From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

"Huff. Huff. Huff."

The rhythm of feet slapping softly against pavement echoed through the stillness of the early morning. A hooded figure moved with steady determination down a quiet Barcelona street, wrapped in layers against the biting dawn chill. His breath came heavy and warm, misting faintly in the air. From under his hoodie, the beat of "Life Goes On" by BTS pulsed through wireless headphones—its mellow energy syncing with the cadence of his jog. It was a track he'd never publicly admit he liked, but somehow, right now, it helped him focus. Helped him breathe.

Head down. Hands covered. Face tucked beneath the hoodie. He moved like a shadow. Some early risers passed him by—older folks opening their cafés, a newspaper vendor dragging a cart, a cyclist on his morning commute. None gave him a second look. That was exactly how he wanted it.

The figure turned into a narrower street, a familiar one that curled like a memory. He slowed down as his feet crossed into the road he'd walked hundreds of times as a boy. He leaned forward, palms resting just above his knees, his back rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths. Then he looked up, and there it was.

King's Palace Restaurant — the old wooden sign slightly worn, edges chipped, the carved golden letters still glowing faintly under the streetlight.

Mateo smiled softly.

The conversation from earlier that morning—Gavi's disappointment, the awkward goodbye—was already buried somewhere far behind him. He hadn't come here to think about that. No, right now, he was chasing something else. Something personal. Something silent.

His lucky charm.

He didn't know exactly what it was yet, or what it would be. But he was certain of one thing: he'd know it when he saw it. And if it was anywhere in the world, it had to be here—home.

With renewed energy, he pushed off and jogged toward the restaurant's entrance. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a small, slightly rusted key. The main door hadn't been left open like usual—he'd guessed right. His parents were taking better precautions now. He slid the key in, turned it slowly, and pushed open the door.

The soft creak of the door breaking the silence inside felt almost sacred. He peeked in. The lights were off. Shadows rested lazily on every wall. Mateo took a step forward and mumbled under his breath, "Still empty…"

He wasn't surprised. It was early—well before opening hours—but a small part of him noticed something odd. The last time he came, around at a prime business time, it had been just as lifeless. His parents always said the place was packed during the day. But lately, he never actually saw it.

Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe his mind was just preoccupied.

He walked in further. The warmth of the place welcomed him despite the still air. The scent of spice and oil from the night before still lingered, soaked into the walls and ceiling.

Mateo made his way through the quiet dining area and slipped behind the swinging kitchen doors with the practiced ease of someone who'd grown up here. The kitchen was just like he remembered: polished steel counters, tiled floors, a stack of aprons in the corner, and the prep tables still dusted with a faint layer of flour.

Without thinking, he walked to the fridge, then to the pantry. He checked expiration dates, lifted container lids, sniffed for freshness. Rice. Tomatoes. Paprika. Goat meat in the freezer drawer. He wasn't even aware he was doing it—it was instinctual. A routine baked into his bones from childhood, back when his father made him inspect shipments before football practice.

The fridge made a quiet hum. A pot lid clinked gently where it hadn't been placed perfectly.

Mateo stood quietly in the kitchen, his eyes moving over the long rows of ingredients laid out before him. The air still carried a faint aroma of spices—ginger, dry thyme, crushed seasoning cubes—and the familiar weight of it wrapped around him like a second skin. On one shelf, boxes of rice were stacked three levels high. Nearby, crates of onions and plantains leaned against the pantry wall. Chicken was packed in trays and wrapped tight, and there were enough bottles of vegetable oil to suggest they'd been preparing for serious foot traffic.

He stared at it all for a long moment, rubbing his palm along the edge of the shelf absently. Maybe his parents weren't exaggerating after all. The volume of ingredients wasn't what you kept for small crowds. It was supply for a busy day—maybe even a fully packed house.

He picked up a small basket of tomatoes, weighed it slightly in his hands, then gently set it down again.

"You're wasting time, Mateo," he muttered to himself under his breath. "Focus. Focus."

He ran a hand through his curls beneath the hoodie and straightened up. The kitchen wasn't what he came here for. His charm—that intangible object he'd set his mind on finding—wasn't in a fridge or a bag of cassava flour. He needed to refocus. He had to find it before the day slipped by.

Meanwhile, upstairs...

Tension flared in the kitchen above as the low hum of family life erupted into something more heated.

"You cooked for him last time!" Isabella's voice rose sharply, slicing through the early morning calm. "Let me be the one to do it today!"

David scoffed from behind the open pantry door. "Lies, Isabella! You gave Andrew a container to deliver to him. doesn't that count!"

