"Well, that's dumb."
The words came out sharply—frustrated, clipped, as if the speaker had been holding them back for too long. The voice belonged to none other than Pablo Martín Páez Gavira—better known as Gavi—one of La Masia's brightest rising stars and a senior player in Barcelona's U19 squad.
He was standing in the dim hallway just outside his dorm room at La Masia, one hand pressed against the cold wall, the other holding his phone to his ear. It was early, and the corridor was quiet save for the distant echoes of shouts and chanting from outside the facility—Barça fans, loud and angry. But Gavi wasn't paying them any attention. His mind was locked on the call.
"Why would he think it's his fault?" he asked again, this time softer, almost like he was asking himself.
On the other end of the line was Pedri—Barcelona's first-team midfield jewel. Ever since they'd been introduced, Pedri and Gavi had clicked instantly. Maybe it was the midfield bond. Maybe the closeness in age. Or maybe it was just football fate. But whatever it was, they had hit it off quickly—sharing jokes, swapping playlists, and, eventually, exchanging numbers.
And today, Pedri was using that number for something a little more serious.
He'd been worried. Mateo hadn't looked right last night. Not during the flight. Not on the bus. And not even when Pedri had tried to talk to him.
Now stuck in the city due to a last-minute photoshoot that had just been rescheduled again, Pedri couldn't be there in person. So instead, he called the one person who could give him some insight: Mateo's roommate.
Gavi.
"I guess that's why he was like that yesterday," Gavi murmured as he leaned against the wall, staring at nothing in particular. His voice had softened now, less annoyed and more contemplative, thoughtful.
He was remembering the moment Mateo walked into the dorms the night before. He and some of the other boys had been waiting for him, all of them buzzing with pride and curiosity after witnessing the now-viral performance against PSG. But when Mateo came through the door, there had been no joy on his face. No pride. No swagger.
He had barely spoken. Just waved.
"I'm fine," Mateo had said. Then he went straight to bed.
No one had disturbed him. They figured he was exhausted. Gavi had assumed he just needed rest after the emotional whirlwind of the night. He hadn't thought much of it.
And then this morning? Mateo's back was to him the entire time.
Now, hearing what Pedri was saying, it all made sense.
"I wanted to come by," Pedri's voice came through the phone again, laced with regret. "I really did. But my agent moved a shoot last minute, and…"
"It's fine," Gavi cut him off gently. "Honestly, it's probably better you didn't come."
He turned his head slightly as another round of shouting echoed in the distance—louder this time. The voices of angry fans filled the air, bouncing off the stone walls of La Masia. Some were chanting. Others yelling. Their frustration rising like heat off asphalt.
"Outside's been rough," Gavi added.
There was a short pause on the line.
"Even there?" Pedri asked.
That was what they were both thinking about.
The protests.
Ever since the chaos in Paris, the backlash hadn't stopped. Overnight, it had spread like wildfire across Catalonia. Angry supporters had gathered outside the training grounds, the stadium, even La Masia itself—demanding answers. Demanding accountability. Accusing the club of failing to protect their players, their fans.
It wasn't just noise anymore.
Earlier that morning, hopeful club president Joan Laporta had held a rally, his voice echoing through microphones as he promised a better future. Promised protection. Promised that under his watch, nothing like this would ever happen again.
The air was thick with tension.
"Yeah, they came early in the morning," Gavi muttered, shifting the phone to his other ear. "But it's not that bad here. Just a few fans yelling at the main gate. It's at Camp Nou where it's really wild."
He paused, listening briefly as another chant rang faintly through the walls of La Masia. The dorm's thick insulation dulled it, but it was still there—raw, echoing frustration from outside.
"Alright then, let me go check on him," he finally said, pushing himself off the wall.
"Thanks, bro," Pedri's voice came through, warm but tired. "Seriously."
"No stress. Talk later."
"Yeah. Bye."
"Bye, man."
The call ended with a small click, and Gavi lowered the phone slowly.
He exhaled.
A long, deliberate sigh.
Then he turned, facing the hallway that led back to his dorm room—the room he shared with Mateo King. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he muttered under his breath.
"You dummy… why are you letting this get to you?" he said to himself, his voice somewhere between annoyance and concern.
Yesterday had been chaos—not just for the first team, but for everyone tied to the badge. Even here at La Masia, the tension had sunk in like smoke through air vents. As was tradition, all the youth players had gathered in the main hall to watch the senior team's Champions League clash. Cheers had erupted, walls had shaken, celebrations had gone wild when Barcelona completed that unbelievable comeback.
