"Okay guys… we have a serious discussion at hand."
The voice came smooth and familiar, rising from the soft glow of a phone screen. It was @realaa9skillz—real name Unknown—a TikTok football influencer whose calm, confident tone had become a staple of footy debates online. He was seated in his usual setup: that clean room with soft LED lights, a lineup of framed jerseys in the background—Ronaldo's Madrid No.7, Zidane's France 10, a signed Kroos, and more recently, a framed photo of Messi mid-dribble at the Camp Nou.
The camera sat perfectly aligned to his face—beard trimmed, eyes focused, as if the football gods themselves were listening.
He coughed lightly, leaned forward with his palms pressed, and said it again.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think it's 7 games… 17 goals."
He paused. Let it hang.
"Seven games. Seventeen goals. A 17-year-old. Wow."
He glanced to the side with that small smile he did when something genuinely impressed him. His voice was low but measured—like a man trying not to shout while realizing history might be unfolding.
"You guys know me. You know how I've always had a soft spot for Real Madrid. Always. I don't hide it," he said with a small shrug. "But even I have to speak the truth."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers brushing the edge of his desk.
"What Barcelona is doing right now... what Messi is doing... and more importantly, what that 17-year-old is doing—" he nodded slowly, "—it's just crazy."
A beat passed. Then the video cut—jumping to a closer shot of His face, a faint instrumental beat playing underneath, like a heartbeat building tension.
"Barcelona haven't just been winning. They've been dominating. Midfield control, passing lanes, tempo... it's surgical, man."
He clasped his hands.
"And Pedri? Ooo, Pedri oo Pedri," he laughed gently, then shook his head, "where did Barça get that boy from?"
He turned slightly toward the camera, the music dipping low.
"Look, attackers always get the most glory. We know this. But we need to talk more about Pedri. Because that boy moves like Iniesta. There's something... serene about how he plays. It's not just talent—it's intelligence. Barcelona found a gem, simple."
Then he sat up straight, face suddenly still.
"And Messi…" He sighed. "Look, we don't need to talk too much. One of the greatest to ever play. Still one of the best on the planet right now—the best right now if not for just one thing."
He raised one finger.
"The only reason I can't say Messi is the best player in the world right now… is because of his teammate."
His voice dropped low.
"Yes, you heard me right. I believe a 17-year-old is the best player in the world right now. Forget the age. What this kid—Mateo King—is doing is insane."
He gestured with his hands, animated now.
"I've been watching this game for too long. You can tell when someone is having a purple patch. And you can tell when someone is a generational problem. Mateo? That's not a purple patch. That's legacy forming in real time."
He leaned closer.
"You see the way Messi passes to him? The trust? That understanding? I swear, if Neymar had stayed at Barça, this is exactly what he would've been getting now. Maybe it's even because of Neymar that Messi's making Mateo shine like this. He knows what it looks like. He's done it before."
He paused, face serious again.
"And then there's the mentality. Did you guys see that PSG post-match interview? My guy said, 'Apola 6'. Bro… okay, my man. I see you. I see you."
He pointed directly at the camera.
"That's not a kid just enjoying his football. No. That's someone who knows how good he is. How good his team is. And what they want."
He stopped, lips tight for a second before continuing—his voice dropping lower, more grounded.
"And to think, earlier this season people were laughing. 'Barca will go trophyless.' That was the talk. Now…"
He leaned back again, rubbing his beard.
"I want to say—if care isn't taken—Barcelona are going to win it. The Champions League. They just knocked PSG out. They've got the midfield, they've got the chemistry, and that attack is dangerous."
He counted off with his fingers.
"Now for me, personally, my Champions League favorites were Bayern… PSG… then Real Madrid."
He raised a hand quickly, like he knew the comments were already flooding in.
"I know, I know—Real Madrid are not looking great right now. I get it. The midfield isn't the same, the backline looks shaky, and they don't strike fear like they used to."
He paused, nodding, then pointed straight at the lens.
"But you can never count them out. Not in the Champions League. Never."
He leaned in, voice firm now.
"That's their competition. When it's knockout time, when it's the pressure moments—Madrid just knows how to survive. They find a way. So yeah, maybe they ain't playing good football right now, but if you're smart, you still keep one eye on them."
He looked directly into the lens now.
"Well, Barça just eliminated PSG."
Another short pause. Then the camera zoomed slightly.
"The draw is next week… but I just have to say it—"
"If Barça continues like this… build smart, get some key players next season... then the whole world has to watch out. The whole world has to get ready."