"That still doesn't count!" Isabella shot back, arms crossed, a wooden spoon gripped tightly in one hand. "You didn't even add enough pepper. Mateo didn't finish it."

"That's because you trained his tongue to like fire," David muttered, but loud enough to be heard. "You want him sweating through breakfast?"

Across the hall, Andrew was seated in the small living room, the corner lamp behind him flickering softly. He heard every word, and only shook his head gently. This wasn't new. His twin brother and sister-in-law argued over who got to cook for Mateo as if it was a sacred ritual—like whoever fed the boy last earned divine favor.

In front of him, a cluttered coffee table was covered in scattered documents—mock contracts, draft offers, and early-stage sponsor pitches. He leafed through them absently, his fingers brushing against paper after paper bearing the same bolded name at the top:

Mateo King

Some had glossy, recognizable logos—Pepsi, for instance. Others were from less-known companies: a niche Scandinavian sportswear brand called Alruna, a Nigerian-owned performance gear startup named VortexGrip, and even a hydration powder company targeting young athletes. But none of the offers were serious. Most were low-balled attempts to get ahead of the curve on a talent everyone knew would explode soon. The Pepsi deal looked the most promising at first glance, but even that was laughable—€2 million for five years. Andrew didn't even bother opening the envelope that came with it.

"No way," he mumbled, pushing the offer aside. "You think we're desperate?"

He leaned back into the sofa cushion, eyes on the ceiling for a moment, then sat forward and began stacking the pages into neat piles. Now wasn't the time. Mateo was still mid-season, and the priority was football. No distractions, no cheap exposure. If the boy stayed focused, kept grinding, his value would only grow. Then the real negotiations would begin—on their terms.

He was just starting to gather the last of the papers when the doorbell rang. A clear chime that echoed faintly through the house.

Andrew paused and looked toward the kitchen, then toward the front door.

Without standing up, he called out, "Doorbell's ringing! Looks like he's here."

He didn't shout it—just said it casually, as though the presence of his nephew was no big deal, though he knew both Isabella and David would drop everything the second they realized it. But they did drop something as Andrew heard something crashing.

From the living room, Andrew flinched at the sudden crash of metal against tile. Something had clearly hit the kitchen floor—pots maybe, or plates—and it was followed by a pair of overlapping voices yelling over each other again.

He sighed, not even turning his head.

"Don't worry, I got it," he muttered, pushing himself up from the sofa and brushing a few stray documents off his lap.

As he walked toward the front door, his slippers whispered across the wooden floor, the gentle creak of each step the only sound competing with the domestic chaos upstairs. He reached the door and opened it calmly, squinting slightly at the soft glare of early morning light.

Standing there was his nephew—hood up, cheeks slightly red from the jog, breath still a little fast.

Andrew had barely begun to say, "How are you, Mateo—" when the boy cut in with energy that felt just a bit too rushed.

"Good morning, Uncle Andrew. How are you?" Mateo shot back with a quick nod, already halfway into the doorway.

Andrew blinked. "I'm fine... but how are you? What brings you here this early? Don't you guys have training today or something?"

Mateo was already halfway out of his sneakers. "Nah. It's intra-match day. We don't train Those days. I just came to find something, I should probably get to it now."

His voice was light but impatient, like he was mentally elsewhere. He dropped his keys into the bowl by the entryway and was already heading down the hallway before Andrew could respond.

"I'll be in my room," Mateo called behind him.

Andrew raised a hand, about to ask more, but frowned. "What is it, though? Also—your parents are in the kitchen right now cooking for you. Maybe go greet them first?"

"No problem, Uncle," Mateo tossed over his shoulder, barely slowing down. His voice didn't carry much weight—just the default politeness of someone who had somewhere more important to be.

Andrew stood by the door for a second, watching the back of his nephew disappear into the hallway, the patter of his footsteps soft against the tiles. Something about his energy was off. Fast. Rushed. A little distant.

"Wait, what about your parents—" Andrew started again, but he never finished.

Another crash erupted from the kitchen. This one louder. Metal on ceramic. Two voices instantly followed—David and Isabella, still mid-debate, both getting louder again as if someone had just won a point in a fierce competition.

Andrew stood there frozen for a beat, then slowly raised one hand to rub at his temple, letting out a long sigh.

"This family…" he muttered to himself. "Every time I come here, I leave with a headache. They're all the same—too damn intense."

He shook his head and turned toward the living room again, the sound of breakfast warfare still spilling from the kitchen as he passed through the hallway. Inside, down the hall, and somewhere behind a closed door, Mateo King was already digging through his past—searching for something only he believed he'd recognize when he saw it.

