"Wow… what's that?"
A sudden shiver ran straight down Mateo's spine, sharp and unexpected, like someone had dragged ice across his back. He flinched slightly where he sat on the edge of the training pitch, legs stretched out, boots kicked off, sweat still clinging to his skin. For a brief second he glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting something to be there, then shook his head as if brushing off the feeling.
Pedri wandered over asking "what happened" and dropped down beside him, breathing hard, a bottle of water already extended toward Mateo without even looking at him. Mateo took it automatically, fingers wrapping around the cool plastic.
"Nothing," he said after a beat, twisting the cap open. "Just felt a chill go down my back."
Pedri didn't respond to that at all. He simply let himself fall back onto the grass, arms spread, staring up at the sky as if it might offer mercy. "I'm so tired," he muttered.
Mateo let out a quiet, tired laugh and leaned back as well, lowering himself until his shoulders touched the ground. "Dude," he said, voice rough with exhaustion, "me and you both."
The Barcelona first team had just wrapped up an intense training session, the kind that left muscles burning and lungs screaming long after the whistle. The pitch still hummed with leftover energy—players walking off slowly, some stretching, others collapsed in small groups, all of them drained. Mateo lay flat on the grass now, eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily, while Pedri sat beside him sipping his water in slow, careful gulps.
After a moment of silence, Pedri spoke again, casual but curious. "So… I heard you're moving out soon."
Mateo didn't open his eyes. His face tightened just a little, barely noticeable, and when he answered his voice was low, almost weighed down. "Yeah."
After the match with Bayern, after the first medical checkup with the club's medical staff, a couple of people from player services had caught up with him right after training. They'd spoken calmly, professionally, telling him everything had been arranged—his new apartment fully set up, keys ready, move-in date confirmed. It was efficient, smooth, exactly how the club handled things when a player reached a certain point.
Mateo knew it made sense. He knew it was time. The dorm had been getting more and more cramped anyway, overflowing with club packages, gear, and reminders of how fast his life was changing. But he had lived there for years. That place held everything—late-night talks and game playing with friends, early mornings rushing to class, teachers who watched him grow, even Javi the gatekeeper who always nodded and called him by name. Leaving it all behind felt heavier than he had expected.
Lying there on the grass, sweat drying on his skin, Mateo felt that weight press down on him again, a quiet sadness settling in his chest as he stayed still, eyes closed, letting the feeling wash over him.
"Okay, man… see you later."
Mateo stood near the edge of the parking lot as he watched Pedri jog toward his car, the late-afternoon light stretching long shadows across the parking area. Pedri lifted a hand in a lazy wave before slipping into the driver's seat of the Cupra, the same one his brother usually used to pick him up. The engine hummed to life, and moments later the car rolled forward, merging smoothly onto the road as Pedri headed off to prepare for the evening ahead.
Mateo stayed where he was.
He didn't move immediately. Instead, he lingered, hands resting on his hips, eyes following the car until it disappeared from view. Around him, the post-training routine played out—one teammate after another unlocking cars, exchanging quick goodbyes, engines starting, tires crunching softly against gravel. Laughter here, a shout there, then silence as each vehicle pulled away.
When the lot finally began to thin out, Mateo let out a slow sigh, the kind that came from deep in his chest.
He was just standing there when a voice cut through the quiet, sudden and sharp.
"What are you doing?"
Mateo jumped slightly, shoulders tensing as he turned around, caught completely off guard.
Standing a few steps behind him was Messi.
He was holding his training bag, boots slung over one shoulder, clearly on his way out. His expression was calm but curious, eyes fixed on Mateo as if trying to read something written across his face. The sight of him alone was enough to make Mateo straighten instinctively.
"Nothing," Mateo said quickly the second time of the day, forcing himself to relax. "I was just… escorting Pedri out."
Messi didn't reply right away. He simply kept looking at him, head tilted ever so slightly. "Hmm," he murmured, noncommittal.
The silence stretched, and Mateo let out an awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. Being stared at like that—by Messi of all people—made his skin prickle. He shifted his weight, already thinking of an excuse to slip away.
Before he could say anything else, Messi's tone changed.
"Follow me."
The seriousness in his voice made Mateo freeze.