He leaned back for a second, exhaling like he'd been waiting weeks to say this. The screen glowed against his face, the jerseys behind him casting shadows like ghosts of legends.
"Listen—this isn't the same Barcelona from a few years ago. This isn't a team scraping by. You can feel something clicking now. You see it in the way Pedri moves, how the midfield presses with intelligence, and obviously—Mateo King bro. He's chaos and elegance in one. And Messi? He's looking hungry again. Like he wants one last crown. Like he's playing for something personal if im not mistaken he promised barca fans a few years ago well he is working towards that promise."
He shook his head slightly. He adjusted the camera slightly, voice tightening.
"Madrid alone doesn't have to get ready."
He leaned forward now, voice a little softer, but more serious.
"Atletico doesn't have to get ready."
A beat passed.
"Not Just La Liga. No, it's the world The world has to get ready."
The car's interior was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the phone screen reflecting off the boy's face. Outside, streetlights and passing buildings slid across the windows in flickers and streaks. A quiet laugh escaped his lips—sharp and amused—as he leaned further into the glow, the shifting background casting faint shadows behind him.
His fingers brushed across the device, pausing on a TikTok video already running, the familiar face of @realaa9skillz filling the screen with confident presence. The video had thousands of likes, hearts flying up the side of the screen like confetti.
The boy just smiled—calmly, knowingly—and let his thumb drag down the screen to refresh the feed. And there it was, waiting. Another video, another face, another voice.
Zispoms.
The name was bold. The tone was different—calm, crisp, almost academic. He was sitting in front of a whiteboard half-filled with sketches and arrows, jerseys hanging neatly behind him like war banners. The screen was locked on his face as he leaned forward.
"Did you see the last game against Bilbao?" he began, his voice steady, intelligent, like someone preparing for a tactical lecture. "Barcelona weren't just playing… they were orchestrating. And they're building something frightening."
A diagram appeared beside his head—animated player dots shifting on a green pitch. Zispoms tapped a stylus against the board.
"Tactically, Koeman's setup was clear. 4–3–3, but skewed toward verticality. It wasn't about slow buildup or endless possession. The plan was simple: dominate the midfield, bait the press, and then explode forward. But here's the twist—Mateo was the target every time. He wasn't playing a false nine. He wasn't dropping deep. He was staying high, stretching the line, waiting."
The dots on the board moved again, showing one blue dot—Mateo—making a diagonal run behind a stretched backline. A red arrow slashed toward him.
"He was used as the primary spearhead. Not a winger, not a decoy—a pure outlet. The kind of role designed for someone with blistering pace and positional intelligence. And who can blame them? When you've got a speedster like Mateo upfront, and players like Messi and Pedri behind…"
Zispoms chuckled, shaking his head.
"You've got creators who don't just make passes—they sculpt them. Messi and Pedri, man… they don't just draw defenders, they hypnotize them. You press them, they spin. You sit back, they pierce. And through it all, Mateo just needs to time one run, and he's gone. That's exactly what happened—twice."
He paused the animation and circled the center of the pitch.
"But here's what makes it genius. This tactic doesn't just benefit Mateo—it's unlocking Messi. Look closely. Watch the match again. Messi is starting deeper now, almost like a free-roaming advanced playmaker. He's not just waiting near the box—he's connecting the play from midfield, finding gaps. Why? Because Mateo's movement clears space. Defenders can't ignore the kid, and that creates breathing room for Messi to work magic."
Another tap. Griezmann's movement was highlighted.
"Even Griezmann is adapting—he's pressing, dragging defenders away, protecting Mateo's lanes. It's almost like the whole attack is realigning around this duo. Not just to serve Mateo, but to let Messi float and feed."
Zispoms leaned back, eyes gleaming slightly.
"And frankly, if I'm being honest… I wouldn't be surprised if this becomes their go-to system for the rest of the season. Koeman knows what he's doing. You don't need to tell Messi to pass to Mateo—it's automatic now. The chemistry is real. If Mateo keeps up this scoring proficiency, and Messi keeps feeding him?"
He smiled.
"This might be the best attacking duo in world football right now. No exaggeration. No clickbait. This is deadly."
Back in the room, the boy watching couldn't help it.
He smiled again—wide, bright. A soft giggle escaped his chest, uncontainable. There was a flicker in his stomach, a stirring of joy so wild it almost made his fingertips tremble. Pride was bubbling up in waves—raw, electric, and real.
He kept scrolling, watching video after video, one after the other. TikTok after TikTok.
