Unaware of the Italian journalist who had spent nights obsessing over his every move—so consumed that the man had suffered nosebleeds from the sheer stress of chasing the truth—Mateo King walked on in ignorance. Unaware of the newsroom whispers now hardening into headlines, whispers that claimed Barcelona had verbally agreed to sign him. Unaware that this was spreading like wildfire despite the fact that neither his club nor his agent had uttered a single word to him.
The last time he had even heard the topic raised, his uncle—also his trusted guardian—had told him they were heading into proposal talks, and that his presence wasn't required yet. That had been days ago, maybe weeks. Since then, silence.
Now, having just stepped out of his second-ever professional interview—though in truth, it was the first that truly mattered—Mateo lingered outside the sleek glass building of Mundo Deportivo. It was a media outlet with deep ties to FC Barcelona, yet legally and structurally separate, a creature of its own making.
The midday sun pooled on the pavement, glinting off the chrome edges of passing cars. Mateo was draped in a low-profile hoodie, cap pulled forward, surgical mask drawn high over his face. Even like this, he could feel eyes trying to pierce through his disguise. It was the price of rising too quickly—his name had grown so large in the city that wandering its streets freely had become impossible.
So he stood there, still as a shadow, letting the crowd stream past him—families with ice creams, young tourists clutching paper maps, an old man walking his dog. Their world carried on, oblivious to the tidal wave of speculation building online.
The heat didn't bother him. The people didn't bother him. Not today.
Right now, Mateo was doing something he'd found himself doing more and more since stepping into professional football.
Thinking.
Not about the final question he had dodged inside the interview room—no, he didn't even want to brush against that one in his mind. Instead, his thoughts drifted to one of the earlier, harmless-sounding questions.
The interviewer had asked about his social media presence—or rather, the complete lack of it. Why he didn't engage. Why he posted so rarely, if at all.
Inside, he'd smiled politely, tossed out the easy answer: "I've just been busy." And in a sense, that was true. His schedule was a vice grip on his time.
But that wasn't the truth.
The truth was something else entirely.
Something that had been sitting in the corners of his mind for years, untouched.
The truth was…
He couldn't.
Yes—Mateo couldn't post on social media. Or, to be more exact, he didn't have full control over what went up on his accounts.
Even now, with all the noise around his name, all the interviews, all the stadiums chanting for him, Mateo was still—technically—a La Masia student. True, he lived with privileges most academy kids could only dream of. He had more freedom, more say over his schedule, and far more access to the first team's facilities. But some rules never loosened their grip.
At La Masia, the players' social media accounts were under strict watch. Every post was filtered, every comment monitored, every like noted. The club's staff—media officers, youth coaches, even welfare personnel—kept a close eye on their digital lives. For many of the younger players, their phones were locked away during official hours, returned only when training was done.
Mateo, because of his role with the senior squad, didn't have that particular leash anymore—he carried his phone at all times. But even with the extra freedom, the restrictions were still there in spirit. He was on a youth contract. The unwritten message was clear: you weren't a free man yet.
His last post had been months ago—a harmless group picture with his teammates after a preseason win. That one had been suggested, even nudged, by the club's media department. Since then, silence. A manufactured, suffocating kind of silence.
Once I get a real contract, Mateo thought, I'll be able to post what I want. Say what I want. Finally.
He was still standing in the shade, eyes half-distracted, when a brand-new, metallic gray RAV4 pulled up in front of him. The car's paint caught the sunlight, throwing back a glare. Mateo didn't flinch. Didn't wave. Didn't even change his expression. He simply started walking toward the passenger side door, slipping into the vehicle like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Inside, the cabin smelled of new leather and faint cologne. Mateo pulled the seatbelt across his chest with one hand while the other tugged down his hood. The cap came off next, then the mask. His face was still locked in that thoughtful, far-off look, his mind circling the idea of a post he wanted to make.
A voice broke the silence.
"No greeting?"
Mateo glanced sideways. "Hey, Uncle. Sorry. Just… got a lot on my mind right now."
He eased the seatback into a recline, letting his head sink into the headrest. The hum of the engine was soft, steady, almost hypnotic.
Andrew didn't push. Just a faint "Hmm," before asking, "How was the interview?"