But the joy hadn't lasted long.
Barely an hour after the final whistle, whispers began trickling in. Then messages. Then frantic updates.
PSG fans had attacked.
There were injuries. Videos. Screams. The match of the season had somehow become a night of trauma.
Coaches rushed to their phones. Staff were pacing the halls, eyes wide. The energy turned cold, tense. So much so that training sessions for today were officially canceled for nearly all age groups. Only players with league and cup matches were exempted.
Gavi looked around now.
The corridor was quiet—eerily so.
Even the usual background hum of early morning drills or football chatter was absent. He frowned a little and muttered, "Today feels… weird."
He sighed again.
Then turned toward his room.
The hallway was familiar, but something about this walk felt heavier. Like he was approaching something he wasn't ready to see. Gavi had convinced himself Mateo was probably curled up in bed, headphones in, trying to disappear from the noise. Maybe crying. Maybe not even responding to him.
He gripped the door handle.
A deep breath.
Then he pushed the door open—
And froze.
His eyes widened immediately, eyebrows shooting up as confusion spread across his face.
"Hey, man," Gavi heard.
But what he saw made his voice falter halfway through the sentence.
Mateo King—Barcelona's teen star, the boy who was the subject of the most toxic online storm in recent club memory—was standing right in the middle of the room.
Fully dressed.
Not in training gear or sweats, but in fresh, clean clothes. Slim-fit jeans, a cream hoodie, clean white sneakers. He was turned toward the small mirror by the window, holding a bottle of cologne mid-spray. His hair was done. His wristwatch was already on.
And on his face?
A massive smile.
Confident. Bright. Almost… too bright.
Gavi blinked again, trying to process the sight in front of him.
This wasn't what he expected.
Not at all.
"Hey man…" Gavi said softly, his voice barely above a murmur, uncertain. The door creaked behind him as he stepped inside the room he thought he'd be entering with quiet concern—not confusion.
Mateo, still by the mirror, had just finished spraying a burst of cologne over his hoodie. He glanced sideways, flashing a casual smile as if nothing in the world had gone wrong.
"When I woke up, you weren't around," Mateo said, tossing the bottle back on the shelf. "What happened?"
Gavi blinked. His voice caught a bit before he answered.
"Oh… yeah, I just stepped out for some fresh air," he replied, scratching the back of his neck. "The dorm's been a little stuffy, y'know?"
"Good. That's good," Mateo said, already turning toward the door, grabbing his phone and slipping it into his pocket. "I've actually got somewhere to be right now, so…"
But before Mateo could reach the door, Gavi quickly moved, planting himself right in front of it.
"Hey, hey. Wait, why the rush?" Gavi asked, holding up a hand as if to physically slow his roommate down. His voice was light, but there was a tension beneath it.
"Let's… ehm, let's just chill, yeah?" he added with a grin, trying to keep it casual. "I was thinking of calling the guys. Fermin just got that new game yesterday—Watch Dogs: Legion Online. It's insane. Open world, four-player co-op. We were all talking about running a few missions together."
He chuckled, trying to sound excited as he added, "We've got nothing on the schedule today. Training's canceled, coaches are distracted, security's chill… I figured we could just sit back, relax, order pizza or something. Game all day. Like old times."
Gavi stood there grinning, blocking the door, arms half-spread as if expecting Mateo to laugh or nod along.
But Mateo just blinked at him, confused.
"…Dude. What's going on?" Mateo asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Nothing, man." Gavi waved him off, eyes darting to the floor for a second. "Just wanted to hang. That's all."
Mateo gave a crooked smile and shook his head slowly. "You're weird."
Then, more softly, "Appreciate it, though."
Gavi's grin stayed, but his eyes watched closely.
"I'll have to rain check," Mateo continued, stepping aside, "I'm running late."
He moved toward the door again, but Gavi shuffled one last time, blurting, "But… but…"
"Dude, I'm late," Mateo said with a playful sigh, gently brushing past him.
As he reached for the handle, he glanced back with a smirk. "You play too much, bro."
The tone was light. Teasing. Just like brothers messing around. But Gavi didn't miss the flicker in Mateo's eyes. The flicker of something tucked far beneath the surface.
"Yeah… alright," Gavi muttered as Mateo disappeared through the door.
He stood there for a moment, arms folding behind his head, staring at the empty doorway like it might tell him something more.
"Well…"
He didn't finish the thought.
And down the hallway, Mateo walked briskly, earbuds in hand, head lowered slightly.
He shook his head to himself with a small, almost amused exhale.
