From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

Laporta inhaled—slow and deep, but it felt like he was dragging the breath through a tunnel of bricks. His chest expanded, his tie tightening slightly around his throat. He didn't even bother adjusting it. What was the point? Formality had no place in chaos.

The silence in the room was momentary, broken by the soft creak of the door.

His eyes snapped open.

"Ferran!" he barked instantly, rage re-igniting. "What the hell is all this I'm hearing about Bartomeu's era? What kind of circus were they running here?! How were we signing contracts we couldn't afford? How do you hide this much debt?!"

He spun toward the door, voice rising as the anger poured out.

But it wasn't Ferran Reverter standing there.

It was a young woman. Mid-twenties. Thin-framed, her hands trembling slightly as they clutched a notepad. Her ID tag hung slightly crooked from her neck. Laporta's shouting had clearly shaken her.

She flinched but stepped forward. "Um... s-sir... Mr. Reverter asked me to inform you… he's waiting in the boardroom."

Laporta blinked. His tone dropped like a stone. "Oh."

For a long second, the tension sat thick in the room. He nodded once. The girl turned quickly and disappeared down the hallway, clearly relieved.

The president slowly adjusted the buttons of his suit, trying to make his silhouette look composed again. But he wasn't. He was fraying.

The sound of his shoes echoed sharply against the marble floor—thump… thump… thump—each step deliberate and weighted. The corridors were lit bright, lined with framed jerseys and sepia photographs of past legends, a gallery of glory that now felt like it belonged to a different lifetime.

Everywhere he walked, people moved out of his way.

Club executives. Financial assistants. Communications staff. Some from the Laporta camp. Many leftovers from Bartomeu's administration. The latter barely met his gaze—they turned corners, pretended to check their phones, slipped into side rooms. A few even pushed open fire exit doors just to avoid crossing his path.

They had every reason to fear.

In less than a week since winning the election, Laporta had already begun dismantling the very structure of the old guard. Ten senior executives dismissed. Twelve department heads quietly removed. Three board members had "resigned" under pressure. Whispers floated about youth scouts being replaced. Even the women's football director and the basketball team's budget coordinator were said to be under review.

Laporta wasn't simply leading a club. He was purging it.

He wanted no trace of Bartomeu's DNA contaminating the institution he loved.

And that made people uneasy. Even scared.

Laporta made a sharp turn down the final corridor, the one that led to the most symbolic door in the building: La Sala de Junta — the boardroom.

He stopped for a moment, standing still beneath a ceiling light that buzzed softly.

His eyes locked on the large wooden door ahead. Even from a distance, it loomed, thick and dark, with the words "FC BARCELONA - CONSELL DIRECTIU" embossed in subtle gold. He had walked through that door before, many times during his first presidency. Back then, it had felt like entering a throne room. The weight of leadership, yes—but also the pride of belonging.

Now?

His hands slowly clenched at his sides.

He could feel his knuckles stiffening, the cold creeping into his fingers despite the warmth of the hallway.

It wasn't the door that intimidated him. It was what lay beyond it: truth.

He swallowed hard, staring at it. So much of the club's future sat behind that threshold. Numbers. Realities. Hard decisions. Maybe even worse news than what he'd already seen.

Laporta took one more breath. Not deep this time. Short. Controlled.

Then he stepped forward.

THUD—CLACK.

The heavy door burst open with a jarring crack, the sound slicing through the thick silence of the room like a cleaver. The hinges didn't creak—they snapped, protesting the suddenness of the intrusion.

Three men inside turned at once, startled.

This was not a space where surprises were welcome.

The FC Barcelona boardroom, perched high in the main administrative tower of Camp Nou, had an architectural elegance that mirrored the club's identity—sharp, modern, full of history masked beneath polished chrome. Behind the long, conference-style table was a wall-to-wall window that offered an unrivaled view of the pitch below, now dim and empty, with only floodlights casting lonely glows over the hallowed ground.