And a pattern began to emerge.
At least 90% of the videos were about football. Of those, 70% focused on Barcelona. And within that 70%… nearly all of them were about Mateo and Messi. The supposed unstoppable duo. The talk of the internet.
No one seemed to notice.
There was a third attacker in that game.
"This is as far as I can go, hey kid."
The voice pulled him out of the haze. Slowly, the teenager lifted his head from his phone. The glow of the screen still lit his face, but now his eyes met the driver's through the rearview mirror.
"Oh—sorry, sir," the boy said, snapping back to reality with a sheepish grin.
He was still somewhat lost—mentally swimming in a sea of TikToks and football debates, his ears faintly ringing with echoes of phrases like "false 9 rotation," "deep-lying creator," and "channel exploit." His fingers had hovered just above the screen as if still clinging to the digital world he'd been immersed in.
Then he turned his head.
What greeted him made him freeze.
Through the slightly tinted window of the taxi, across a small slope that opened up past trimmed hedges and polished curb lines, he saw it—a gated community, not just any, but something out of a billionaire's dream. The gates were tall, sleek, automated, and guarded by sharp iron-black bars that glistened under the sun. Beyond them stretched a perfectly paved road, winding past trees trimmed like sculptures, lawns smoother than green velvet, and homes—no, estates—that towered with silent luxury.
Even from a distance, the boy could make out just how massive the houses were. One in particular had Roman pillars at the entrance, another had a private glass dome. A third had balconies stacked like VIP boxes at Camp Nou. Every single one of them screamed: this is where legends live.
"Wow…" he whispered under his breath.
He blinked, like he needed a second take to believe it. Still starstruck, he reached for the door and was halfway out when—
"Kid! Kid!" the cab driver called, making him stop mid-step.
The boy turned, startled.
"Your money," the man said, a brow raised, one hand casually resting on the steering wheel.
"Ah—shit! Sorry, sorry!" the teenager stammered, fumbling into his pockets, laughter tumbling out as he handed over the cash. "It's just been a while since I've had to pay myself. Sorry!"
He gave a sheepish chuckle, one of those awkward laughs that danced on the edge of embarrassment and habit. The driver chuckled too, but under his breath, just barely audible.
"Weird kid," he muttered, shaking his head as the teenager stepped out and closed the door gently behind him.
The cab hummed away, tires crunching softly on the paved road, leaving a quiet that settled over the boy like a soft breeze. He stood there for a moment, watching the vehicle disappear, hands in his pockets. A small smile crept up on his lips as he exhaled and muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else:
"It's been a while… since someone didn't recognize me."
He shrugged and turned around.
And there it was—the gates now standing right in front of him. Towering, imposing, elegant. He walked slowly toward them, each step almost ceremonial. As he reached the entrance, he found a sleek metallic panel embedded in the gatepost: a video bell, glinting faintly in the sunlight. A few feet off to the right stood a small but professional-looking guard booth, tinted windows and all.
He raised a finger, hesitated for a second, then pressed the button.
A quiet ding.
The panel screen came to life, but it didn't show any video feed—at least, not to him. Instead, a voice crackled through the intercom, cool and composed:
"Who is it, and who are you here to visit?"
The teenager leaned a little closer to the speaker.
"Hi… uh, I'm here to visit Lionel Messi. My name is Mateo King."
Silence.
Nothing.
Not a buzz. Not a word. Just dead air.
He furrowed his brows and looked back at the guard booth. Stillness. No movement. For a second, doubt crept in. Did they think it was a prank? Was he at the wrong entrance? Was this some kind of security protocol? His lips parted as he prepared to say something again—
But then the silence broke.
A sudden flurry of voices, not from the speaker but faint, behind the gates. It was like he'd triggered an alarm—not of danger, but of excitement.
"Wait—wait, is it really him?"
"That's him! It's Mateo!"
"No way, man—he's so young. My son's his age!"
"Bro, connect to Mr. Lionel's house right now. RIGHT now!"
There was laughter, hushed shouting, the sound of people geeking out but trying to stay professional. Another voice popped in:
"Mateo, just hold on sir—we're connecting to Mr. Messi's residence."
More murmurs: "Damn he's handsome in real life too," "I just saw him on TikTok this morning!" "Bro, look at that hair—nah that's him."
Mateo smiled faintly, lips curling with pride as he heard the guards practically lose their minds through the intercom.
"Yes," he thought smugly, chest swelling, "this is how it's supposed to be. Not like that taxi man. Everyone knows who I am."
