From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

"Alright boys!"

Koeman's voice rose above the steady buzz of the locker room. His words sliced through the background noise of stretching limbs, crackling heat pads, and the occasional thump of boots against benches. Some players were still sipping their isotonic drinks, others getting last-minute massages or adjusting their shin pads. Everyone was busy, but everyone was listening.

"We've trained. We've practiced. We've studied every detail. Now it's all about mentality."

He paced slowly in front of them, voice clear and commanding.

"Getafe's lineup came in exactly as we expected. No surprises. So no excuses. You're ready."

Heads nodded across the room.

"We start sharp. Win your duels. Trust each other. Play our football. Stay calm, stay compact. The first ten minutes—control the game. Set the tone early."

He looked around the room, locking eyes with a few of the senior players.

"Let's make a statement today. You've earned this. Now let's go."

The room responded with low grunts, murmured affirmations, the kind of subtle energy that brews just before kick-off.

In one corner, Mateo sat at his spot, already in full kit. His jersey—maroon and blue with golden trim—hung loosely over his knees. He looked down at it, holding a fold of the fabric between his fingers like something sacred. There was still a sense of awe every time he wore it—like he hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that this wasn't just a dream anymore.

But even in that moment, his mind was elsewhere. Not on Getafe. Not entirely.

He was thinking about his sign-in.

That personal ritual. The thing that grounded him before every match. It wasn't just superstition anymore—it was part of him, a thread that stitched every game together. He hadn't quite figured out what today's sign-in would be, and that unsettled him.

Not because he was scared. But because there was something he really wanted from this match. Something that would turn this game into more than just three points. Something personal.

His eyes drifted across the room until they landed on someone sitting not too far away—tying his boots, completely in his own world. Calm. Focused. Carrying the silence of a thousand games behind him.

Lionel Messi.

Mateo watched him for a moment. Not idolizing like a fan, not even admiring like a student—but studying, as if the answer to his sign-in might lie somewhere in Messi's stillness.

He didn't know exactly why. But deep down, he hoped that today, something—anything—from Messi would come his way.

Mateo wanted something from Messi.

And this time, it wasn't his dribbles.

It wasn't the body feints, the balletic balance, or that signature shift of weight that made defenders bite on thin air.

No, this time, it was something else. Something specific.

Messi's dead-ball craft.

That quiet genius—the ability to take a still ball and turn it into a moment of magic. A free-kick from 25 yards. A curling finish from the edge of the box. That calm, calculated precision that didn't just create goals—it guaranteed them.

It might've sounded odd to anyone who knew Mateo even remotely well.

Dead-ball precision was his thing.

It was the exact reason he was fast-tracked into the first team in the first place. The scouts had called him "a born finisher." Coaches had said he had one of the cleanest strikes they'd seen in years. His system—his mysterious edge—ranked him among the top three young strikers in the world, based on his finishing metrics.

But still… it wasn't enough.

Because being world class was one thing.

But what Mateo wanted now went beyond stats.

He wanted to cross that thin line between elite and inevitable.

That desire had taken root during the last match.

Sure, the headlines were generous. Three goals. A late winner. Praise from the fans, from commentators, from Messi himself.

But no one had talked about the two chances he'd missed.

Two clear-cut chances.

The kind that, if converted, would've equalized far earlier. Would've put PSG on the back foot before the match ever spiraled into chaos.

Yes, Keylor Navas had been outstanding. One of those saves had been near-impossible.

But still—he missed.

In the quiet hours after the match, that fact had stayed with him.

Because in a world where top strikers only convert 20 to 30 percent of their chances, scoring three goals and missing two was technically phenomenal.

By all standards—world-class.

But Mateo didn't just want to live up to the standard.

He wanted to set it.

And the way Messi struck the ball—the way he made moments look inevitable, look simple—Mateo knew that was the next piece.

That was what separated the very best from the rest.

That was what he wanted now.

In modern football, even the very best strikers miss—a lot.

If a forward finishes the season with 30 goals, it's almost expected that he'll have missed somewhere around 25–30 big chances along the way. At first glance, that sounds wild—almost wasteful. But in reality, it's just how the game works at the highest level.

There are reasons for it.

Top strikers see more of the ball than anyone else in the final third. They're constantly in the box, making runs, getting on the end of half-chances, crowded by defenders. Sometimes the angles are tight. Sometimes the goalkeeper reads it. Sometimes it's just… football. A bounce, a deflection, a moment lost in milliseconds.

