stopped being surreal. The scale. The colors. The noise. Even with the match still a while away, fans were already streaming in, filling the stands with their signature mosaic of red and blue. Flags waved, banners hung, and somewhere in the distance, the faint thump of drums echoed like a heartbeat.

And then—

a cheer.

Not loud, not like match-day roar—but noticeable. A ripple through the lower stands. It was for them.

Warm-up hadn't even started, and the fans were already reacting.

"Wow," Puig said, nudging Mateo with an elbow and grinning. "They even cheer when you walk onto the pitch? Must be nice, eh?"

Mateo shook his head modestly, a soft smile playing on his face. "It's okay."

Oscar pounced before he could finish.

"Okay? Look at him—he's blushing!" Óscar said with a laugh, grabbing Mateo by the shoulders as the three of them laughed their way onto the pitch.

A few feet higher up in the stands—tucked away in one of the private viewing boxes—a pair of familiar blue eyes watched quietly as the players began their warm-up on the Camp Nou turf.

From his vantage point, he could see Mateo clearly: laughing, joking with his teammates, soaking in the pre-match energy under the fading afternoon sun. That small, easy smile on Mateo's face brought a similar one to the man watching. The resemblance was unmistakable—sharp chin, strong cheekbones, even the same quiet confidence in their expressions.

The man in the box wasn't just a casual observer.

This was Andrew King—Mateo's father's twin brother, his uncle, and more importantly, his agent.

"Mr. King, how's the atmosphere treating you?"

Andrew turned from the glass, pulled from his quiet reflection. The voice came from behind—deep and familiar. Standing there, just a few paces away, was a man slightly past middle age, broad-shouldered and carrying a bit more weight around the middle than he used to. His suit was crisp, though slightly strained around the buttons, and his smile was charismatic—naturally so.

Andrew's own expression shifted slightly. The warmth that had crept onto his face faded, replaced by a more composed, professional look. He gave a polite nod.

"Mr. Laporta. Please, I've told you before—you can just call me Andrew."

Yes, the man before him was none other than Joan Laporta—the newly elected 40th president of FC Barcelona. Just a day ago, he'd officially assumed the role following a surprise election. The former president's abrupt resignation had left a leadership vacuum, and Laporta's campaign—dynamic, energetic, nostalgic—had stepped in with force.

From bold promises to carefully calculated moves—including that now-iconic giant banner draped across the Bernabéu reading "Looking forward to seeing you again"—Laporta had delivered both theatre and strategy. He didn't just win the election. He made history, becoming the first man in over a century of Barça's existence to win two non-consecutive presidential terms.

And today, at his very first match back in power, he was wasting no time.

One of the campaign promises he'd most often repeated was now being put into motion: Mateo King's contract renewal.

"Then you can also call me Joan."

Laporta chuckled warmly, stepping beside Andrew to look out at the field.

"So once again... how's the atmosphere of the Camp Nou? Do you like it?"

Andrew turned his gaze back toward the pitch, letting his eyes slowly scan the legendary Camp Nou once more. The late afternoon light spilled gently across the turf, casting long shadows that danced beneath the players' feet as they warmed up.

Down on the field, Mateo was juggling a ball with playful ease, popping it from foot to thigh and then shoulder, before flipping it up and catching it with his chest. De jong tried to swipe it from him mid-air, but Mateo danced away, laughing. The rest of the players laughed too, some clapping, others shaking their heads as if to say show-off.

Even from this height, the sound of the crowd was distinct—low and rhythmic, rising in bursts whenever someone waved or smiled toward the stands. A few early fans were already on their feet, clapping and cheering for their heroes. Some even called out Mateo's name with excitement.

Andrew watched it all quietly.

He hadn't always been convinced about letting Mateo come here so young. But seeing him like this—free, relaxed, completely in his element—it was hard not to feel like the decision had aged well.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Andrew's mouth as he exhaled through his nose.

"Yes," he said softly, his eyes still locked on his nephew, "I can see why Mateo likes it here so much."

Laporta nodded beside him, satisfied. The president turned with a glimmer in his eye, that ever-present grin still firmly planted on his face.

"Good, good…" he said, brushing imaginary lint from his blazer.

"Now—how about we get to the main discussion, then?"

A/N

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