The corners of his mouth lifted higher. There was a slight bounce in his stance now. His fingers ran through his curls as he imagined how he must look on the other side of the camera: poised, calm, confident.
"I'm fucking Mateo King."
"I'm a fucking nobody."
just as quickly as the high came, something cold and crushing slammed into him—an invisible wave that knocked the air right out of his lungs.
It wasn't a sound. It wasn't even a person.
It was gold.
He had taken a few steps inside, guided through a path lined with trees and flowerbeds too perfect to be real, past towering homes carved like dreams, until he finally stepped into this particular mansion—the biggest one yet—and now he was standing in a room he never expected to see.
Six golden orbs, encased in transparent glass, sat on polished darkwood pedestals under a subtle glow of white light.
The Ballon d'Ors.
They weren't just trophies. They were declarations. Artifacts. Heavy things, both in metal and meaning. The kind of legacy that didn't whisper—it roared.
Each one seemed to stare back at him, daring him to blink. Daring him to breathe. His own reflection shimmered on their surface, twisted by the curves of gold.
He turned his head slowly.
To the side—six more statues, smaller but no less menacing. Golden boots, each mounted carefully, gleaming with quiet violence. These weren't just rewards for goals. They were weapons that slaughtered records.
Everywhere he turned—gold, gold, gold.
Medals, plaques, glass frames—gold again.
Like he'd stepped inside a museum for greatness.
Just minutes ago, he was grinning to himself, feeling like the world had bent to recognize his name. Just minutes ago, he had walked down the estate's private road, past tennis courts and sculpture gardens, gawking at glass mansions and infinity pools. He was popular. Everyone knew his name. He was him.
But here?
Here, he felt tiny.
Insignificant. Like a child at the edge of Olympus.
He blinked rapidly, trying to take it all in.
The gold. The shine. The weight of legacy pressed against the air like gravity. Each Ballon d'Or was a crown—six crowns, to be exact—resting silently behind the glass, but they screamed louder than any crowd he'd ever heard. Each one said: You think you're special? Look again.
He stepped back slightly, almost instinctively. Like the trophies might swallow him whole.
It dawned on him then.
He was still nothing.
Nothing compared to this.
All the followers, the street chants, the online buzz—they didn't mean a thing here. Not in this room. Not in front of these thrones carved in gold. He wasn't even dust in Messi's shadow. He was a dreamer, yes. But standing here, that dream felt light-years away.
The boots stared at him next—golden relics lined like weapons in a king's war chest. All earned. All deserved.
All Messi.
He felt something twist in his chest—not pain, not fear, but a kind of sacred awe.
Like he'd just realized what he was chasing all along.
And how far the journey still was.
His voice came out low, barely above a whisper:
"I've done nothing yet…"
It wasn't self-pity. It wasn't defeat.
It was clarity.
The kind that resets your bones.
The kind that burns your name into your own heart, not for fame, but for purpose.
He pulled out his phone—almost shakily. He had to show the boys this.
They wouldn't believe it.
But more than that…
He needed the reminder.
Then, slowly, he reached for his phone.
"I have to show the boys this."
He unlocked it with shaky fingers, lifted the camera, and took a photo—snapping fast, then lowering it to his chest. His heart was thudding. He opened the group chat with the boys back at the academy, dropped the picture in, and typed:
Then he lifted the phone again. This time, slower. He adjusted the angle, stepping back, framing all twelve trophies into the shot. His voice came out in a breathless murmur.
"God… this is insane. How can one man win all this?"
He was just about to hit capture when—
"Mr. King?"
He jolted, nearly dropping the phone.
"Oh, sorry! I was just—" he turned quickly, still holding his phone mid-air.
A man stood behind him, maybe in his late thirties, wearing a black polo shirt with a discreet Barça crest. His eyes sparkled with amusement.
"It's okay," the man said, chuckling. "I also took several photos when I first came in. You kidding? This place is sick."
Mateo looked back at the trophy cabinet one last time. His lips parted slightly as he whispered—
"You have no idea."
The man smiled again, stepping aside with a gentle gesture.
"Come on, let's go. Mr. Lionel and his family are waiting for you in the living room."
Mateo turned toward him, heart still heavy and full.
"Okay then…" he said with a grin. "And please call me Mateo."
