Chapter 3: Trial by Fire
August 7th, 2021 - Two Days Before Juventus
The tactical meeting room at the Ciutat Esportiva was designed to intimidate. Three massive screens dominated the front wall, capable of displaying match footage from every conceivable angle. Comfortable leather chairs were arranged in theater-style rows, each with a small desk for taking notes. The lighting was dim, focused on the screens, making the room feel like a war room planning an invasion.
Aiden sat in the back row, notebook open, pen ready. Around him, Barcelona's first team settled in—some chatting quietly, others already focused on the screens. Koeman stood at the front, arms crossed, waiting for silence.
"Gentlemen," the coach began, his Dutch accent thick but his Spanish clear. "In two days, we face Juventus at the Johan Cruyff Stadium. For most of you, this is just a friendly—a chance to build fitness, work on tactics. But make no mistake, the world will be watching."
He clicked a remote, and the screens lit up with footage of Juventus's recent training sessions.
"Massimiliano Allegri is back as their coach. They've signed Manuel Locatelli from Sassuolo, strengthening their midfield. They still have Cristiano Ronaldo, though rumors say he wants to leave. Until he does, we treat him as the most dangerous player on the pitch."
Aiden's pen moved across his notebook. Ronaldo. The man whose finishing I've studied for years. Now I might share a pitch with him.
"Our formation will be 4-3-3," Koeman continued. "Ter Stegen in goal. Defense: Dest, Piqué, Eric García, Jordi Alba. Midfield: Sergio, Frenkie, Pedri. Attack: Memphis, Braithwaite, and Griezmann if he's still here by Sunday."
The room tensed at the mention of Griezmann. Everyone knew he was leaving, but the deal with Atlético Madrid wasn't official yet. The French forward sat near the front, stone-faced, his future uncertain.
"Second half, we'll make changes," Koeman said, his eyes scanning the room until they found Aiden. "Fresh legs, new energy. Some of you will get your chance to prove you belong here."
After the meeting, Aiden stayed behind, studying the freeze-frames on the screen. Juventus's defensive shape, their pressing triggers, the spaces they left when transitioning from defense to attack.
"Studying already?"
Aiden turned to find Pedri standing in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder. The young midfielder looked exhausted—his breakout season had been relentless, and he'd barely had a summer break before Euro 2020.
"Just trying to be ready," Aiden said.
Pedri walked down the aisle, sliding into the seat next to him. "You know Koeman will probably bring you on around the 60th minute, right? Maybe later if the game's close."
"I know. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. I need to make them count."
"Smart." Pedri studied the screen. "See their right center-back? Leonardo Bonucci. Thirty-four years old, one of the best defenders of his generation, but he's not as fast as he used to be. If you get the ball in space against him, attack his inside shoulder. He'll try to show you outside, but if you cut in on your left—"
"He'll have to commit or let me shoot," Aiden finished. "And if he commits..."
"Space opens up for whoever's making a run on the back post." Pedri smiled. "You learn fast."
They sat in comfortable silence, both studying the tactical nuances on screen. Finally, Pedri spoke again, his voice quieter.
"They're going to compare you to him, you know. Leo. It's not fair, but they will."
"I know."
"Don't try to be him. He's..." Pedri paused, searching for words. "He's impossible. One of one. Just be yourself—that's enough."
Aiden nodded slowly. "Did you feel it? The pressure when you broke through?"
"Every day," Pedri admitted. "Still do. But you know what helps? Remember why you started playing. For me, it was the love of the game, the joy of a perfect pass. When the pressure gets heavy, I go back to that."
"What if I fail?" The question came out before Aiden could stop it.
Pedri looked at him, really looked at him, and Aiden saw understanding in the midfielder's eyes—the understanding of someone who'd faced the same fears.
"Then you get back up and try again. That's all any of us can do."
August 8th, 2021 - One Day Before Juventus
The final training session before the match was sharp, intense, focused. Koeman ran the starters through their paces, drilling the 4-3-3 system until every movement was automatic. Aiden trained with the substitutes, working on quick transitions, exploiting tired defenses.
