Chapter 4: La Liga Baptism
August 15th, 2021 - Camp Nou, Barcelona
The Camp Nou locker room was a cathedral of football history. Every surface seemed to whisper the names of legends who'd dressed here: Cruyff, Maradona, Romário, Ronaldinho, Xavi, Iniesta, Messi. Blue and red adorned every wall, the club crest watching over everything like a guardian deity.
Aiden sat in front of his designated locker—temporary, he knew, until he proved he belonged permanently—and stared at the shirt hanging there. Number 37. His name printed above it in the official La Liga font.
SATORU 37
"First La Liga match," Pedri said, appearing beside him while pulling on his own jersey—number 16, the number Busquets had worn before switching to 5. "Nervous?"
"Terrified," Aiden admitted.
"Good. The day you stop being nervous is the day you stop caring." Pedri sat down, lacing his boots with practiced efficiency. "Real Sociedad are no joke. They finished fifth last season. Oyarzabal, Isak, Silva—they've got real quality."
Aiden nodded, having spent the past week studying their film. Alexander Isak, the Swedish striker who moved like liquid silk. Mikel Oyarzabal, the Spanish winger with an eye for goal. David Silva, the 35-year-old maestro who'd won everything at Manchester City and was now bringing that experience to San Sebastián.
"Koeman told me I'm on the bench again," Aiden said. "Probably coming on in the second half if we need goals."
"Smart. Let you ease into it." Pedri finished with his boots and stood. "But when you get your chance, take it. La Liga defenders are different from friendly opponents. They'll kick you, pull you, do everything to get in your head. You have to be ready for that."
The team meeting was brief. Koeman stood before his squad, projected lineups on the screen behind him.
"Gentlemen, today we begin our season. Last year was a disaster—we finished third, lost the league by seven points, got embarrassed in the Champions League. This year must be different."
He clicked to the next slide—Barcelona's starting XI.
Formation: 4-3-3
GK: ter Stegen
DEF: Dest, Piqué, Eric García, Jordi Alba
MID: Busquets, de Jong, Pedri
FWD: Griezmann, Braithwaite, Memphis
Aiden wasn't surprised to see himself on the bench. Griezmann was still officially a Barcelona player until his loan to Atlético finalized. The Frenchman needed minutes to stay sharp, even if everyone knew he was leaving.
"We dominate possession, we control the tempo, we create chances," Koeman continued. "Real Sociedad will press us high. They'll try to force mistakes in our buildup. Stay calm, trust the system, and the goals will come."
At 8:45 PM, the players lined up in the tunnel. Aiden stood with the substitutes, watching the starters prepare. The sound was overwhelming—a low rumble that grew louder with each second. 99,354 people packed into Camp Nou, the vast bowl of humanity creating a noise that seemed to vibrate in your chest.
This wasn't the 6,000 at Johan Cruyff Stadium. This was a different beast entirely.
The starters walked out to a roar that made Aiden's ears ring. Even sitting on the bench, the atmosphere was intoxicating. Fans held up scarves, phones, banners. One section unveiled a massive tifo: NEW SEASON, NEW DREAMS.
The anthem played—"El Cant del Barça"—and 99,000 voices sang together. Aiden felt goosebumps rise on his arms.
This is Barcelona. This is what it means.
The whistle blew.
Real Sociedad came out pressing aggressively, exactly as Koeman had predicted. They forced Barcelona into uncomfortable positions, winning the ball high and creating early chances. In the 8th minute, Isak nearly scored, his shot from inside the box forcing ter Stegen into a spectacular save.
"They're too comfortable," Koeman muttered from the bench.
Barcelona settled after the initial scare, beginning to control possession. Pedri was everywhere—receiving the ball, turning, playing passes that split lines. De Jong provided power and drive from midfield. But the final third remained a problem. Griezmann looked tentative, knowing his days were numbered. Braithwaite worked hard but lacked quality.
The first half ended 0-0, and the Camp Nou whistled their team off. The fans were frustrated, seeing the same issues as last season—control without cutting edge.
In the locker room, Koeman was animated.
"We're playing like we're afraid! Pedri, Frenkie—you're doing well, but we need more bodies in the box! Memphis, when you get the ball wide, attack your man! Make them foul you, force decisions!"
He turned to the substitutes. "Be ready. Second half, if this doesn't change, we're making moves."
The second half began with Barcelona pushing higher, taking more risks. It paid off in the 55th minute.
Jordi Alba received the ball on the left touchline and drove forward. He cut inside, beating one defender, then another. From twenty yards out, he unleashed a shot that took a slight deflection off a Real Sociedad defender and looped over the goalkeeper.
1-0 Barcelona.
Camp Nou erupted. Alba ran to the corner flag, sliding on his knees as teammates piled on top of him.
But Real Sociedad responded immediately. Oyarzabal received the ball on the right wing, cut inside onto his left foot, and curled a beautiful shot into the far corner. Ter Stegen had no chance.
1-1. Sixty-second minute.