What's happening? Why does he sound like that?
A sudden wave of nerves rushed through him as he fell into step behind Messi, his mind racing. They walked toward the parking area together, the distance between them short but feeling strangely heavy. Messi stopped in front of his blue Audi RS6 Avant, the sleek body catching the light perfectly.
Normally, Mateo would've admired it. As a car lover, he would've noticed every detail—the lines, the stance, the quiet power it radiated.
Today, he barely registered it.
His thoughts were too loud.
Truthfully, he was still a little nervous around Messi. It wasn't their first meeting—not even close. They joked now, laughed together, had even shared lunch once with Messi's family. And yet, something remained. For most of his life, Messi had been something more than human to him—a distant idol, almost godlike. Bridging that final mental gap felt impossible, and Mateo knew the block was his alone. Still, he didn't know how to break it.
So lost was he in his thoughts that he didn't even realize they'd stopped.
The sound of a car door opening snapped him back to reality. Messi was already seated behind the wheel.
"Get in," Messi said simply.
Mateo blinked. "What?"
Messi glanced at him again, repeating himself without changing his tone. "Get in."
Still stunned, Mateo opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. "Okay."
As soon as Mateo slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut, something inside him slowly began to ease. The tension that had been knotting his shoulders loosened as the soft thud of the door sealed him into the quiet cocoon of the car. The interior felt unreal—clean, refined, calm. The leather hugged him in a way that felt firm but welcoming, the faint scent of a new car mixed with something subtle and expensive.
Messi eased the car forward, smooth and effortless, and Mateo couldn't help himself. His eyes wandered.
The dashboard.
The stitching.
The ambient lighting running softly along the doors.
His fingers brushed lightly against the seat, almost to confirm it was real.
Fuck… this is sick.
He leaned back slightly, trying not to look too obvious, but failing anyway. Pedri's Cupra was nice—really nice. His uncle's RAV4 was solid, dependable. But this? This was on a completely different level. Everything felt controlled, powerful, yet quiet, like it didn't need to prove anything.
As the car picked up speed, Mateo glanced at the steering wheel, the way Messi's hands rested on it so naturally, like the car was an extension of him. The suspension soaked up the road effortlessly, and Mateo felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth.
Damn… when can I buy something like this myself?
The thought floated in so casually that he didn't even realize how absurd it was. Just weeks ago, money like this had felt imaginary numbers on paper, something distant. Even now after signing a ridiculous contract worth tens of millions, his mind still hadn't caught up to his worth. Wealth, real wealth, didn't switch on overnight. Old habits of thinking clung stubbornly, refusing to let go.
From the corner of his eye, Messi noticed.
He didn't say anything at first. He just watched Mateo take it all in—the way his gaze jumped from detail to detail, the faint smile he was trying and failing to hide. A quiet chuckle escaped Messi's lips.
It reminded him of himself.
For a brief moment, his mind drifted back years, to the first time he'd ever sat inside Ronaldinho's car. Back then, everything had felt bigger, louder, shinier. Ronaldinho had shown up to training in a Lamborghini, laughing like the world itself was a joke meant only for him. Messi had been younger, smaller, wide-eyed in a way he hadn't been for a long time now.
Different cars. Different times.
Same feeling.
That mix of awe and disbelief warmed his chest.
He reached for his phone and brought it to his ear, dialing without looking.
Mateo, finally settling into the seat properly, looked out the window just as the training ground slipped fully out of view. The familiar gates disappeared behind them, replaced by open roads and passing buildings.
Where are we going?
The thought barely formed before he heard Messi's voice.
"Hey, cariño."
Messi's tone softened instantly, the edge of the day melting away. He listened for a moment, nodding as he drove. "Yeah, everything's fine. Listen, can you help me with something? I won't be able to go back before we leave later. My travel kit—I left it at Manuela's place. Could you have someone bring it to the club?"
A pause.
"No, it's nothing serious," he said lightly. "I'm just heading out for a bit. To Manuela's."
Then, almost casually, he added, "Yeah. I'm taking Mateo with me."
Mateo stiffened slightly at the sound of his name, turning to look at Messi mid-call, eyes widening just a fraction. Messi caught it and smiled briefly, amused, before turning his attention back to the road.