The club crest was everywhere—projected softly onto a frosted glass wall behind the head chair, embossed into leather notepads, stitched into the hem of every chair's backrest. But none of that majesty softened what had become a war room.

Papers were scattered across the table. Binders burst at the seams. Laptops blinked without users touching them. The table looked less like a modern executive suite and more like the nerve center of a crisis.

At the center of it all sat Ferran Reverter.

The newly appointed CEO.

His shoulders were hunched. His collar was loosened. His eyes—bloodshot and bagged, carrying the weight of three days' worth of sleepless briefings and grim revelations. When he looked up and saw who was at the door, something flickered in his expression: a mix of hope and dread.

The hope died quickly.

Standing there, with fire in his gaze and fists half-clenched at his sides, was Joan Laporta.

The man who had appointed him.

The newly re-elected president of FC Barcelona.

"Ferran!" Laporta's voice thundered through the room. "I called you to my office to talk. Crucial matters. Non-negotiable. And instead, you have me summoned here—like some intern!"

He stepped forward, the weight of his frustration landing with every footfall. The three men seated instinctively straightened, one even sliding his chair back nervously, unsure whether to stand or vanish.

Ferran tried to speak. "Joan—"

"—No," Laporta snapped, slamming a palm down on the edge of the cluttered table. "Don't 'Joan' me right now. You've had hours—days even!—to get this situation straight. We're buried in reports, files, debts, hidden contractual nightmares, and somehow I'm the last to know?"

The room fell silent except for the soft whirr of a fan overhead and the gentle buzz of a muted phone vibrating under a pile of folders.

Laporta turned, pacing now, still facing the table.

"Everything I've seen so far is a disaster. Broadcast rights entangled in three-year pre-sales, legacy wages on players who haven't kicked a ball in months, debts structured like a shell game! And I'm the one looking the agents in the eye, pretending we're on stable footing!"

"Joan, please—"

"You know who asked me about it today?" Laporta leaned forward across the table, eyes narrowing. "Mateo King's uncle. During the match. While we were winning 3–0! That man could see through our poker face in ten seconds. Do you know how embarrassing that was?"

He shook his head, jaw clenched.

"We can't keep stalling on Mateo. Do you understand that?" Laporta's voice sharpened, not yelling now, but clear and cutting like glass. "This kid is one of the most promising footballers in Europe. And we're letting him dangle? We should have had him signed, sealed, and smiling for the cameras two weeks ago!"

His eyes flicked around the room, daring anyone to challenge him.

"Other clubs are already circling. If we don't act now, we're not just losing a prospect. We're handing over the face of our next generation to someone else. Madrid would kill to unsettle him. Bayern would guarantee him starts. PSG already called once. One wrong delay and we lose everything—not just the player, but the message. The message that Barça still means something!"

He slammed a folder shut, scattering a few loose sheets.

"We need a plan. And I need it now."

Laporta's final words rang out like a gavel slam:

"Have you seen anything—anything at all—we can do to pass through the loopholes and get Mateo a first-team signature?"

The room went still.

Ferran Reverter had taken every word—the raised voice, the fury, the blame—but not a single line stung. Not personally. He understood. This wasn't about pride. It was pressure—real pressure. And Ferran had been living inside that pressure, swimming through it for days, reading spreadsheet after spreadsheet, negotiating with legal teams, digging through contracts that looked like puzzles designed to hide truths.

So when Laporta finished shouting, Ferran didn't flinch.

He simply let out a breath. A long, quiet sigh.

Then he looked up.

"Joan…" his voice was steady but heavy, "…I need you to sit down."

Laporta scoffed, already pacing. "What I'm asking for is simple, Ferran! I don't need to sit—I need solutions! I need to know if there's any way we can fast-track Mateo's promotion. That's all I need!"

Ferran didn't move. He just stared.

And Laporta, still fuming, still pacing, paused mid-step.

He'd seen those eyes before. Quiet eyes. But the kind that only hold still when the storm behind them is worse than anything being shouted in front of them.

Laporta grunted and finally moved toward the chair at the head of the table. His voice was still grumbling as he dropped into it. "Fine. I'm sitting. But don't drag this out."