The stadium fell silent, then groaned. The same old problems—score one, concede immediately.
"Satoru!" Koeman's voice cut through the noise. "Start warming up!"
Aiden's heart rate spiked instantly. He sprinted to the touchline, beginning his routine. Sprint drills, dynamic stretches, ball work. His mind raced through everything he'd studied about Real Sociedad's defense.
On the pitch, the game opened up. Both teams sensed an opportunity. Real Sociedad's Isak nearly scored again in the 67th minute, his header rattling the crossbar.
"Satoru, you're going on!" Koeman grabbed his shoulder. "Left wing, Memphis moves central. I want you attacking Gorosabel—their right back has been booked, he can't commit fully to tackles. Take him on. Force the issue."
The board went up: Number 17 off (Griezmann), Number 37 on (Satoru).
As Aiden jogged onto the pitch, the Camp Nou gave polite applause. Most fans had no idea who he was beyond "the kid from La Masia who scored against Juventus." He was an unknown quantity, a gamble from a coach already under pressure.
He needed to change that. Now.
Aiden took up position on the left wing. Across from him stood Andoni Gorosabel, Real Sociedad's right-back. The Spaniard was 24, quick, technically sound. He'd been booked in the 52nd minute for a tactical foul on Memphis.
One yellow. Can't risk a second. That's my advantage.
The first time Aiden received the ball, he felt the difference immediately. This wasn't a friendly. Gorosabel was on him instantly, physical and aggressive. Aiden tried to turn, but the defender's hand pressed into his back, preventing the movement.
Tweet! Foul.
Free kick to Barcelona, thirty yards from goal.
Aiden picked himself up, processing the information. He'll stay physical. Use that.
Two minutes later, Pedri found Aiden again. This time, Aiden didn't try to turn. He took the ball on the half-turn, his first touch pushing it diagonally toward goal. Gorosabel scrambled to recover, but Aiden had already accelerated into the space.
He was moving now, ball at his feet, defensive line backing off. Gorosabel chased from behind. The center-back, Le Normand, shifted over to cover.
Aiden's left foot touched the ball forward—a deliberate invitation. Le Normand bit, stepping up to challenge. At the last millisecond, Aiden's right foot dragged the ball back and left in one smooth motion—a croqueta—and suddenly he was past the defender.
Gap. Space. Opportunity.
Fifteen yards from goal, slight angle to the left. The goalkeeper, Remiro, positioned himself, narrowing the angle. Aiden could see Memphis making a run far post. Braithwaite was in the box too, calling for a cross.
But Aiden saw it—six inches between Remiro's near post and his right hand. The same finish that had worked against Juventus.
His right foot struck cleanly, aiming for that tiny gap. The ball flew with wicked curl, bending away from Remiro's desperate dive.
But this time, the goalkeeper got fingertips to it. Just enough to push it wide.
Corner kick.
"¡Mierda!" Aiden cursed under his breath. So close.
"Good attempt!" Memphis shouted encouragement. "Keep going!"
The corner came to nothing. Real Sociedad cleared and countered, Oyarzabal nearly scoring again. The game was stretched, end-to-end, both teams exhausted but pushing for a winner.
79th minute. Busquets won the ball in midfield and immediately looked for Aiden. The pass was perfect, played into space down the left channel.
Aiden was already moving, timing his run perfectly to stay onside. He controlled the ball with his left foot, his body between the ball and Gorosabel who was chasing desperately.
Aiden could feel the defender closing in, could sense the exact moment Gorosabel would lunge. He waited... waited...
Now.
Aiden's heel flicked the ball through his own legs—a cheeky nutmeg—and he spun around Gorosabel in the opposite direction. The defender grabbed at his shirt, but Aiden was too quick, breaking free with the ball at his feet.
He was in the penalty area now, sixteen yards from goal, wide left. Remiro was positioned centrally, expecting a shot. But Aiden saw Memphis making a diagonal run across the penalty spot, dragging his marker with him.
Which left space. Just behind Memphis, arriving late.
Pedri.
Aiden's right foot played a pass back across the box, perfectly weighted. The ball rolled along the grass, bypassing two defenders, finding Pedri's left foot exactly where the midfielder expected it.
Pedri didn't break stride. His first touch was the shot—a side-foot finish into the bottom corner, precise and unstoppable.
2-1 Barcelona.
The Camp Nou exploded like a bomb had gone off. Pedri slid toward the corner flag, his face transformed by pure joy. Memphis got there first, jumping on his back. Then came the others—Busquets, de Jong, Alba.
And Aiden, who'd created the goal with vision and unselfishness.
Pedri grabbed his face, grinning. "PERFECT PASS! ABSOLUTELY PERFECT!"
"You did the hard part," Aiden said, breathless.
"We both did our jobs," Pedri replied. "That's how Barcelona plays."
The final ten minutes were tense. Real Sociedad threw everything forward, desperate for an equalizer. Isak had two chances, both blocked by heroic defending from Piqué. Oyarzabal's free kick in the 88th minute forced ter Stegen into another world-class save.
