From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

67' min):

Dribbles attempted: 15

Dribbles completed: 6

Long balls attempted: 5

Long balls completed: 1

Pass accuracy: 83%

Possession lost: 16 times

Goals: 0

Assists: 0

Fouls won: 1

Key passes: 1

Big chances created: 0

Match rating: 6.9

A statline caught in between. Neither poor nor spectacular. Just... in the middle. And that—more than anything—was what made it worse.

Hours Later – Training Ground (Past Midnight)

CLANG!

The sharp metallic echo rang through the air, cutting through the stillness of night like a blade. A moment later came the low, almost mechanical sound of the net rippling, followed by the harsh rhythm of shallow, exhausted breathing.

Beneath the faint glow of two old halogen lamps—barely lighting the edge of the practice pitch—a figure stumbled forward again.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Shoes hitting worn grass. Then a swift motion of the leg. Then—

CRACK!

Another shot.

The ball curled through the air in a slow, perfect arc. It struck the top right corner of the crossbar with precision, then spun off into the darkness beyond the posts.

And the figure collapsed.

Face up. Arms spread. Limbs shaking.

Chest heaving.

Sweat soaking into the training shirt like ink bleeding on paper.

The body lay there, stretched out across the center circle, under the harsh, buzzing lights.

The sound of night. Breathing. Nothing else.

Then—

A voice.

Whispered.

Spoken out loud but only meant for one person.

"What are you doing, Mateo..."

It was him.

Mateo King.

Still in boots. Still in his post-match gear, only now dirt-stained and clinging. It hadn't even been a full day since the Getafe match. A match Barcelona had won. A match where the team had controlled every inch of the pitch.

But Mateo didn't feel like a winner.

He felt… hollow.

Frustrated. Disconnected. Stuck somewhere between himself and someone watching himself from a distance.

It wasn't the social media noise. He'd seen the online posts. The trolls calling themselves "prophets," congratulating themselves because after six straight games on the scoresheet, Mateo had finally drawn a blank.

It wasn't that.

It was something deeper.

Something gnawing.

Earlier that evening, his uncle had pulled him aside.

"Your contract talks have been postponed, Mateo. But don't worry. I'm sure it's not about you. The whole board—something's going on. Let me get down to the—"

But Mateo had stopped listening halfway through.

The words became fog.

All of it—contracts, pressure, noise—faded behind the one thing he couldn't unsee:

That moment.

The ball slipping.

The stumble.

The substitution.

The cheers for someone else.

And that aching sense in his gut—

I wasn't myself.

Mateo lay still for a moment longer, flat on the cool grass, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his own breath. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, he raised both arms toward the sky—hands open, reaching up into the void above.

The stars were scattered overhead, countless and calm. With a small flick of his fingers, he brought his palms together, trying to block out the heavens. Trying to fit the sky into his hands. He exhaled slowly and whispered under his breath, just loud enough for no one to hear:

"You're better than this, Mateo."

The words echoed inside his skull more than they did in the air.

He dropped his arms to his sides, letting them hit the ground softly. Then, out of nowhere, a small chuckle escaped his lips—thin, dry, but real.

"At least this happened in this match," he said, mostly to himself.

But even as he said it, the moment flashed back across his mind.

The message.

It had appeared so clearly earlier in the day, like an alert etched into the air—unreal but understood.

[Skill Acquired: Ronaldinho's Superstition Belief]

This gift links your state of mind to symbolic rituals. When you adopt a personal lucky charm and wear it during a match, you will enter a state of perfect focus. Your mind will become immune to external distractions—real-life anomalies, pressure, doubt, noise, fear. Find your charm. Believe in it.

In theory, it was a remarkable asset. A gift that offered psychological armor, the kind players at the top levels would kill for. And Mateo knew it—in this sport, the mind was as much a battlefield as the pitch.

If he had found his charm already… if he had known how to trigger it… he wouldn't have been out there chasing his rhythm like a ghost.

He might've avoided tonight entirely.

But the problem—the small, sharp stone in his shoe—was simple:

He didn't have a charm yet.

And unlike most things in his life, this wasn't something he could just force. He couldn't grab a random wristband or a lucky sock and pretend it meant something. That wasn't how belief worked. Belief had to be earned. It had to mean something deep.

What if he never finds it?

The thought crept up again, heavier this time.

What if this whole gift—the thing that should've been his edge—became a weakness instead?

And then, more frightening:

What if he had gotten this trait not today, but in that match?

The one.

That must-win night against Paris Saint-Germain. That comeback. That moment when everything had been on a knife's edge.