Another pause, then his voice softened even more.
"Mm. I know. I love you too."
He smiled to himself. "Tell the kids I'll see them soon, okay?"
Messi lowered the phone, a faint smile still lingering on his lips as if the warmth of the call hadn't quite left him yet. He glanced sideways, only to catch Mateo already looking at him, a small, unguarded smile on his own face.
Messi raised an eyebrow slightly. "What?"
Mateo shook his head, the smile refusing to fade. "Nothing." again
Messi studied him for a second longer, then gave a quiet hum, amused. "That's true," he said casually, eyes returning to the road. "I almost forgot—message someone. Have them help you pack the things you'll need for the trip later."
Mateo nodded immediately. "Okay."
He pulled out his phone, his fingers moving almost on instinct. Gavi's name appeared on the screen before he even thought about it. He typed quickly, telling his roommate to help him pack the things he always carried for away games, to give everything to one of the kit men at the club. He added a quick explanation—that he was busy and wouldn't be able to make it back in time—then hit send.
As soon as the message went through, Mateo locked his phone and leaned back slightly. He hesitated for a beat, then finally voiced the question that had been sitting at the back of his mind since they'd left the training ground.
"Where are we going?"
Messi's lips curved into a knowing smile as he kept his eyes on the road. "To eat."
The answer was vague—almost deliberately so—but before Mateo could press further, the surroundings began to change.
Within minutes, the wide, familiar roads of Barcelona gave way to something different. They turned onto a narrow street, old and straight, barely wide enough for a single car to pass through at a time. The noise of the city seemed to drop away, replaced by a quiet that felt almost unreal. No crowds. No tourists. No souvenir shops or buzzing cafés spilling people onto the sidewalks.
Just stone, shadow, and stillness.
It felt like they'd slipped into another version of the city altogether.
Messi slowed down and pulled up in front of an old, one-story building that looked like it had been standing there long before the modern city had grown around it. The paint was faded, the sign modest and worn, the kind of place you'd walk past a hundred times without noticing—unless you already knew it was there.
He parked smoothly and switched off the engine. "This is the place."
Mateo nodded absentmindedly, his eyes fixed on the building. It had been less than fifteen minutes since they'd left the training center, yet he could've sworn he'd never seen this street before. And he was sure he'd walked almost everywhere around here.
He stepped out of the car, closing the door gently behind him, and glanced up and down the street once more.
Where is this place?
Messi, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. He got out without hesitation, moving with the confidence of someone who'd done this countless times. Without waiting, he walked straight up to the front of the restaurant and pushed the metal door open. It creaked softly as it swung inward.
Messi turned back, smiling at Mateo. "Come. Enter."
Mateo took one last look around, then followed him inside.
Mateo stepped through the doorway and instinctively slowed, his eyes moving first, his body following a second later as he took in the inside of the place. He hadn't even realized he'd stopped walking until a beat passed and he was just standing there, half inside, half out, like his mind needed a moment to catch up with his feet. The curiosity hit him all at once.
This whole thing had officially crossed into strange territory. One minute he'd been at the training center, sweating under the Catalan sun. The next, he was following Lionel Messi into some forgotten corner of Barcelona, and now—now he was inside what felt like the opening scene of a spiritual journey he absolutely had not signed up for.
His brain, dramatic traitor that it was, decided to lean fully into it. For half a second, Mateo imagined himself years from now, telling this story like some sacred legend. This was the day Messi took me off the path of football and into the path of destiny. The thought hit him so hard and so suddenly that his eyes burned. A tiny tear welled up before he could stop it.
He blinked. Froze. Then immediately wiped it away with the back of his hand, mortified, clearing his throat as if anyone had noticed. Get a grip, he told himself. You're just in a restaurant, not a monastery.
Now that he actually looked around, the place began to settle into something familiar, something grounding. It was small—intentionally so. A compact, family-style restaurant that felt like it had been built for regulars, not passersby. The inside looked far better than the exterior suggested, like the building had saved all its care for what mattered. The walls were painted in warm, comforting colors, slightly faded but clean, the kind of tones that made you relax without knowing why.