...

One hour later

The living room was quiet—at least for now.

Andrew sat hunched over a stack of open files, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the soft blue glow from his laptop screen reflecting faintly in his lenses. Despite being miles away from his office in London, his responsibilities hadn't lessened in the slightest. As a senior partner at a high-profile law firm and agent to one of the most promising young players in world football, juggling both roles had become a delicate balancing act.

And today, just like most days, he was back in the rhythm of it.

Briefs. Case notes. Contract drafts. Follow-up memos. Some about Mateo, others about firm clients whose names would probably never leave the boardrooms they belonged to.

He scribbled a note on a legal pad with efficient precision, then paused only to adjust his posture slightly, shifting his weight. He barely noticed the commotion starting to bubble in the background until it crested—loud and familiar.

"I'm telling you, he won't want to eat that!" Isabella's voice rang out from the kitchen with conviction. "It's too early for Beef Wellington! Do you want him bloated for the rest of the day?!"

"Oh please," came David's equally loud retort. "And you're one to talk? You made soul food last time—he nearly passed out right after eating it!"

"I did not!" she shot back, incredulous. "That was comfort food, and you know it! He loves his Escudella i Carn d'Olla! But how would you know, Mr. Uncultured?"

"'Uncultured' is a wild accusation coming from someone still living in her childhood town," David replied, his voice laced with playful venom.

"Oh, you little—"

From the living room, Andrew could only shake his head. That back-and-forth had been on loop since he arrived here. In truth, he found it amusing—endearing, even. His brother and his wife might constantly squabble, but they were two sides of the same passionate coin. Try to interfere, though, and they'd both pivot, ganging up on you in a heartbeat. A dangerous game to insert yourself in between them.

Still, he cracked a quiet smile. There was something grounding about being here. The house buzzed with life, laughter, and arguments—not like his own place back in England, which was cold, clean, and far too quiet.

Just as he leaned back slightly, indulging in the moment of peace—

"Okay, let's go ask Andrew then."

His smile vanished. Eyes wide, he froze mid-highlight across a document. "…Ehn?"

He could hear footsteps growing louder as they approached. Panic stirred in his chest.

Why are you coming here? Settle your chaos yourselves, you lovable lunatics—don't drag me into it…

A second later, the kitchen door swung open.

Isabella and David stood proudly at the threshold, both smiling as if they hadn't been at each other's throats seconds ago. In each hand, they held a different plate—steam rising from both. Presentation pristine. Spices wafting into the room.

Andrew's eyes flicked from one dish to the other, then to their faces. He swallowed hard.

"So…" David started confidently, "which one do you think Mateo would prefer?"

"I…" Andrew adjusted his glasses, unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry.

"See, I made this beautiful Beef Wellington," David said, lifting the plate slightly. "High protein, good carbs, moderate fat. Perfect for recovery after match buildup, and—"

"Oh, stop it," Isabella interrupted, waving a hand. "You sound like you memorized that off some health blog. Meanwhile, my Escudella has all the nutrients he needs. Especially after all the matches he's played. He needs warmth. Depth. Culture. Comfort."

David scoffed. "And you're calling me Google?"

The glare she gave him could've scorched toast.

With a deep breath of resignation, Andrew took a fork, tried both dishes thoughtfully. The pressure in the room was unbearable—their eyes never left him.

He cleared his throat. "Well, uh… if we're going strictly off of what's best for an athlete recovering and prepping, then the Wellington's probably more appropriate—"

David exploded with delight. "Aha! I told you!"

Isabella's jaw dropped. "Biased! Your brother is biased! He grew up eating your food, that doesn't count! I demand a retrial!"

Andrew raised a hand, trying to defuse. "Look, both are great. But the Carn d'Olla might be a bit heavy with the season still in swing. He's not in pre-season camp. You asked for my opinion, and I gave you—"

He paused, noticing David giving him a sharp look. "What?"

David turned slowly toward Isabella. "You were right, honey. He is biased."

In perfect unison, they turned their attacks on him.

"You always take his side!"

"Unbelievable! Some neutral you are."

"You've never appreciated good Catalan cuisine."

Andrew could only shake his head, grinning at how quickly the tide had turned. Classic.

As David slung an arm over his wife's shoulder to console her, he looked at Andrew and asked, "So, when do you think Mateo'll get here?"

Andrew, still chuckling, replied, "He's already here."

They both turned, eyes wide. "What?! When?!"

"He arrived about an hour ago. Came rushing in. You two were in the kitchen, and I guess he didn't want to interrupt the food war."

Isabella frowned. "He couldn't even come say hello?"