But Barcelona held firm.
When the final whistle blew, the Camp Nou roared its approval. Three points. Season opened with a win. Crisis momentarily averted.
Aiden walked off the pitch, his shirt soaked with sweat, his legs burning from the intensity. Twenty-two minutes played. One near-goal, one assist. He'd shown flashes of what made him special—the skill, the vision, the fearlessness to try things.
In the mixed zone, reporters clamored for quotes. Most went to the starters—ter Stegen, Piqué, Pedri. But a few approached Aiden, drawn by his assist and his audacious nutmeg that was already going viral on social media.
"Aiden, your assist for Pedri's goal was excellent. Do you feel you're ready for La Liga football?"
"I'm learning every day," Aiden said carefully, remembering the media training from La Masia. "It's an honor to play for Barcelona. Pedri made a great run, I just tried to find him."
"You attempted a nutmeg in the penalty area. Some might call that risky. What were you thinking?"
Aiden smiled slightly. "I was thinking I needed to beat my man. The nutmeg was there, so I took it."
"Do you feel pressure replacing Lionel Messi?"
The question everyone was waiting for. Aiden took a breath.
"I'm not replacing anyone. Leo Messi is the greatest player ever to wear this shirt. I'm just Aiden Satoru, trying to help my team win. That's all."
The answer was diplomatic, humble. Exactly what Barcelona's PR department wanted to hear.
In the locker room, the atmosphere was cautiously optimistic. Three points were three points, but everyone knew the performance hadn't been great. Too many defensive lapses. Not enough clear chances created.
Koeman addressed the team, his tone measured.
"Good win, but we have work to do. We can't keep giving up these chances. Defensively, we need to be more compact." He paused. "Satoru, your assist was good. Your willingness to take players on created problems for them. But—" his tone sharpened slightly "—next time you're through on goal like that, you shoot. You're good enough to score there."
Aiden nodded. "Yes, Mister."
"Good. Everyone rest tonight. Tomorrow we analyze the footage and prepare for Athletic Bilbao on Saturday."
As the players dispersed to shower and change, Piqué approached Aiden.
"Nice assist, kid. That backheel nutmeg was filthy—I'm going to steal that for my Instagram highlight reel."
Aiden laughed. "Feel free."
Piqué's expression turned more serious. "But Koeman's right. You had the shot. In La Liga, you don't get many chances that clear. You have to be ruthless. Next time, shoot first."
"I saw Pedri in a better position—"
"I know. And it worked out. But trust me—at this level, sometimes the better position doesn't matter. If you have the shot, take it. You have that gift. Use it."
Aiden absorbed the advice, nodding slowly. These were lessons you couldn't learn in youth football. Professional football was different—more direct, more ruthless. Hesitation got punished.
That night, Aiden's phone exploded with notifications:
SPORT headline:SATORU SHINES IN BARCELONA DEBUT - LA MASIA MAGIC CONTINUES
Mundo Deportivo:THE NEW PEARL: Aiden Satoru Provides Assist in Season Opener
Social media was equally active. His nutmeg had been clipped and was trending on Twitter. The assist angle from behind the goal showed the perfect weight of his pass. Fans were already creating compilation videos.
But amid the praise, there were doubters:
One assist doesn't make him Messi
Let's see if he can do it against real competition
Too early to tell if he's the real deal
Aiden read through some of it, then put his phone away. Words didn't matter. Only performances did.
His mother called, crying happy tears. "An assist in your La Liga debut! Your father would have been so proud!"
"It's just the beginning, Mamá," Aiden said. "One game down, many more to go."
Before sleeping, Aiden pulled up footage of his performance. Twenty-two minutes. Twelve touches. One shot. One assist. Three successful dribbles. Two fouls won.
But also: one moment of hesitation when he should have shot. One pass that was slightly overhit. One defensive moment where he didn't track back quickly enough.
Room for improvement. Always room for improvement.
He made notes in his training journal:
*- Be more decisive in shooting positions
Work on defensive transitions Study Gorosabel's positioning—he recovered well twice Right foot finishing still needs work despite the accuracy*
His phone buzzed one more time. A message from an unknown number, Portuguese area code:
Good assist. But Piqué is right—you should have shot. Never hesitate in the box. You have the talent, now develop the killer instinct. - CR7
Cristiano Ronaldo. Reaching out after seeing the match footage.
Aiden stared at the message for a long moment. Then he typed:
Thank you. I'll remember that.
He fell asleep with one thought circling his mind:
Next time, I shoot.
La Liga Standings After Matchday 1:
Barcelona - 3 pts (+1 GD) Real Madrid - 3 pts (+1 GD) Atlético Madrid - 3 pts (+1 GD)
Next Match: Athletic Bilbao vs Barcelona, Saturday, August 21st, 2021, San Mamés Stadium
The season had begun. Aiden Satoru's legacy was one game old.
And the world was starting to pay attention.
End of Chapter 4