There was a coziness to it that wrapped around him immediately. Not polished. Not modern. Just lived-in. Mateo could tell, almost instinctively, that the kitchen was at the back. He'd grown up around places like this—restaurants where you didn't need signs because the smells did the talking. The faint clatter of metal, the low hum of activity behind a door, the way the air carried warmth rather than noise.
Off to the side sat an old man, planted comfortably in his chair like he'd been there forever. A newspaper was spread open in his hands, glasses perched low on his nose, a small cup resting on the table in front of him. He looked like part of the furniture, like if the building ever collapsed, he'd still be there, calmly finishing the article he was reading.
Mateo smiled without realizing it. The place felt warm. Not just physically, but in that quiet way that reminded him of home.
Messi, on the other hand, entered without ceremony. No pause. No hesitation. He moved like this was an extension of his own house, heading straight toward the back. As he walked, he glanced at the old man and spoke casually, familiarly.
"Paco," he said, "where is mi Manuela?"
The old man didn't react immediately. It took a moment before he noticed someone had come in at all. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the newspaper and tugged his glasses down his nose, squinting as if the world had only just decided to announce itself.
By then, Messi was already drifting toward the kitchen area, his voice rising as he called out, loud and unapologetic, "Manuela! Manuela! I'm here—where are you?"
The old man finally set his things down properly and looked over, recognition dawning as he focused on Messi. His voice came out rough but amused.
"Kid… it's you."
Messi turned back with an easy grin. "Yeah. Where is Manuela?"
The old man clicked his tongue and shook his head lightly. "You enter and you just start shouting for Manu up and down. You can't even greet first."
Messi only laughed, scratching his head. "Paco, ha ha."
Paco waved his hand dismissively. "She took the twins to the playground. They should be coming back soon."
It was only then that Paco's eyes shifted past Messi and landed on Mateo, who was still standing near the entrance.
Mateo reacted instantly. He hurried forward, posture straightening as he greeted the man respectfully, his tone polite and warm. He didn't know who Paco was, but he'd been raised properly—and besides, this was a man who could call Messi kid. That alone demanded respect. And the way Messi was acting—so relaxed, so unguarded—told him this wasn't just some random acquaintance.
Paco narrowed his eyes slightly, studying Mateo's face. He leaned back a little, squinting harder before speaking.
"Haven't I seen you before?"
Before Mateo could even open his mouth to reply, the door sounded again—this time louder, sharper—and everyone instinctively turned toward it.
Two small figures burst inside first. Young kids, no older than five or six, shoes caked in mud, knees smeared with dirt, faces glowing with the reckless pride of children who had clearly been having the time of their lives. They rushed in without slowing, laughter spilling ahead of them like they owned the place.
Behind them came a voice, firm but tired in that affectionate way.
"You two should head inside the house and take your bath."
A moment later, an old woman appeared in the doorway.
She paused mid-step, lifting her head—and froze.
Her eyes landed on Messi, surprise flashing across her face just as she opened her mouth. "You—"
She didn't get to finish.
"UNCLE MESSI!"
The kids screamed it together, voices colliding as they broke into a sprint. In seconds they were on him, surrounding him, grabbing at his arms, tugging at his shirt, one nearly colliding with his legs as Messi laughed out loud, caught completely off guard.
"Hey—hey!" Messi laughed, bending down, hands everywhere at once as he tried to steady them while avoiding dirtying himself. He ruffled hair, poked sides, lifted one slightly before setting him back down. "What happened to you two, huh? You look like you wrestled the whole playground."
The kids only laughed harder, talking over each other, clinging to him like he'd been gone for years instead of hours.
The old woman walked in fully now, hands already on her hips, shaking her head. "Enough, enough. Off him. Both of you—go wash yourselves. Look at you, muddy from head to toe."
The kids whined immediately. "Aww—" "Just a little more!"
Before she could say more, the old man still seated by the side called out without even standing.
"Don't let me get up."
That was all it took.
The kids gasped dramatically. "Ahh—Grandpa's coming!"
They bolted toward the back, shrieking with laughter, disappearing through the door Mateo had already guessed led to the kitchen.
"Use soap!" the old woman shouted after them. "Properly! I'll check!"
"We will!" one of them yelled back, clearly lying, their laughter echoing as they ran.