What if, instead of Neymar's "Joga Bonito" trait, this had been the one that appeared?

What if he had walked into that match with no focus… no control… no belief?

What if he had ruined it all?

A chill rolled over him like a thin wind across his skin.

He sat up slowly. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through with effort and uncertainty.

Mateo muttered quietly to himself, his voice flat but firm:

"This is a learning moment, Mateo. You've been too lax."

Mateo slowly pulled himself upright from the grass, his muscles aching, his breath still uneven. He sat with his elbows on his knees, sweat lining his jaw and dripping off the tip of his nose.

His eyes were low, not focused on anything in particular, just absorbing the dull hum of the night.

And then the thought hit him—quiet, but clear.

"Since I got the system… I've pulled back."

Not from everything, no. He still hit all his physical benchmarks—stamina sessions, sprint drills, gym routines. He never skipped leg day, never cheated a run. He was still in top condition steadily increasing his stamina daily.

But his ball work? The small details that mattered?

That had slipped.

Not consciously, at first. But over time.

Why train to perfect your first touch when the system could just hand you near-world class technique in a match? Why grind free kicks when a trait could do it in one shot?

That mindset had crept in slowly, like rust beneath paint.

And eventually, it had started to affect more than just his training—it had altered his mindset.

Even tonight, instead of thinking about how to practice his scoring and shots… he had been fantasizing about unlocking Messi's Dead Ball Specialist trait. Like it would fall into his lap if he just waited long enough. He hadn't thought about earning it.

He hadn't thought about putting in the hours Messi did to get there.

He sighed—long and low. The kind of sigh that didn't release tension, just acknowledged it.

Then he whispered under his breath, "The only one who can help me… is me."

His voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it.

He stood up, brushing dirt from the back of his shorts, exhaling with force this time—as if shedding a layer of the old mentality.

Tonight had been a harsh lesson. A sharp, necessary wake-up call.

He was still grateful for the system, of course. That would never change. It was a miracle—something no other player in the world had.

But miracles didn't win games on their own.

Not without effort.

Not without sweat.

He had dreams bigger than most. He wanted Ballon d'Ors, Champions League trophies, Olympic gold, global legacy—not just highlight clips on YouTube or flashy moments of flair.

He needed to grind.

He clenched his fists and stared out across the small training ground. The lights above hummed softly, casting long shadows across the pitch.

"I can't depend on the system," he thought. "Nothing beats hard work. Not even that."

He rolled his shoulders, bouncing slightly on his toes, psyching himself up, whispering to himself like a fighter in a tunnel before walking into the ring.

And then, his gaze lifted toward the far end of the field—just past the goalpost, where the benches stood dark and still.

"But before anything," he murmured, "I need to find my charm."

His lips curled faintly.

"And I just might know where to look."

The dining room was small but warm—painted in a soft cream with faded family portraits hanging crookedly on the walls. The air smelled faintly of garlic and fried plantain. A flickering overhead bulb hummed gently above the modest wooden table where three figures sat, their plates full but conversation taking precedence over appetite.

Two men and a woman.

The two men looked unmistakably alike—twins, no doubt—but with wildly different auras. One wore his expression like a badge: serious, thoughtful, shoulders slightly hunched from years of quiet responsibility. The other sat back in his chair, legs crossed, posture relaxed, a casual grin occasionally flickering through his stubble-covered face.

And beside them sat the woman—beautiful in a soft, lived-in way. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, a kitchen apron still slung over her waist. Her presence exuded gentleness, the kind that filled spaces with comfort rather than noise.

This was Mateo King's family.

His mother, Isabella. His father, David. And his uncle, Andrew.

And tonight, their conversation revolved around one person: the boy they all loved.

"He's fine," Andrew said, lifting a fork to his mouth before quickly adding, "I mean, physically. Nothing's broken or anything."

He chewed for a moment, swallowed, then wiped his mouth.

"But honestly... I'm more bothered about something else."

His voice was lighter than his words. That's how Andrew usually spoke—like everything was just a passing breeze. But tonight, even he couldn't mask the concern sitting behind his eyes.

Isabella hadn't touched her plate. Her blue eyes, pale as glass, looked dim with worry.

"Maybe we should've gone," she said softly. "I don't like that we haven't seen any of his matches. Not one."

Her voice was fragile, like the thought had been sitting on her chest for days.

Andrew glanced at her. He started to respond with a smile—default mode—but stopped midway. Instead, it was David who spoke next, still chewing on his last bite.

"Don't beat yourself up, honey," he said, voice even and firm. "The restaurant's been full every day this week. You've been helping me hold it down. Mateo understands. He always does."