Even Robert Lewandowski—arguably the most complete striker of the last few years—misses plenty. Back when Cristiano Ronaldo was in his prime, he too would rack up dozens of missed chances, even as he buried 40 or 50 in a single campaign.

Missing was part of the job.

It was, by all measures, the standard for elite forwards.

But Mateo King wasn't interested in the standard anymore.

At just 17, he had already netted 16 goals in six first-team appearances—a ridiculous return by any metric. And in all those games combined, he had missed just five clear chances.

He wasn't just meeting the standard. He was already exceeding it.

But why stop there?

He wasn't here to be slightly better than the rest. He wasn't just another academy star who got his chance and rode the wave. He had a system behind him. An edge. Some called it luck. Some said it was talent. Mateo knew better. It was more than that—more than anything he could name.

He had something that other players didn't. Something that told him, deep down, that "world class" wasn't his ceiling.

It was only the starting point.

And as his eyes drifted once more to the other side of the dressing room—to the quiet figure tying his laces, lost in his own routine—Mateo felt the hunger deepen.

Messi.

Mateo had started coveting something specific. Not the step-overs. Not the low center of gravity. Not the impossible dribbles.

No, this time it was Messi's dead-ball instinct.

That ruthless calm. That surgical precision. That ability to turn a single glance at goal into an outcome. One chance—one finish. No waste. No hesitation.

Messi was the only player in history who could score 30, 40, even 50 goals in a season, and still maintain a remarkably low number of missed chances. Most of that was down to how he played.

He wasn't a classic No. 9. He dropped deep. He created from midfield. He picked passes others couldn't see.

And yet, when the opportunity came—when the ball fell just right—he finished.

Not hoped. Not tried. Not wished.

Finished.

At the end of the day Messi still finishes

Mateo wanted that.

As the players finished tying boots and slipping on shinguards, Ronald Koeman clapped his hands together loudly, drawing everyone's attention.

"Win your duels. Trust each other. Play our football. Stay compact, stay aggressive, and be smart. This is our house. We start strong, we stay strong. Let's send a message—tonight, we don't just play. We set the tone."

A few nods and quiet murmurs of agreement echoed through the room. Koeman clapped again, this time with a grin.

"Let's do this. Visca Barça!"

A loud, unified chorus followed.

"Visca Barça!"

As the players began rising from their seats and heading toward the tunnel, Mateo glanced at his jersey again. The navy and garnet glowed under the fluorescent lights, the club crest catching a bit of shine.

But his mind wasn't on the crest.

Not now, Mateo. Focus. Getafe first.

He shook his head, trying to chase the thoughts away.

Even if he didn't get what he wanted tonight—didn't get anything from Messi—he could still take something meaningful from the match. There was always something to gain. Always something to learn.

His body moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him toward the center of the room, where the players naturally formed their pre-match circle. He found his spot, instinctively.

Lionel Messi stood at the front of the group, calm and composed as always. He didn't say much—he never did. But when he spoke, every ear turned to him.

"Let's be sharp. Let's be fast. Let's enjoy it. You know what to do. And remember…" He glanced around the circle, eyes locking with several players. "We fight for each other. Start to finish. And most of all…"

He paused, raising his voice slightly.

"Visca Barça."

"Visca Barça!" the team roared back in unison, their voices echoing through the tunnel halls.

The atmosphere buzzed with energy. And then—just as they began walking toward the pitch—the music of the stadium took over.

The fans had found their voice.

🎶

"Tot el camp... és un clam!

Som la gent blaugrana!"

(The whole stadium... is a cry!

We are the blue-and-claret people!)

"Tant se val d'on venim,

si del sud o del nord,

ara estem d'acord, estem d'acord,

una bandera ens agermana!"

(It doesn't matter where we come from,

be it the south or the north,

now we all agree, we all agree,

one flag unites us!)

The official hymn of FC Barcelona—"Cant del Barça"—was being belted out by nearly 100,000 passionate voices. The crowd swayed, scarves spinning, voices rising with the beat of the drums.

High above the pitch, in the executive VIP section of Camp Nou, Andrew King sat still for a moment, eyes drawn to the immense wave of humanity pulsing beneath him. The anthem thundered through the stadium, rumbling up through the glass.

Joan Laporta, seated beside him, leaned back slightly with a wide grin.

"Well, Mr. Andrew," he said over the noise, "how do you like it now? This... this is the true Camp Nou."

Andrew said nothing at first. He turned his gaze to the pitch below.

