Chapter 2: First Day Among Giants
Monday morning came too fast.
Aiden stood outside the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper training facility at 8:47 AM, thirteen minutes early. The sun was already climbing over Barcelona's skyline, promising another scorching August day. His new training kit felt different—heavier somehow, though it was the same material as his La Masia gear. The difference was psychological. This kit bore the first team crest.
A black Audi Q7 pulled into the parking lot, its engine purring to a stop. The door opened, and out stepped Gerard Piqué, all 6'4" of him, designer sunglasses perched on his nose, looking like he'd just walked off a magazine cover rather than coming to training.
The legendary center-back glanced at Aiden, recognition flickering across his face.
"You're the kid," Piqué said in Catalan, not unkindly. "Satoru, right? Heard you were coming up."
"Yes, sir." Aiden's voice came out steadier than he felt.
Piqué laughed, a deep rumbling sound. "Sir? Jesus, now I feel old. I'm thirty-four, not seventy. Just call me Gerard." He walked closer, studying Aiden with the same analytical gaze he probably used to read strikers' movements. "You scored 87 goals last season in Juvenil A. Forty-three games. That's..." He paused, calculating. "Two goals per game. That's insane."
"The team created good chances," Aiden said carefully, the humble response he'd been taught to give.
"Bullshit." Piqué's grin widened. "Good players score when they get chances. Great players create their own chances and then finish them. Which one are you?"
Before Aiden could answer, another car pulled up—a white Range Rover Sport. Sergio Busquets emerged, his expression as calm and measured as his playing style. The metronome of Barcelona's midfield for over a decade, the man who'd won everything there was to win.
"Geri, stop terrorizing the new kid," Busquets said, though there was amusement in his eyes. He nodded at Aiden. "Welcome to the first team. Ignore Piqué—he thinks hazing builds character."
"It does!" Piqué protested. "Remember when we made Pedri—"
"We're not doing that to this one," Busquets cut him off firmly. He looked at Aiden. "You're eighteen, right? Same age Messi was when he broke through. No pressure."
The name hung in the air between them. Messi. The ghost that haunted every conversation at Barcelona now.
More cars arrived in quick succession. Jordi Alba in his Mercedes-AMG, still one of the fastest left-backs in the world at thirty-two. Sergi Roberto, pulling up in a modest Toyota, the La Masia graduate who'd become Mr. Versatile. Frenkie de Jong, the Dutch midfielder Barcelona had paid €86 million for, stepping out of a Tesla with his headphones on.
Then came the youngsters who'd made the jump before him. Pedri González, only eighteen himself but already a Spanish international after his breakthrough season. The kid looked exhausted—he'd played 73 matches last season between club and country, a brutal workload that had the media worried about burnout.
"Hey," Pedri said, offering a fist bump as he passed. "You're Aiden, right? Heard about your control. Looking forward to playing with you."
Behind him came Ansu Fati, just nineteen, the young forward whose career had been derailed by a terrible knee injury. He was still working his way back, but everyone remembered how explosive he'd been before the injury—Barcelona's youngest ever goalscorer, heir apparent to the throne.
Ansu's eyes met Aiden's, and something unspoken passed between them. Competition. Both were young forwards. Both were supposed to be Barcelona's future. Only one could be the future.
"Satoru," Ansu said with a slight nod, his tone neutral.
"Fati," Aiden replied, matching the energy.
The last to arrive was Ronald Koeman himself, the head coach, pulling up in a dark blue BMW. The Dutchman looked tired—understandable given the circus of Barcelona's summer. He'd lost Messi, Griezmann was on his way to Atlético Madrid on loan, and the media was calling for his head before the season had even started.
Koeman caught sight of Aiden and waved him over.
"Satoru. Good, you're here early. That's what I like to see." His Spanish was heavily accented but clear. "Today you train with the group. I want to see how you adapt to the speed, the intensity. This isn't La Masia anymore. These are World Cup winners, Champions League winners. They won't go easy on you."
"I don't want them to," Aiden said.
Koeman's eyebrows rose slightly. "Confident. Good. But confidence without performance is just arrogance. Show me something today."
The training ground was immaculate—perfectly manicured grass, state-of-the-art facilities, every detail designed for elite performance. As the players filtered onto the pitch for warm-ups, Aiden felt the weight of dozens of eyes on him. Coaches with clipboards. Fitness staff. Even some of the club's administrative people had found reasons to watch today's session.
They all wanted to see if the kid was real or just another overhyped prospect.
Warm-ups were brutal. The pace was faster than anything at La Masia, the intensity dialed up to professional standards. Aiden kept up, his conditioning solid from three years of elite youth training, but he could feel the difference. These weren't talented teenagers. These were men in their prime, bodies honed by years of professional football.
Then came the rondos—Barcelona's famous possession circles.
"Satoru, you're in the middle," Koeman called out. "Let's see your reading of the game."
The circle formed around him: Busquets, Piqué, Alba, Pedri, de Jong, and Sergi Roberto. Six players who'd played thousands of matches between them, masters of Barcelona's tiki-taka style.
The ball started moving.
One touch. Two touches. Never more. The passes zipped around the circle with metronome precision, each player knowing exactly where his teammates were without looking. Aiden lunged for the ball, but it was already gone, moved to the opposite side of the circle before his foot arrived.
Laughter from outside the circle. Not cruel, but knowing. They'd all been there.
"Read it!" Busquets called out. "Don't chase the ball, anticipate where it's going!"