After a few minutes of walking through what felt like a maze of polished marble hallways, Mateo's head was still turning left and right like a tourist. The house was… insane. No, insane didn't even begin to cover it. Ridiculous. Extraterrestrial. Every corridor looked like something pulled out of a luxury magazine he'd never dare touch in a supermarket—high ceilings with elegant lights, art pieces that probably cost more than a footballer's weekly wage, and walls so clean and smooth they almost looked fake.
He exhaled, whispering under his breath with a soft laugh,
"Fuck Google, bro."
That ball house—the one that always went viral online with Messi's name slapped on it? Big white orb sitting in the middle of nowhere like a UFO landed and paid rent?
Fake as hell.
He had believed it, too—every time it popped up in articles and TikToks: "This is Lionel Messi's mansion in Barcelona."
Nah. That was cap.
This right here was the real thing—and it was ten times madder.
He glanced to the side, noticing a curved staircase spiraling downward like something out of a billionaire's dream. A wall-sized aquarium glowed faintly across another hallway, schools of shimmering fish dancing behind glass. Somewhere deeper in, he could hear faint music—Spanish guitar, smooth, flowing like the breeze. Every step he took added another layer to how surreal this felt.
Even if it wasn't the infamous "ball house," this place was still stupidly beautiful.
He swallowed.
"Can I also…?"
The thought slipped into his mind before he could even catch it.
Could he one day have something like this?
But before the fantasy could fully take shape, the man walking ahead of him—his quiet guide—suddenly stopped and turned. His voice calm, polite:
"We're here."
Mateo blinked, yanked out of his thoughts.
He quickly fixed himself—ran his palms down his shirt, straightened his collar, dusted off nonexistent specks from his jeans. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaled deeply, tapped his foot twice.
"Alright… showtime," he muttered.
The man pushed the double doors open.
And Mateo stepped into something straight out of a Netflix fantasy.
It was a living room—at least, that's what you were supposed to call it. But this one looked bigger than his parents' entire house, maybe their street. Wide open space, gleaming floors, soft cream and beige tones layered with warm lighting. An elegant chandelier sparkled gently above. Tall windows let in golden light that poured across the room like honey. The walls were lined with framed photos and minimalist decor—rich, but not loud. Stylish, but homely.
There was a warmth to it. A softness. Not a museum. Not a palace.
Home.
And at the center of it all stood a family of five.
The man, smiling calmly and warmly, was none other than his teammate—Lionel Messi. Wearing a plain T-shirt and joggers, like this was just another Sunday.
Beside him stood a woman holding the hand of a small child—barely a toddler—who was sucking on his thumb, his big eyes peeking up curiously. The woman had an easy, natural grace. She looked like the type who never needed to try to be elegant—Antonela Roccuzzo.
Then there were two other boys. The middle one—maybe six or seven—already had a devilish grin plastered on his face. His eyes were alive, darting everywhere, like he was already planning something chaotic. And then there was the eldest, standing beside his father. He looked about nine, posture straight but relaxed, a small kind, excited smile tugging at his lips like he'd been waiting to meet Mateo.
Mateo didn't need introductions.
Like any real Messi fan, he already knew.
Antonela, the childhood love.
Ciro, the tiny thumb-sucker.
Mateo—the troublemaker.
And Thiago—the sweet one. The quiet thinker.
Of course, Messi didn't know Mateo knew all that.
Messi stepped forward, that legendary calm smile lighting up his face.
"Ooh, Mateo—come meet my family."
His voice was soft, familiar. Not formal. Not stiff. Like he was welcoming a cousin.
As Messi gestured toward Antonela, she leaned down slightly, gently removing her toddler's thumb from his mouth with practiced ease.
"Thanks for bringing him, Guillem," she said with a nod.
Mateo turned his head, realizing the man who had led him here—Guillem—was bowing his head slightly before slipping out silently, closing the doors behind him.
And then Mateo turned back to the family, grinning.
"Hey, hey—I watched the match."
He leaned forward a bit, eyes flicking to the middle child.
"The way you play… you're a baller, bro why don't you leave Barca go to a real team beat my dad."
The mischievous smile on little Mateo's face stretched even wider. He puffed his chest like a mini-champion, glancing at his dad like "See? I told you."
Thiago chuckled softly beside him.
"Thanks," he said, stepping forward slightly, polite and respectful. "I saw your goals against Getafe. They were fire."
Mateo's eyes lit up.
"You saw that? Nah man, that means a lot!"
He gave Thiago a small fist bump.
The room felt warm now. Light. The awkwardness melted away like it had never existed.
Antonela clapped her hands once, smiling.
"Okay then—let's eat lunch."
A/N
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