"Satoru!" Koeman's assistant, Alfred Schreuder, called him over to the sideline. "Tomorrow, you'll likely come on when we're chasing the game or when the starters need rest. Your job is simple: create chaos. Their defense will be organized, comfortable. You break that comfort."
"How?" Aiden asked.
"However you can. Dribble at them. Move into half-spaces. Force them to make decisions quickly. And if you get half a chance..." Schreuder smiled. "Shoot. You have that gift—you can score from nothing. Use it."
That evening, Aiden sat in his small apartment in Barcelona's Eixample district, unable to sleep. His phone buzzed constantly—messages from former La Masia teammates, friends from his youth club days, even his old schoolteachers. Everyone knew he was in the squad for tomorrow.
His mother called from Spain's northwest coast, her voice crackling with pride and worry.
"Mijo, are you eating enough? Sleeping?"
"Mamá, I'm fine," Aiden said, though his dinner sat half-eaten on the counter and he'd been staring at the ceiling for two hours.
"Your father would be so proud," she said softly.
Aiden's chest tightened. His father had died when he was twelve—a heart attack, sudden and cruel. The man who'd first put a football at his feet, who'd driven him to countless youth practices, who'd told him he could be whatever he wanted if he worked hard enough.
"I know, Mamá."
"Play for him tomorrow. And for yourself. Show them who Aiden Satoru is."
After the call, Aiden pulled out his laptop and did what he always did before big moments—he watched film. But not of opponents. Of himself.
Every goal he'd scored in the past year, edited together. 127 goals across all competitions. Some were tap-ins, simple finishes from good service. But others...
A bicycle kick against Real Madrid's youth team. A solo run from midfield against Sevilla's Juvenil A, beating five players. A free kick that had bent like it defied physics. Each goal was a reminder of what he could do when everything clicked.
His phone buzzed again. A message from an unknown number:
Good luck tomorrow. Show them what La Masia can produce. - Xavi
Aiden stared at the message. Xavi Hernández, Barcelona legend, now coaching Al Sadd in Qatar but still watching over La Masia's prospects. The midfielder who'd defined tiki-taka, who'd won everything, was sending him encouragement.
Aiden typed back: I won't let you down.
He finally fell asleep around 3 AM, his dreams filled with the roar of crowds and the feeling of the ball at his feet.
August 8th, 2021 - Match Day: Barcelona vs Juventus
The Johan Cruyff Stadium held 6,000 fans—a far cry from Camp Nou's 99,000, but the atmosphere was electric. Barcelona supporters filled most of the seats, their blue and red scarves waving, their voices raised in songs that had echoed through Catalonia for generations.
Aiden sat in the locker room, pulling on his training kit. He wouldn't start, but he needed to be ready. Around him, the starters prepared—Memphis Depay taping his ankles, Sergio Busquets in quiet meditation, Piqué cracking jokes to ease the tension.
Koeman stood in the center of the room, commanding attention without saying a word.
"This is our first test," the coach said. "The world thinks we're finished without Leo. The media says we're a mid-table team now. Today, we remind them who Barcelona is. We remind them that this club has survived and thrived for 122 years because we don't depend on one man, no matter how great he was."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"We play our way. We control the ball, we control the tempo, we control the game. And when we have our chances, we take them. ¡Força Barça!"
"¡FORÇA BARÇA!" The response shook the walls.
Aiden filed out with the substitutes, taking his place on the bench as the starters walked through the tunnel. The evening air was warm, the floodlights creating dramatic shadows across the pitch. In the stands, fans held up a massive banner: MÉS QUE UN CLUB - More Than A Club.
The whistle blew.
From the opening minutes, it was clear both teams were treating this as more than a friendly. Juventus pressed high, their midfield hunting the ball aggressively. Barcelona responded with patience, moving the ball in neat triangles, probing for openings.
The 20th minute brought the first real chance. Pedri threaded a perfect through ball to Memphis Depay, who'd made a diagonal run behind Juventus's high line. The Dutch forward was in on goal, one-on-one with Wojciech Szczęsny.
Memphis struck it well, but Szczęsny read it perfectly, diving low to his right to parry the shot away.
"¡Mierda!" Piqué's voice carried from the pitch.