Andrew shrugged. "I don't know why. He said he had to go look for something and went straight to his room."

That was all they needed to hear. Both parents turned simultaneously and headed straight for the hallway.

Seeing them go, Andrew picked up the Wellington plate—finally.

Just as he raised the fork to his mouth, it was yanked out of his hands.

He blinked up. David stood there, victorious. "What you said wasn't cool man my wife worked really hard making that."

He turned and left with the plate.

Andrew stared at his now-empty hands and slumped back into the sofa.

"…Maybe I should have stayed at the hotel," he muttered.

...

The door creaked open gently.

Beyond it lay a small, timeworn room—once a child's haven, now frozen in the past.

Posters covered nearly every inch of the wall, aging but carefully placed. FC Barcelona legends stared back from the corners of the room—Iniesta, Xavi, Ronaldinho, Johan Cruyff—all heroes in their time. But none featured more than Lionel Messi. There were full-sized prints, magazine cutouts, and even a faded sticker of a young Messi holding his first Ballon d'Or. Mateo's adoration hadn't been subtle—this room had once been his sanctuary, his dream space.

But now it was chaos.

The floor was littered with old photographs, crumpled clothes, tangled socks, and scraps of paper. A pair of shin guards peeked from under the bed. A faded Barça jersey—number 10—lay folded over the armrest of a desk chair. An open childhood suitcase sat in the middle of it all, half-emptied, as if someone had been frantically searching for something inside it.

Isabella and David stood quietly at the threshold, strangely uncharacteristic in their silence. They were rarely without noise or commentary, but something about this moment made them pause. Both peered into the room, then exchanged a look—an unspoken understanding passing between them.

David's voice finally broke the quiet, lowered with concern.

"Son… is everything okay?"

Mateo jerked slightly, startled. He turned, blinking as if shaken from a trance. His eyes were tired—ringed with soft shadows, his lashes heavy from lack of sleep.

"Mom? Dad?" he muttered, his voice dry and low, as though he hadn't spoken in hours.

Isabella stepped in first, carefully navigating the cluttered floor, gently lifting her foot to avoid a rolled-up poster tube. Her tone was soft, warm.

"You know you can talk to us, darling. Whatever it is... we're here."

David followed, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked around the room with confusion and worry. "You didn't even say hello when you came in. And look at this—what happened here? Why'd you turn your room upside down?"

Mateo glanced around and saw it for the first time. The mess. The years of memorabilia and forgotten items now spilled across the room like a memory overload.

He hadn't noticed. He'd been too caught up in the search.

After the match... after that moment on the pitch… he realized he needed something. Something personal. Something real. A lucky charm. Not just any regular thing, but a piece of his story—his past—to carry with him on the pitch.

He had sifted through nearly everything. His old football socks. The tattered captain's armband he wore in his under-12s. His worn-out cleats from La Masia's B team. Even a keychain he once thought was lucky. None of it clicked. None of it felt right.

And now... his parents were here.

"I…" he began, but the words caught in his throat. He hadn't even realized how dry it felt. His voice cracked faintly, barely audible.

David saw the hesitation and exhaled slowly, walking over to place a steady hand on his son's shoulder.

"It's okay. Don't push yourself. You don't have to explain anything if you're not ready," he said, his tone gentle.

Isabella moved closer, kneeling beside Mateo. She pulled him into a soft, warm hug, one hand gently stroking the back of his head like she used to when he was younger.

"We're proud of you, you know that?" she whispered. "No matter what you're dealing with, we're always proud of you."

Mateo didn't answer, but he closed his eyes briefly, feeling her arms around him. Then his father reached over and tousled his hair lightly, offering a small grin.

"You've come a long way, kid."

A small smile flickered at the corners of Mateo's lips.

After another moment, Isabella kissed his temple and slowly rose. "We'll leave you to it, okay? Just come down when you're ready. There's food."

"Real food," David added with a chuckle.

And then they left, gently pulling the door behind them, leaving Mateo alone with the echoes of old posters and forgotten dreams.

He exhaled deeply, letting the breath linger. He looked around once more, the room now quiet again.

"Don't worry, Mom… Dad…" he whispered to himself, eyes still scanning the scattered pieces of his past. "I might not be able to explain it right now, but… just trust me. I'm going to change our lives. Entirely."

As he spoke, his hand brushed against something near the foot of the bed. He glanced down.

Two small plates of food, covered in plastic wrap, had been set just inside the doorway. He hadn't heard them do it.

One held the Escudella his mother always made with love. The other, neatly sliced Beef Wellington, prepared by his father with his usual stubborn pride.