Aiden adjusted, forcing himself to slow down mentally even as his body wanted to rush. He watched patterns. Busquets liked to pass to his left. Pedri always used his first touch to set up his next pass. De Jong preferred ground passes over chips.
The ball came to Alba. Aiden saw it—Alba's body shape indicated a pass back to Piqué. Aiden moved before the pass was made, intercepting it cleanly with his outstretched foot.
"¡Eso!" Piqué shouted. "Now you're learning!"
Aiden swapped out, and the next drill began. Small-sided games, four versus four on reduced pitches. This was where Aiden could shine—tight spaces, quick decisions, technical ability paramount.
He was put on a team with Pedri, Ansu, and a young defender named Mingueza. Their opponents: de Jong, Sergi Roberto, Riqui Puig, and another youth player.
The ball came to Aiden near the halfway line. De Jong closed him down immediately, the Dutch midfielder's long legs eating up ground quickly. In the split second before contact, Aiden's mind catalogued his options: pass back to Pedri (safe, but loses momentum), try to beat de Jong one-on-one (risky), or...
His body moved on instinct.
Aiden's right foot touched the ball forward, inviting de Jong to commit. The midfielder took the bait, lunging in for the tackle. At the last possible millisecond, Aiden's left foot dragged the ball back and to the side—a perfect la croqueta, the move Iniesta had made famous. De Jong's momentum carried him past, grasping at air.
Aiden exploded into the space, ball glued to his feet. Sergi Roberto rushed over to cover, but Aiden was already moving—a subtle drop of his shoulder sold a move to the right, then he burst left. His acceleration in those first three yards was explosive, creating just enough separation.
He could see Ansu making a run to the far post. Pedri was open at the top of the box. The smart play was to pass.
But Aiden saw the angle. Fifteen yards out, slightly to the left of center. The goalkeeper was positioned well, narrowing the angle, but there was a gap—six inches of space between the keeper's right hand and the near post.
Aiden's right foot struck the ball with vicious precision. Not his stronger foot, but it didn't matter anymore. Years of training had made the distinction meaningless. The ball rocketed toward that six-inch gap, dipping slightly from the topspin he'd put on it.
The goalkeeper dove, fully extended, fingertips brushing the ball but unable to stop it.
The ball crashed into the side netting with a satisfying thud.
Silence on the training pitch. Then—
"¡HOSTIA!" Piqué's voice carried across the field. Holy shit!
Even Koeman stopped writing on his clipboard to watch the replay screen that captured training footage.
Aiden jogged back to position, keeping his expression neutral even as adrenaline sang through his veins. Don't celebrate in training. Be professional. But inside, he was soaring.
"Beautiful finish," Pedri said quietly as they reset. "Really beautiful."
"Thanks," Aiden replied. "Your movement created the space."
Pedri smiled slightly. "We're going to work well together."
Across the pitch, Ansu Fati watched the exchange, his jaw tight. He'd been Barcelona's youngest sensation before his injury. Now there was a new kid, and this one was scoring wonder goals in his first training session.
The session continued for another ninety minutes. Aiden didn't score again, but he didn't need to. He'd made his statement. His touch was clean, his movement intelligent, and his finishing—when he got the chance—was absolutely clinical.
As the players headed toward the locker rooms, Koeman called out: "Satoru, a moment."
Aiden walked over, trying to read the coach's expression. Koeman's face was weathered from decades in the game, first as a legendary Barcelona defender, now as a coach trying to hold together a crumbling empire.
"You have something," Koeman said simply. "Raw, needs refinement, but something special. Your ball control is extraordinary—possibly the best first touch I've seen since..." He paused. Everyone knew who he meant. "You'll be in the squad for Sunday's friendly against Juventus. If you perform, you'll be in the squad for the season opener against Real Sociedad next weekend."
Aiden's heart hammered. "Thank you, Mister. I won't let you down."
"See that you don't." Koeman's expression hardened. "Understand something, son. Barcelona is in crisis. We've lost the best player in the world. The fans are angry. The media wants blood. If you get your chance and fail, they will destroy you. Eighteen years old won't matter. La Masia product won't matter. They'll call you a fraud, a mistake, proof that the club is lost."
"I understand," Aiden said quietly.
"Do you?" Koeman stepped closer. "In three days, you'll walk out at the Johan Cruyff Stadium against Juventus. Forty thousand people will be watching. Some will be hoping you're the next big thing. Others will be waiting for you to fail so they can say I was wrong to call you up. Can you handle that?"
Aiden thought about every hour he'd spent alone on training pitches, perfecting touches that most players would never attempt. He thought about watching endless film of the greats, stealing their techniques, making them his own. He thought about his mother's voice: Satoru means enlightened one. Live up to it.
"I've been handling pressure my whole life," Aiden said, meeting Koeman's eyes. "I was born to do this."
Koeman held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "We'll see. Wednesday, you train with the starters. Show me you belong there."
As Aiden walked into the first team locker room for the first time, he passed a framed photo on the wall—Leo Messi holding the Champions League trophy, the greatest player to ever wear the Blaugrana smiling up at the silvered cup.
The photo felt like it was staring at him. Judging him. Asking the question everyone in Barcelona was asking:
Can anyone really replace me?
Aiden stared back at that frozen moment of glory and made himself a promise:
I'm not here to replace you. I'm here to write my own story.
Three days until Juventus. Three days until the world got its first real look at Aiden Satoru.
He couldn't wait.
End of Chapter 2