Juventus countered immediately. Adrien Rabiot won the ball in midfield and launched it forward to Cristiano Ronaldo. The Portuguese superstar, even at thirty-six, moved like a man possessed. He controlled the ball on his chest, pivoted away from Eric García, and unleashed a thunderous shot from twenty-five yards.
Marc-André ter Stegen flew across his goal, fingertips just reaching the ball to push it onto the post. The rebound fell to Álvaro Morata, but his follow-up was blocked by Piqué's desperate slide.
"Too close," Koeman muttered from the bench.
The half continued in this vein—Barcelona controlling possession but lacking the final ball, Juventus dangerous on the counter. It finished 0-0 at halftime.
In the locker room, Koeman made adjustments. "We're too slow in the final third. When we get the ball forward, we need to attack with purpose, not pass sideways looking for the perfect opening. Take your man on. Shoot from distance if the space is there."
The second half began with Barcelona pushing higher, taking more risks. It paid off in the 52nd minute.
Frenkie de Jong received the ball in midfield, turned away from pressure, and hit a stunning forty-yard pass to Jordi Alba on the left wing. Alba controlled it instantly and whipped a cross into the box. Memphis attacked it at the near post, flicking a header past Szczęsny.
1-0 Barcelona.
The bench erupted. Aiden jumped to his feet, shouting encouragement, but his eyes were on Koeman. The coach was checking his watch, calculating substitutions.
Ten minutes later, it came.
"Satoru! Start warming up!"
Aiden's heart exploded into overdrive. He sprinted to the sideline, beginning his warm-up routine—dynamic stretches, short sprints, ball work. Every movement was automatic, muscle memory from thousands of warm-ups, but his mind was racing.
This is it. First team. Real opponents. This is what everything has been building toward.
On the pitch, Juventus equalized in the 67th minute. A corner kick found Matthijs de Ligt unmarked at the back post, and the young Dutch defender headed home powerfully.
1-1.
"Satoru!" Koeman's voice cut through the noise. "You're going on. Left wing, Memphis moves central. I want you running at their defense. Take your man on, force them to make mistakes. And if you get a chance, you know what to do."
Aiden nodded, unable to speak. His mouth was dry, his hands trembling slightly with adrenaline.
The fourth official held up the substitution board: Number 11 off, Number 37 on.
Aiden jogged onto the pitch to scattered applause. Some fans cheered, excited to see a La Masia prospect. Others were quieter, waiting to be convinced.
He took up his position on the left wing, feeling the grass beneath his boots, the weight of the jersey on his shoulders. Across from him, Juan Cuadrado, Juventus's experienced Colombian right-back, sized him up with the cold assessment of a veteran who'd seen a thousand young players come and go.
The ball came to Pedri in midfield. The young midfielder spotted Aiden's position and played it to his feet.
First touch. The ball arrived with pace, bouncing awkwardly. Aiden's right foot cushioned it perfectly, killing all momentum, bringing it down as softly as a feather landing.
Cuadrado closed in immediately, fast and aggressive. Aiden's left foot dragged the ball back, then pushed it forward into space. He accelerated, using his first three explosive yards to create separation.
Cuadrado recovered quickly, staying goalside. Aiden could feel the defender's presence, could sense the exact moment Cuadrado would lunge for the tackle.
Now.
Aiden's right foot performed a perfect stepover, his body swaying left. Cuadrado bit, shifting his weight. Aiden immediately pushed the ball right with his left foot and exploded past the defender.
He was in space, fifteen yards from goal, slightly to the left of center. Bonucci rushed over to close him down, the veteran defender reading the danger.
Aiden saw it all in slow motion: Bonucci's angle of approach, closing off his left foot. Memphis making a run into the box. Pedri trailing the play, calling for a pass.
But there—a window. Eighteen inches between Bonucci's outstretched leg and the near post. The goalkeeper, Szczęsny, was positioning himself for the near post shot, expecting it.
Which meant the far post was vulnerable.
Aiden's right foot struck the ball with vicious curl, aiming for the far top corner. Not his natural foot, but it didn't matter. The ball left his boot with perfect spin, curving away from Szczęsny's dive.
The goalkeeper stretched, fully extended, fingers grasping air.