"What's up with that guy…"
"Hey, Mateo! Nice game yesterday!"
The voice came from one of the younger La Masia kids, maybe twelve or thirteen, who was seated near the hallway vending machine, eyes wide like he'd just spoken to a superhero.
Mateo turned slightly, offering a bright smile. "Thanks, bro!" he said, lifting a hand for a quick wave.
Another came from down the corridor—a staff member in a Barça training tracksuit who was walking in the opposite direction. "Mateo! That third goal? Magia pura!"
Mateo chuckled. "Appreciate it, coach," he replied, giving a playful salute.
Then two more students passed, both wearing training bibs. "Mateo, can we trade boots?" one of them joked, raising his voice. "Yours clearly have magic!"
"Only if you've got good dribbling stats!" Mateo shot back with a laugh, finger-pointing and walking backward for a moment before turning again.
He kept going, grin still on his face—one that, for a moment, looked like it belonged to a kid who had the weight of the world lifted off him.
That was the thing about La Masia. It was more than a dorm. It was home. These people knew Mateo King before the world did. They knew him when he was still sneaking out to watch first-team training. When he missed sitters. When he got red cards for late tackles. When he cried after matches no one else watched.
He passed another hallway, his steps light. Then he reached a side entrance near the rear courtyard—a smaller, quieter exit known mostly to those who'd lived here for years.
There, standing beside the door, was Javi the security guard.
"Mateo!" Javi beamed. Late 40s, always chewing gum, Barça badge stitched into his weather-worn jacket. He'd been stationed at La Masia since the Tito Vilanova days.
"Javi," Mateo said with a half grin, walking up to him like a nephew would greet his favorite uncle. They clasped hands quickly, Mateo pulling in for a brief bro-hug. "How's the knee?"
"Still stiff," Javi replied with a chuckle. "But hey—no more than Kimpembe's ankles after what you did to him."
Mateo laughed, but it didn't stick. He nodded instead, brushing off the praise. "Ehh, I got lucky."
"You got three goals. That's not luck."
"Okay, two and a half. One was luck," Mateo replied with a playful smirk.
Javi shook his head, amused. But the humor drained slightly as Mateo motioned toward the door.
"Listen, I need to step outside for a sec."
The guard's smile hesitated.
"Ehh… I don't know about that, Mateo," Javi said, his voice softening. "They called this morning. Higher-ups. Said not to let any of the players out today. You know… because of everything."
The words landed heavy. That "you know" stung like static in Mateo's ears.
He didn't snap. He didn't frown.
But his voice clipped the air just slightly. "Yeah. I know."
There was a silence. Awkward, but not hostile. Mateo folded his arms.
"Come on, man," he said more gently, flashing a grin again as he tried to shift the mood. "You really think I'm gonna Cause trouble? I'm just stepping outside. The sun's out. I promise, I won't do anything stupid."
Javi scratched his cheek, eyes narrowed slightly.
"It's not just that," he said. "The press are out there. Media vans. Some of them are camping by the fences, trying to catch any of the team's staff or first team people. If they spot you, they'll go mad."
Mateo exhaled sharply and muttered, "Of course they are…"
"Look, it's just today, alright?" Javi continued. "After this, things'll calm down. You guys need something, I'll grab it for you. But letting you out now? I'm sorry, Mateo. Orders are orders."
Mateo let out a longer sigh, then placed his hands on his hips, pretending to be annoyed.
Then he tilted his head, flashing a mischievous look. "Hey, Javi…" he said slowly, dragging out the name like a kid setting up a punchline.
"You still ride or die for Piqué, right? Your number one?"
Javi raised an eyebrow, cautious. "…You know I do."
"You have no idea," Javi the guard said, eyes lighting up like someone had just uncorked a bottle of childhood dreams. "I've followed Piqué since his debut season. That tackle on Drogba in 2009? I watched it live—nearly threw my TV out the window from the hype."
Mateo grinned as the veteran security guard continued, his voice climbing with each memory.
"And when he scored that screamer against Inter? I swear, I almost climbed into the stands at Camp Nou myself. You know I used to play center-back too, right? Nearly joined La Masia once. They scouted me back in the day."
He patted his left knee with a nostalgic sigh. "Then this bastard here gave up on me," he said, nodding toward his leg. "Tore my ACL in a youth tournament. Dreams done just like that. But still—if that hadn't happened, I could've been lining up beside Gerard himself. Me, him, and Puyol—Barcelona's holy trinity of defense."
He chuckled at his own exaggeration, the kind of laugh that comes from a place half-pride, half-regret. But before he could slip deeper into his glory days, he noticed something that made him stop short.