His tone dropped with a weight. "I guess that means you haven't found a way."

Ferran leaned forward, both elbows on the desk, fingers laced together as he took a breath.

"Not just that…" he began, slowly.

Laporta's eyes narrowed.

Ferran's voice turned grave. "…At this rate, we might not even be able to keep the players we already have."

The words hung in the air, heavier than before. The energy in the room shifted. Laporta blinked, processing. His hand instinctively went to his temple.

The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was tight. Pulled taut like the inside of a balloon seconds before bursting.

He exhaled. Slowly. His voice came out raspier now. "…Ferran. Don't speak in riddles. Just tell me how bad it is."

Ferran didn't flinch. His voice was calm, professional—but it was the calm of a man who had already lived through the storm, and now had to explain its aftermath.

"Joan," he began again, "we're in €1.35 billion in debt. That's not projected. That's real. Tangible.

Negative €451 million in equity."

"And…" he paused, "…we have no cash flow. Nothing liquid. Nothing coming in fast enough to cover payroll, let alone new contracts."

Laporta leaned back in the chair, the sound of the leather creaking under his weight echoed in the room. He shut his eyes tight. The gravity of what he was hearing—the sheer scale of it—settled across his chest like a stone slab.

"Just get to the point," he muttered. "Stop dancing around it."

Ferran looked at him with something that wasn't just empathy—but regret.

And then he said it.

Flat. Quiet. Brutal.

"We're going to lose Messi."

The room went quiet.

Utterly.

Unforgivingly.

Still.

...

In the quiet hum of an early morning dormitory, a soft rustling disturbed the stillness.

It wasn't loud—not really. Just the subtle zips of a bag, the light shuffle of footsteps on tile, and the faint click of a closet door closing. Barely enough to stir anyone.

But in the bottom bunk of a narrow wooden bedframe, Pablo Gavi stirred under his blanket.

He turned slightly, pulling the pillow tighter around his head, trying to ignore it. His face scrunched as he winced at another low thump—something being set gently on the floor.

He didn't want to wake up. His body clung to sleep. But his mind had already started pulling away from it.

Then something shifted.

The sound of a drawer sliding open sharply broke the rhythm.

Gavi's eyelids fluttered. Then, reluctantly, they cracked open.

His room was dim—lit only by the sliver of amber light pouring in from the hallway. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but soon, the blurry figure across the room began to take shape.

There, halfway zipped up in a navy-blue Barça track jacket and tightening his shoelaces, was Mateo King.

His roommate. His teammate. His pain-in-the-ass best friend since they were eleven.

Back when Gavi had arrived from Betis, he hadn't exactly bonded with the boy from the Catalan heartland. In fact, he'd disliked Mateo immediately—thought he was arrogant, too quiet, too perfect. But time, shared drills, dorm room arguments, wins, losses—and one particular night involving an ice bath prank and a broken lamp—had turned coldness into friendship.

Now, even groggy, Gavi recognized the rhythm of Mateo's movements like the back of his hand.

He rubbed at his face and grumbled, his voice thick with sleep:

"…What's the time?"

Mateo paused, glancing up. "It's 5:30," he said, barely above a whisper. His hands didn't stop moving—folding a T-shirt, checking a charger cable. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

Gavi slumped forward slowly, sitting up at the edge of the bed. His hair stuck up at odd angles, his Barcelona T-shirt clinging to one shoulder as he scratched the back of his neck.

He gave a long, drawn-out yawn—jaw wide—then spoke mid-stretch, voice still rough.

"Where are you even off to this early?"

Mateo was at his suitcase now, carefully laying a folded hoodie over the rest of the items.

"Just thought I'd get an early jog in," he said. "Also heading to my parents' place for a bit—figured I'd kill two birds with one stone and jog there."

He moved over to the dresser, grabbed a spray bottle, and gave himself two quick spritzes under the collar.

Pfff-chh. Pfff-chh.