But Isabella just shook her head gently, her gaze distant.

"He's still a kid," she murmured. "No matter how grown he acts. After what happened with that attack... after all that trauma..." She took a slow breath. "A visit would've meant more than a phone call. He might not say it, but it would've mattered."

Her voice broke faintly at the end.

David reached for her hand across the table, resting his palm on hers.

"I get it," he said quietly. "You're right, love. That's why tomorrow—tomorrow we'll close the restaurant, both of us. We'll go meet him. No excuses."

He squeezed her hand gently.

"And for his next home game," he added, "we'll make sure we're there. All of us."

Then his gaze shifted. To his twin.

"But for now... I'm more concerned about what you said earlier, Andrew."

The air shifted slightly. The sound of utensils scraping faded. Andrew, halfway through cutting another bite of food, paused.

He looked up, met his brother's eyes.

Despite being twins, the dynamic between them had never been equal. David, though born just minutes earlier, carried a weight and authority that Andrew never tried to compete with. It wasn't fear. It was respect—the kind that didn't need to be explained or spoken aloud.

So when David's expression turned serious—genuinely serious—Andrew immediately put down his fork.

His hand hovered over the table.

He hadn't seen that look in a long time.

And then, quietly, Andrew said—

"Today was supposed to be the day," he said quietly, almost too calmly. "The day we drafted Mateo's first deal. I had my documents. The preliminary numbers were ready. We were just supposed to sit and begin talks."

He looked up at his brother and sister-in-law, his tone shifting into something harder—measured, but sharp.

"But then, the new president—who'd been all fire and eagerness last week before he got the sit—suddenly went cold. Like he was walking on eggshells. His tone was off. He kept looking over his shoulder at his advisors. At one point, he even said, 'Let's touch base next week instead.' Just like that."

He exhaled, slowly, frustrated but not flustered.

David frowned. "So what's the plan, then?"

Andrew didn't blink.

"It's simple," he said. "If they're hesitating—if they're trying to act like he's not a priority—then we make it clear that we aren't begging. There are other clubs. Plenty. Mateo's not tied down to anyone yet, and a free youth player with his numbers? With his buzz? That's a goldmine. If they won't treat him like a long-term investment, someone else will."

He tapped the table lightly with a finger as he spoke.

"And more than that—if we stay patient and keep him unsigned for now, we gain leverage. Massive negotiating room. Clubs will line up to offer him better terms. Bigger bonuses. No strings. He's still a minor, but every scout in Europe knows his name."

Isabella shifted uneasily in her seat.

"I don't think you should be talking like that," she said, her voice soft but worried. "I know my son. There's no way Mateo would want to leave Barcelona. Not just the club. The city. The people. His friends. His childhood… his dreams. Andrew, this is his dream."

Andrew didn't roll his eyes, but he gave a small exhale through his nose and leaned forward slightly.

"It's not about that, Isabella."

He said her name gently. Almost like a teacher trying to ease a student into hard truth.

"It's not about whether he loves the club. Of course he does. We all know that. But if we go into this as the desperate party, they'll lowball us. They'll offer him the bare minimum—financially, structurally, everything. It won't be a deal. It'll be a leash. And then what? We say yes, just because he has a Camp Nou poster on his wall?"

David nodded.

"Exactly. You don't want him getting cheated out of what he deserves, do you?"

Isabella looked between the two men, cornered between emotion and logic. She opened her mouth to respond, but hesitated.

"No… it's just…" she faltered, hands twisting gently in her lap.

The truth was obvious in her silence. She didn't want her son to be exploited—but she also knew what it would do to him if he lost the one place he'd always dreamt of being. She saw it in him since he was five years old: that wide-eyed look he gave La Masia's gates. The posters. The stories. Barcelona was stitched into him.

She lowered her eyes.

Then, as if the universe offered mercy from the moment, her phone—face-down on the table—vibrated softly. The screen lit up. She glanced down, instinctively.

A familiar name blinked across the glass.

"…Mateo?"

Her voice was barely a whisper.

Both men looked up.

"Mateo?" David repeated, his brow tightening. "What's he doing texting you this late? Is everything okay?"

Isabella unlocked the screen, reading quietly. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but the odd tension that came with unexpected timing.

"He's fine," she said, relief and confusion mingling. "He just… says he's coming over tomorrow."

"Coming over?" Andrew blinked.

Isabella nodded.

"Says he's looking for something."

Her voice lingered with quiet curiosity. She read the message again, as if searching for more meaning behind the short sentence.

And just like that, somewhere in the city—not far from the hollowed ground of Camp Nou where millions had cheered earlier that day—a different kind of match was unfolding.