Mateo was grinning. But not just any grin.
It was slow. Wide. Devilish.
"What?" Javi asked, squinting.
Mateo shrugged innocently. "Oh nothing… just, you know—I see Piqué's locker sometimes at training. I swear, his jersey is always lying around, real lonely."
Javi blinked. "Wait. What are you—"
Mateo leaned in slightly, voice playful. "Might've seen his boots there once or twice too. You think he'd even notice if, say, one pair… or two… disappeared?"
Javi nearly choked on his gum. "Oi! Don't play with me, King!"
Mateo was already laughing, hands up like a street magician. "Hey, I'm not saying I'd do anything. Just… y'know. Thought maybe a loyal Piqué fan could use a little memorabilia?"
"You little rascal," Javi said, torn between laughing and launching into a fake scolding. "You think you can bribe me with Piqué's gear?"
Mateo tilted his head, teasing. "You tell me. Is it working?"
Javi sighed like a man defeated. He looked around once, then muttered, "Fine, fine. You win. Pleasure doing business with you."
Mateo flashed him a mock salute. "Pleasure's all mine."
"But wear your hoodie," Javi warned, shifting into a more serious tone. "Keep your head down. If the media sees you, I didn't see you. Got it? Also—call one of your boys. Just in case someone starts asking around."
"Yeah, yeah," Mateo said, already pulling the hood over his head. "Relax, I'll be quick."
"And don't forget!" Javi called as Mateo stepped out through the small gate, "I want his signature on those boots too!"
Mateo raised a hand without turning back. "I'll see what I can do, Javi."
Javi just shook his head, watching the boy disappear down the alleyway. "These damn kids…" he muttered with a smile, before going back to his post.
Mateo pulled the hood down further over his face as the sunlight hit him. The air outside was warm, but the tension still clung to the sky like fog. He walked along the low stone wall that bordered La Masia, his steps fast but careful.
Phone in hand, he glanced down. His last message thread was still open.
"He said he's outside here. Where the hell is he?" he muttered.
His eyes scanned the street ahead.
To the right, near the main gates, he spotted a small group. A few fans—no more than eight—stood there with hastily made signs, one of them holding a shirt with his name on it. The others just stared into the building with expressions caught somewhere between anger and concern.
Behind them loomed the press. Three, maybe four men with long lenses and wired mics. Their vans parked like vultures.
Mateo immediately turned his gaze.
His breath caught in his throat. Just seeing the signs made his chest tighten.
Don't look. Just move.
He shifted back toward the service road.
"Where are you…" he muttered again, glancing side to side.
Then he heard it.
A car horn—short, sharp, deliberate.
He froze, eyes darting.
There it was. A sleek, black sedan pulled halfway into the alley up ahead, tinted windows all around, the plates blurred with dust. It looked like something out of a detective movie. Blacked out. Discreet. And completely unmarked.
The horn tapped again.
Mateo looked down.
A new message buzzed across his screen.
"Enter the car."
He hesitated.
For a second, Mateo just stood there, staring at the sleek black car, the engine humming low like a purring predator. The tinted windows reflected the surrounding buildings, casting distorted images of the world around him. It didn't help. The car gave nothing away.
His fingers tightened around the phone in his pocket.
He looked once over his shoulder—back toward the main gate of La Masia where the press buzzed and the few lingering fans lingered like storm clouds refusing to move. Then back to the car.
Another short, deliberate honk.
Mateo exhaled sharply, trying to steady the quickened beat of his heart. He took a cautious step forward. Then another. His eyes scanned every shadow, every reflection on the black paint. Still unsure.
When he finally reached the passenger side, he paused again. Slowly, carefully, like someone disarming a tripwire, he reached for the handle.
Click.
The door gave way with a smooth mechanical sound.
He opened it.
And then—everything changed.
The wariness on his face melted in an instant.
The caution dissolved like morning fog.
Because there—sitting behind the wheel with one hand on the steering and a knowing smirk on his face—was a man Mateo knew better than almost anyone.
A man who had been there since his first youth tournament.
Who stood by him through every rise and every fall.
"Uncle!" Mateo beamed, a grin exploding across his face like the sun breaking through clouds.
He dove into the front seat, shutting the door with a sense of relief that couldn't be faked.
Yes—the person Mateo had risked sneaking past La Masia gates to see… the one he was willing to defy club orders for… wasn't a reporter, or a scout, or even a friend.
It was his uncle.
His father's younger brother.
His agent.
Andrew King.
A/N
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