"Cough—Cough—COUGH!" Gavi waved his hand dramatically in front of his face. "Dude—what is that, a fog machine? Chill."

Mateo chuckled under his breath but didn't answer, tossing the spray back in his bag.

Gavi was now fully awake, arms resting on his knees as he blinked at the early light creeping into the room. He rubbed at his eyes one more time, then muttered through another yawn:

"Just make sure you're back before the intra-youth match…"

His voice trailed off with sleep still clinging to the edges, but there was a casual concern tucked into the line. The kind only someone who's shared bunk beds, blisters, and cafeteria arguments for years would show.

Gavi had just started to lie back down, tugging the thin blanket up over his shoulder, when he noticed something strange—Mateo had stopped moving.

He opened one eye groggily.

Mateo stood frozen by the door, one shoe halfway on, his brow furrowed.

Gavi blinked. Something clicked.

"…Dude, don't tell me—" he began, voice raspy from sleep.

Mateo's eyes widened, and he cursed under his breath.

"Shit. That was fucking today."

Gavi sat up slowly, arms resting on his knees.

"Dude," he said softly, disappointment already sinking in. "How could you forget? That's all anyone's been talking about for days. Even the younger guys were hyped—you know how much they look up to you."

Mateo ran a hand through his hair, pacing back to his bag. He moved with urgency, tossing items aside, clearly already in his own world. "Mahn, I've been so busy. I totally forgot—fuck. What do I do now?"

He turned, eyes lit with sudden hope.

"Wait, wait. That's it."

Gavi narrowed his eyes, already sensing where this was going.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head. "No. I'm not doing it."

"You don't even know what I was gonna ask."

Gavi didn't blink. "You weren't about to ask me to lie to the gaffer for you, right?"

Mateo cracked a smile. "So you do know."

Gavi let out a sharp breath and dropped back onto his bed. "Just come back early," he said, trying to keep his tone light, trying to salvage the moment. "The matches aren't till the afternoon anyway. Even the first-team staff are coming. Pretty sure that means no training for you guys today."

But Mateo was already shaking his head, grabbing a hoodie and zipping up.

"Nah mahn. I don't know when I'll get back. That won't work. Just help me out, please. One time."

Gavi sat back up, more awake now, his voice heavier.

"Dude… the boys were excited you'd be there today. I was excited. This was meant to be something, you know? The gaffer's last match. He's leaving, Mateo. Took another offer. You're one of his favorites. He's been talking about you coming back for weeks. This meant a lot to him."

Mateo stopped briefly at the door, his hand on the knob.

"I know. But I don't have a choice," he said, without turning around. "What I'm doing now is really important. I can't delay it."

"More important than all of us?" Gavi asked quietly, the question coming out more vulnerable than he intended. "What could be that important that you're just gonna ditch us—ditch him—like this?"

Mateo exhaled, almost annoyed.

"Look, I can't explain it right now. Just trust me, okay? It's important."

He pushed the door open, tossing the last words over his shoulder like an afterthought.

"Just cover for me. Say something. You're good with that stuff. Thanks."

"Mateo, wait—" Gavi stood, reaching out instinctively.

But Mateo didn't even glance back. "Later."

And with that, the door closed behind him.

Gavi stood in the silence that followed, his fingers tightening slowly around his arm as he dropped them to his sides. The sting wasn't from the lie. Or the cover-up. It was from not even being asked how he felt about any of it. Not being seen.

He stared at the door a little longer, his chest tight, eyes burning—not with tears, but with something heavier.

He sat back down, slowly, stiffly. The morning felt colder now.

"Yeah… later," he muttered under his breath, eyes still fixed on the door that had just shut him out.

A/N

If you want to read 20 chapters ahead with daily uploads and to support me subscribe to my Patreon below There is also a picture of how mateo looks like posted and later there would be votes and all on the site some you wont need to pay to vote but you can if you want to support me thanks

patreon.com/David_Adetola

Thank You your support is greatly appreciated thank you all

Also for Bonus chapter if we can get 170 power stones within the next 24 hours i would post a new chapter