Mateo stared at them—and smiled.

....

Five hours later

The living room was calm, the soft hum of a ceiling fan brushing the air in lazy circles above. A few plates lay stacked on the side table, remnants of a late lunch, while the warm scent of Escudella and pastry still lingered faintly in the air.

Andrew sat comfortably on the couch, glasses perched low on his nose, scrolling through emails on his laptop. After a brief silence, he glanced toward the hallway and voiced the thought that had clearly been sitting on his chest.

"Do you think it's okay… just leaving him to sleep like that?"

His tone wasn't harsh—if anything, it was laced with concern. He adjusted his glasses and looked at Isabella, then David, who sat opposite him with coffee mugs in hand.

They all knew what he meant.

About forty minutes after they'd left Mateo upstairs earlier, curiosity and concern had brought them back to check on him. There they'd found him—deep asleep in the middle of the same chaos he'd been rummaging through. The suitcase lay open near his feet, clothes sprawled like toppled memories. Surprisingly, both plates of food they had left for him were now empty, the cutlery neatly tucked back on the tray.

He hadn't even changed. He'd simply eaten, then passed out on a nest of jerseys and posters like he'd finally let the weight of something go. They hadn't disturbed him. Not then.

Now, hours later, the weight of that decision sat in the air.

Isabella looked up from her seat. "We already agreed to close the restaurant today. There's nowhere we need to be."

She crossed her arms loosely, her voice calm but with that unmistakable motherly edge. "And for him to fall asleep like that? He must've really needed it. He had bags under his eyes. His last message came in so late last night, who knows when he actually slept?"

She turned slightly, looking toward the hallway with a faint sigh. "Mateo's always been that way. Ever since he was a child. He shuts himself in when something's bothering him. He likes figuring things out on his own."

David nodded slowly, a small smile playing on his face. "Remember that time he cried for hours after they lost that youth tournament? Slept for almost half the day."

Isabella chuckled. "Of course I remember. He wouldn't even let me hug him at first."

David smiled as he leaned back. "He took that loss like it was the Champions League final."

David furrowed his brow, trying to recall the specifics. "Wait… who were they playing again? Was it Sevilla's U10s?"

"No," came a voice from the hallway. "It was Ajax's youth team, Dad."

They all turned sharply.

Mateo stood there, stretching one arm behind his back as he walked into the living room. His eyes were still a little heavy, but there was a flicker of alertness now—a contrast from the way they'd last seen him. His hair was slightly tousled, and he wore an oversized training hoodie that looked like it had seen better days.

Isabella immediately straightened. "Son… you're awake."

Mateo nodded, walking toward them, waving off their concern with an easy tone.

"And the reason I cried," he said as he lowered himself into the armrest of the couch, "was because the ref cheated us. Offside goal in the last minute, and he denied us a clear penalty. We found out later his nephew played for Ajax. Luckily, they got knocked out the next round."

He yawned mid-sentence, rubbing his eyes before glancing at his dad. "Why're you even bringing that up? That was, like, ten years ago."

David shrugged with a grin. "Just popped into my head. You seem better."

"Yeah," Isabella added gently. "You look a bit more rested now. Everything alright?"

Mateo forced a smile, nodding. "Yeah. Everything's fine."

But inside, his mind whispered the opposite.

Not fine at all.

Despite all the effort, all the digging, all the memories—he still hadn't found what he was looking for. He was so sure something from his childhood room would call out to him. A piece of the past that could act as a lucky charm, something personal to carry into the storm of what lay ahead.

But nothing had clicked.

He exhaled slowly, and his parents noticed.

Both David and Isabella exchanged a quick look. They knew that sigh. There was more on their son's mind.

David gave her a faint smile and mouthed, Don't worry, I got this.

He stood up, clapping his hands lightly as if to change the tempo of the moment.

"So," he said with an exaggerated cheer, "we've closed the restaurant for the whole day. What should we do? We could break out the board games—maybe play Uno or Monopoly, get a proper family war going."

Mateo chuckled weakly, brushing the back of his neck. "Thanks, but I should probably get back to training. I've already used up enough time resting. Besides, I've tidied up the room."

Dismissive. Straight to the point. He was already emotionally packing his bags again.

Isabella frowned slightly. "But—wait, already?"

David tilted his head. "You sure you don't wanna hang back just a little? Recharge properly?"

Mateo just gave a short shake of his head. "I'm good. Thanks."

That's when Andrew finally spoke up, setting his laptop aside.

"What about that intra match you talked about?"

Mateo froze, his eyes shifting back toward his uncle.

"The intra match, ehn?"

A/N

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