A silent one. A personal one.

Because Mateo King wasn't the only one wrestling with questions that night. And he wasn't the only one searching for answers.

Not tonight.

If the heart of FC Barcelona was Camp Nou's sacred turf, then its brain was here—on the upper floors of the modernist building that clung to the stadium's side like a crown. The president's office should've reflected prestige and power. It should've been immaculate. Regal. The kind of place legends dreamed of visiting, and directors feared entering.

But today?

It was chaos.

Stacks of paperwork formed mini-towers on every visible surface—contracts half-signed, financial reports barely opened, folders brimming with red tags and post-its scribbled in panic ink. Interns rushed in and out, dodging one another like midfielders in a training drill, phones pressed to ears, documents flapping, whispers growing into nervous barks.

The door slammed shut.

"Sánchez!" a voice exploded from inside the room. "Tell marketing we can't afford another damn activation! That Qatar proposal—cancel it! If they ask why, tell them we're not in a position to do charity work!"

Another scream followed, from somewhere near the long glass desk.

"Who approved the renovation costs on the Ciutat Esportiva gym? Do they think we're printing euros?!"

Then another:

"Cut travel costs for the B team—now! No more private buses. Give them lunchboxes and call it heritage!"

And another, louder still:

"If I see one more staff bonus from Bartomeu's era signed off last month—I swear—I'll burn this whole office down!"

The man behind the desk looked like he hadn't slept in days. His shirt was wrinkled at the collar, dark patches clung beneath his armpits. His belly—broad and stubborn—strained beneath the stress, the buttons holding on like defenders outnumbered on a counterattack. Sweat soaked the thin hairs on his forehead, and yet he didn't wipe it. He just stood there, red-faced and breathing hard, eyes scanning another sheet of disaster.

This was Joan Laporta.

President of FC Barcelona.

Again.

And he had walked back into hell.

He slammed his hand down on the desk, making two folders fall off the edge. His voice cracked with strain.

"GET ME FERRAN REVERTER NOW!"

The room paused. Everyone outside his door froze for half a second before scattering again in even greater panic.

Laporta sank into his seat, the chair creaking loudly beneath him as if burdened by the same weight he carried.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, head low. Then—

"…fuck… fuck… fuck… FUCK."

Four sharp exhales of the word. Each one heavier. Each one a confession, not a curse.

Just days ago, Laporta had smiled for cameras, waving like a returning king. He had won the presidency in a landslide, promising hope, ambition, a return to "més que un club." That morning he'd stood in a fresh suit, Camp Nou roaring behind him, and told reporters: "We are going to rebuild. We will be back."

And his first match? A poetic 3–0 victory.

He should've been celebrating. Toasting champagne. Shaking hands with Messi. Finalizing Mateo King's breakout contract—the first jewel of his new era.

But during halftime—right there in the VIP box—one of his legal advisors leaned in, whispering four words that made the stadium around him feel like it had vanished into mist:

"We have no money."

Laporta had blinked.

"What do you mean we have no money?"

But the agent for Mateo King was standing nearby, eyes watching his every twitch. So he smiled. Nodded. Said something like, "Let's pick this up later. There's time."

Poker face.

He had played it perfectly.

But the moment the final whistle blew, he stormed back inside. Up the elevators. Past the walls lined with club legends. Through the hallway of victories and photos of European nights. And into this… this battlefield.

Papers everywhere. Alarms ringing in finance emails. External debts, balloon payments, deferred wages. The truth unfolded in brutal clarity.

Barcelona didn't lack money.

Barcelona was buried in it.

Owed wages to players and staff. Loans maturing. Sponsorships drying up. Court cases pending. The cash in the account wasn't even theirs. It was borrowed. Promised. Stretched to the last decimal.

They were in technical bankruptcy.

A term that sounded like lawyer language but hit like a freight train.

Laporta looked around again. This wasn't a throne room.

This was a sinking ship.

He leaned back slowly, staring up at the ceiling tiles. For a moment, the noises faded. Just air-conditioning and heartbeats. Somewhere outside, Camp Nou's lights dimmed. The sound of cleaners pushing bins echoed faintly through the corridors.

"This was supposed to be my kingdom again…" he muttered to himself, voice low, like a father mourning a son. "Instead, I came back to a crumbling castle."

His fingers dug into his temples, pressing hard.

And the board? They were still scrambling for words.

Joan Laporta sat there, beneath the crest of FC Barcelona embroidered into the leather wall behind him, surrounded by symbols of pride and power.

But in his gut, he didn't feel like a president.

He felt like a prisoner.

A/N

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