He could see Mateo jogging lightly with the other players, laughing at something someone said, bouncing a ball from thigh to foot as effortlessly as breathing. The crowd was already reacting to him, even in warmup.

Then Andrew looked back at the stands. At the flags. The chanting. The sea of bodies, all moving in time.

It was unlike anything he'd experienced.

Almost overwhelming.

They'd said Camp Nou could fit close to a hundred thousand people. But no one had mentioned how alive it would feel.

How heavy the atmosphere would sit in your chest.

How loud it could actually get.

He swallowed lightly, lips curving into a slower, more genuine smile.

"…I can see why Mateo likes the club so much."

Andrew King had, of course, heard of football. Being British, it was impossible not to. Born and raised in Manchester—a city that stood as one of football's spiritual homes—he understood how deeply the sport was embedded in people's lives. But while the whole world around him had worshipped the beautiful game, Andrew never quite connected with it.

Not out of disdain, but distraction.

As a boy, while other kids in the neighborhood chased footballs through alleyways and schoolyards, Andrew was buried in books or running errands for his mum. Even when his brother—Mateo's father—tried to coax him outside, Andrew's mind was already wired toward something else. Focused. Calculated. His path was set early: study hard, get out, make money, protect the future.

There had never been space for football.

When he got older and started working, the distance only grew. The closest he ever came to the sport was the time Mateo had visited him in London and dragged him to a Premier League game. Andrew had spent most of the match on his phone, juggling client calls, barely looking up at the pitch. He didn't even remember the teams that played.

But now, things were different.

Now, football wasn't just background noise—it was his job. His focus. His nephew's world.

And tonight, seated high up in the executive section of Camp Nou with a perfect view of the field, something began to shift. For the first time, the noise of football—the singing, the stomping, the undiluted energy—started to seep in. Like electricity humming through stone, it entered his chest.

He looked around, eyes scanning the endless sea of fans. The songs weren't just loud—they were united. Thousands of people, all pouring out their emotions in melody, colour, and rhythm. Banners waved. Flags danced. And through it all, the same name floated again and again from the mouths of fans:

Barça. Barça. Barça.

The noise then climbed several notches—louder, sharper, almost frenzied.

Andrew didn't need anyone to tell him why. He looked back down at the pitch.

The players were walking out.

Leading them in front, the unmistakable figure of Lionel Messi.

Even Andrew—who had never watched a full game—recognized him instantly. The beard, the stance, the quiet intensity. There was a lift in the crowd as soon as he stepped onto the grass, the sound rising as if every fan in the stadium had just drawn a deep breath and released it all at once.

But then, the volume rose again. Just as loud. Maybe louder.

Andrew's eyes scanned the players behind Messi.

Then he saw him.

Mateo.

His nephew. His client. His responsibility. And now, clearly, a fan favourite. The Camp Nou roared his name as though he'd already etched his legacy into the walls.

Andrew blinked, stunned.

Fans were on their feet. Scarves twirled. Dozens stood up doing Mateo's now signature celebration, hands raised in defiance and pride.

The same celebration that once sparked controversy was now a symbol of defiance and belonging.

He heard them sing:

"És el nostre fill, batega sang de búlgar!"

("He is our own, he bleeds Bulgarian blood!")

"El petit príncep del Camp Nou!"

("The little prince of Camp Nou!")

A chant in Mateo's honour. Loud, rhythmic, reverent.

"Wow," Gerard Piqué muttered beside Alba on the touchline, looking around at the crowd, impressed. "I haven't seen something like this since Iniesta's farewell. And that was a send-off."

Alba nodded, watching as fans chanted Mateo's name again and again. Then he turned toward the boy himself.

"Never betray that trust, kid," he said calmly.

Mateo turned to him, eyes steady, heart pounding.

"I won't," he said.

His voice was quiet. But certain.

I would never betray that, he thought. Not this. Not them.

As the players got into formation, Messi—having won the toss—signalled that they would kick off.

Mateo took his spot in the front line, looking around the stadium one last time. He felt the cool air on his skin, the weight of the jersey, the bright lights overhead, the sheer wall of fans chanting his name.

A massive smile spread across his face.

Let's do this then.

Then—ding.

A sharp sound echoed in his head. The all-too-familiar system notification.

His smile widened even more as he opened the notification window in his mind.

[Congratulations! You have unlocked:

Ronaldinho's Superstition & Lucky Charm Beliefs]

He blinked.

The smile faded slowly.

"…ehn?"

Before he could even process what that meant—

PHEEEEEEP!!

The referee's whistle cut through the night air.

Kickoff.

A/N

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