Mateo stood there, heart unexpectedly full, watching the whole thing unfold like a scene from another life. It was loud. Chaotic. Warm. The kind of noise that made a place feel alive.
When the sounds finally faded, Messi was still smiling, shaking his head as he breathed out a laugh.
"Manuela—"
"You," the old woman cut in immediately, pointing at him. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be busy?"
Messi shrugged like a boy caught sneaking into the kitchen. "I'm hungry."
Manuela shook her head slowly, lips twitching despite herself. "Always hungry." Then, softer, "I'm coming."
From his chair, Paco snorted. "Oh, now your favorite comes and you answer immediately. If it was me, we'd need to raise your mother from the grave just to get you to answer that fast."
Manuela ignored him completely, eyes already back on Messi. "I'm coming," she repeated.
As she turned to move, her gaze caught Mateo standing off to the side, suddenly very aware of his hands, his posture, everything. Their eyes met.
Mateo straightened instantly. "Señora Manuela," he said, greeting her respectfully.
Messi cut in with an easy motion. "Oh—this is my teammate at the club."
Manuela waved it off. "You don't need to introduce him. I know him."
Mateo smiled, a little surprised. "Yes, ma—"
"The mischievous one," she finished calmly.
Mateo blinked. "Pardon?"
"Oh yes," Paco chimed in from his seat, amused. "That's true. The one Dro is always complaining about."
Mateo frowned slightly. "Dro?"
Manuela answered easily, "Aleandro. Our son. He's the boys' dorm headmaster at La Masia."
The moment she said it, Mateo's mind instantly pictured the dorm "mother," the strict rules, the watchful presence. Understanding dawned on his face, and Manuela caught it—smiling knowingly at the expression.
The next couple of minutes—or maybe hours, Mateo honestly couldn't tell—felt like pure novelty to him.
He had seen Messi serious. Focused. Angry. Determined. He had seen him lift trophies, command dressing rooms, argue with referees. He had even seen Messi with his wife and kids, with his real, literal family.
But this?
This was different.
This was the Barcelona captain laughing freely, shoulders relaxed, voice light, teasing an old man who kept pointing a finger at Mateo and swearing that if it had been his time, he would have wrung Mateo straight and beaten the mischief out of him personally. Mateo, ever lively, had laughed right back, nodding along, apologizing dramatically, somehow managing to get along with the man within minutes—like he always did with people.
Manuela and Francisco weren't just Alejandro's parents. They were history. La Masia history. Manuela, who had once been the chef, and Francisco, the former dorm head, spoke with pride and nostalgia woven into every sentence. They told stories eagerly—about the academy, about boys who came and went, about Messi when he was still small enough to be scolded for sneaking seconds or staying out too late.
Some stories were about Messi.
Some were about Alejandro.
And some—especially the embarrassing ones—made Mateo's eyes light up as he quietly stored them away in his mind, already imagining the perfect moment to use them against the dorm head later.
The place only grew livelier when the kids returned, freshly washed but still buzzing with energy. Laughter filled the room again. Voices overlapped. Plates were passed around. And just like that, time slipped by unnoticed.
"Phew… I'm full."
Mateo leaned back slightly as he said it, staring down at his plate like it had personally challenged him. Another batch of chicken and wings—apparently Messi's usual here—had just disappeared. Mateo knew he was on a strict diet. He knew.
But come on.
It's not like you could reject your captain's request to eat, right?
That was the excuse he kept telling himself.
And it's not like I've been starving for food like this, he added mentally, almost defensively.
By the time the plates were empty, it was already running late. Francisco had ushered the kids inside to sleep, his voice softer now, leaving just the two Barça players and Manuela in the room.
Manuela returned carrying their plates, stacking them with practiced ease.
Mateo immediately started to rise. "Let me help—"
"No, no," she waved him off gently. "Don't worry about it."
Messi glanced up at her, smiling easily. "As delicious as ever."
She chuckled, shaking her head. "Flattery will get you everywhere," she said, disappearing inside with the plates.
Mateo stayed seated, rubbing his stomach with a satisfied grin.
Messi watched him for a moment, then smiled back. "Seems your mood is better."
Mateo blinked, confused. "Pardon?"
"Today," Messi continued calmly, "after training—you seemed kind of down. That's one of the main reasons I brought you here today."