The ball smashed into the side netting with a sound like thunder.
2-1.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the stadium exploded.
Aiden stood there, chest heaving, barely processing what had just happened. His first touch in a Barcelona first team match, and he'd scored. Against Juventus. Against Szczęsny. With his "weaker" foot.
Memphis reached him first, grabbing his face. "¡VAMOS! WHAT A GOAL!"
Then came the others—Pedri laughing with pure joy, Busquets offering a knowing nod, even Piqué sprinting from defense to grab him in a headlock.
On the sideline, Koeman allowed himself a small smile.
In the stands, 6,000 fans chanted a name: "SATORU! SATORU! SATORU!"
Aiden looked up at the scoreboard: 73rd minute, Barcelona 2-1. His name appeared in the scoring summary, right there in official record.
Goal: Aiden Satoru (73')
Cristiano Ronaldo stood near midfield, hands on hips, watching this eighteen-year-old kid celebrate. For just a moment, their eyes met. The legend and the prospect. The past and the future.
Ronaldo nodded slightly—acknowledgment from one finisher to another.
The match restarted. Juventus pushed forward desperately, knowing this was just a friendly but too proud to accept defeat. They won a free kick twenty-five yards out in the 81st minute.
Ronaldo stood over it, and everyone in the stadium knew what was coming. The Portuguese superstar's free kicks were legendary—power and precision combined into an art form.
He struck it perfectly. The ball flew toward the top corner like a missile.
But ter Stegen read it, launching himself through the air to tip it over the bar. The save was world-class, keeping Barcelona's lead intact.
Five minutes of added time. Aiden dropped deeper, helping defensively, showing awareness beyond his years. When he won the ball in the 89th minute, he drove forward on a counter-attack, drawing three defenders before laying it off to Memphis. The Dutch forward's shot was saved, but the intent was clear—Aiden wasn't just a goal scorer, he was a complete forward.
The final whistle blew.
Barcelona 2, Juventus 1.
As Aiden walked off the pitch, exhausted and exhilarated, Koeman intercepted him.
"Good goal," the coach said simply. "But you know what impressed me more? Your defensive work at the end. Your decision to pass when you could have shot. That's maturity."
"Thank you, Mister."
"Next Sunday, we play Real Sociedad. The season starts for real. You've earned a place in the squad." Koeman's expression hardened. "But understand something—this was a friendly. Next week, every touch matters. Every mistake gets punished. Are you ready for that?"
Aiden thought about the 127 goals in his highlight reel. The thousands of hours of training. The promise he'd made to himself standing outside this very stadium just days ago.
"I was born ready, Mister."
Koeman held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "We'll see. Go celebrate, but not too much. Tomorrow, we prepare for Real Sociedad."
In the locker room, the atmosphere was jubilant. Memphis was showing everyone the video of Aiden's goal, slowing it down to capture the curl on the ball. Piqué was already telling anyone who'd listen that he'd called it from day one. Even the normally reserved Busquets was smiling.
Aiden's phone exploded with messages:
From Xavi: Now THAT'S how you announce yourself. Proud of you.
From his mother: I'M CRYING. YOUR FATHER SAW THAT, I KNOW HE DID.
From former La Masia teammates: BEAST MODE! YOU'RE GOING TO BE A LEGEND!
But the message that made Aiden pause came from an unknown Argentinian number:
Nice goal, kid. Keep working. The hard part starts now. - LM10
Leo Messi. The ghost of Barcelona, reaching out from Paris to acknowledge the future.
Aiden stared at the message for a long time, then typed back:
Thank you. I'll make Barcelona proud.
He hit send and looked around the locker room—at Memphis and Pedri laughing, at Piqué holding court, at Busquets quietly packing his bag. These were his teammates now. This was his life now.
Twenty-two minutes of play. One goal. One assist nearly. Defensive awareness. Maturity beyond his years.
The world had gotten its first real look at Aiden Satoru.
And the world had liked what it saw.
Outside the stadium, Barcelona fans lingered, chanting songs, discussing the match. One group held up a homemade banner:
SATORU - THE NEW DREAM
The legend was beginning.
End of Chapter 3