Mateo looked at him, quiet now, not saying anything.
Messi leaned back slightly, voice gentle but direct.
"What was that all about?"
Mateo felt the familiar pressure rise in his chest, that instinctive urge to deflate again, to brush it off and pretend it was nothing. His shoulders subtly tensed. Then he stopped himself. He inhaled, slow and deliberate, and for once didn't run from it.
"It's true," he said quietly. "I was down."
Messi didn't interrupt. He didn't rush him. He simply looked at him, attentive, present.
Mateo rubbed his thumb against his palm, eyes lowering as the words came out. He talked about the dorms. About packing his things. About how walking those same hallways for years had made them feel permanent, even though he knew they weren't. He admitted that a part of him—maybe the younger part—didn't want to move out at all. He laughed softly at himself near the end, a shy, embarrassed sound.
"Don't worry," he added quickly. "It's silly."
"It's not I understand exactly how you feel," Messi said immediately.
Mateo looked up, startled. "You… understand?"
Messi nodded. "I do."
Mateo blinked again, almost disbelieving.
"I know how hard it is to embrace change, when it was time for me to leave the dorms," Messi continued, voice calm and steady, "I felt the same way. I wanted to stay. I told myself it was closer to training, that it was easier, that there was no real reason to leave." He smiled faintly. "I kept asking myself—what's the point of moving out?"
Mateo let out a small breath and smiled, relief washing over his face. "Exactly."
"But," Messi went on, his tone shifting just slightly, growing more serious, "I needed to move out."
The smile slipped from Mateo's face.
"I didn't understand it back then," Messi said. "But now that I'm older… I know more things."
He spoke slowly now, deliberately, like each word mattered.
"When we move on from places like that, we aren't just doing it for ourselves. We're showing the people still there what's possible. We become part of what they dream about. What they work toward." He glanced around the room briefly, then back at Mateo. "It hurts, yes. But the place itself isn't what matters."
Messi leaned forward slightly.
"The relationships do."
He talked about Francisco and Manuela. About friends he still carried with him long after leaving. About how the bonds you build don't disappear just because the walls change. They stay—with you.
Mateo listened, truly listened. Something inside him loosened.
His mind drifted—Gavi, Fermín, Casadó, Balde. The juniors too: Lamine, Bernal, Cubarsí. Alejandro. Even Javi, the gatekeeper who always greeted him like family. He realized how full his life already was, how blessed he had been without even noticing.
He looked at Messi then, really looked at him, and thought about how hard it must have been. At least Mateo had his people close. Messi's family had still been in Argentina back then.
That thought stopped him.
He glanced around again—at the small restaurant, the warmth, the history—and at the old couple Messi clearly loved like his own.
No, Mateo realized. He had a family here too.
He smiled, softer this time. "You're right."
And with that, the last invisible gap between them—the one Mateo had never known how to cross—finally cracked. Something shifted quietly, naturally. They were no longer just captain and teammate. Not just mentor and mentee.
They were friends.
The night didn't end there.
They talked—at the table, in the car, later on the bus, and even on the plane to Villarreal, sitting beside each other for the first time. They talked about cars. About Messi's kids. About tactics, plays, things that happened that day. The league. The Champions League. Their goals for the season. The team. Their opponents. Family.
Messi told stories from his past—plenty of them about some legendary matches in his career—and Mateo shocked him more than once by finishing the stories himself, proving yet again that he really was Messi's number one fan.
Mateo even opened up on something that he had been battling since—his fear, his fear of injuries. The last time, he had almost gotten injured—no, he had actually gotten injured. If not for his system, he would… let's just say he would not be able to talk about the season, and even possibly next season. Again, he dreaded it. He thought, what if it had happened outside Camp Nou? What then? Every terrifying possibility, every oppressive thought he had pushed down since as he kept talking he didn't even know his fears were that deep, he laid bare in front of Messi.
Messi listened.
And Messi guided.
By the time the night finally faded, the bond between Messi and Mateo had taken a massive leap—one that would last far beyond this season, the club and even beyond the sport.
A/N
Hey guys its been long i did this so why not we are at 10 power stones right now so lets say if we can get 120 in the next 12 hours i would post another chapter
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