"Nice," Mateo murmured through a yawn, not even fully opening his eyes. A lazy hum of approval slipped out before he let himself drift halfway toward sleep.
The car ride became a cocoon of quiet. Two men—one a young athlete, drifting between dreams of football glory and the simple desire to speak for himself online; the other, a man whose mind was heavier, occupied with the weight of an unusual, almost unsettling meeting he had just walked out of.
Andrew's eyes flicked toward the passenger seat. Mateo looked completely at peace, breaths slow, mouth slightly open. For a moment, Andrew considered telling him—about the meeting, about the news, about what might be coming.
He didn't.
I'll tell him later, he decided, turning his attention back to the road. No need to stress him more right now.
He exhaled slowly and let the silence return, the road ahead unspooling like an unspoken promise.
Twenty minutes later, the brand-new black RAV4 rolled into familiar territory—the unmistakable sights of the Joan Gamper Training Center.
The car glided past the main entrance, which, as always, was alive with noise and color. A cluster of fans and supporters lined the front gates, some holding hand-painted signs, others waving club scarves. The club anthem floated through the air in a ragged but passionate chorus, the kind that made even passersby turn their heads. All of it for the slim hope of catching a glimpse of the first-team stars.
As Andrew's car approached, the crowd's voices swelled. A ripple of recognition passed through them, the volume rising with every meter. Mateo stirred at the sudden shift in noise, his eyes blinking open halfway, the blur of colors and faces outside slowly sharpening.
Through the glass, he spotted a few scattered jerseys bearing the number 36—his number. Small pockets of support, but real nonetheless. Still, the driveway was dominated by a sea of number 10 shirts, as always. That was the icon. The shadow everyone played under.
Mateo's gaze lingered. Ahead, that very player was in the thick of the crowd, laughing, shaking hands, and even leaning down to sign jerseys for kids perched on their parents' shoulders. The fans' joy was contagious; the chants got louder, more animated. Mateo found himself speaking without thinking.
"Slow down a bit, Uncle."
Andrew obliged, easing the car to a crawl. Mateo rolled his window down just enough to let the sound hit him fully—the laughter, the shouts of his name, the rush of admiration. He leaned slightly out, smiling at the faces, answering quick questions, and signing whatever was handed his way. A scarf here. A jersey there.
It was a short interaction, but it re-lit something in him. That spark of connection, that reminder of why visibility mattered. Yeah, he thought. I really need to sort out my social media situation.
By the time they reached the front of the training center, his mood had completely shifted. Mateo stepped out of the RAV4 with a spring in his step, his small black backpack slung casually over one shoulder. The sun caught the grin on his face as he turned back to the driver's side.
"Uncle Andrew," he said, still smiling, "see you later. I want to talk to you about something—but that'll be later. Right now…" He adjusted the strap of his bag and started toward the entrance. "…I want to meet the media team."
As Mateo was talking, Andrew remained by the driver's side, one hand still resting lightly on the roof of the RAV4. He didn't know why the words came to his lips—it wasn't planned, and it wasn't the moment for it—but before he could stop himself, he said,
"I also need to talk to you about something."
Mateo paused mid-step, turning back toward him with that easy, boyish grin still painted across his face. The late morning sunlight caught the edges of his hair, and his eyes were lit with curiosity.
"Oh yeah?" Mateo said, his smile widening. "What's that?"
Andrew looked at him, and for a split second, the present slipped away. In front of him wasn't the rising star who had the football world whispering his name, but a younger version—eight, maybe nine years old—his face a little roughed up from playing street matches, a small broken tooth showing when he smiled. That same grin. That same spark in his eyes. It was an image burned into Andrew's memory, and it hit him with a sudden, almost disorienting force.
Then, just as quickly, the vision faded, replaced by the seventeen-year-old standing there now, backpack slung over one shoulder, still waiting for an answer.
"Uncle," Mateo repeated, tilting his head slightly, "what's that?"
Andrew's fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel. A wave of protectiveness rolled through him—pure instinct, sharp and unyielding. And before he could think, before he could weigh the consequences, the words came out.
"Mateo… must it be Barcelona?"
...
"Hey, Mateo! How are you?"
The voices came almost instantly as soon as he stepped through the doors. Staff members, security, and passing club officials gave nods, claps on the back, and quick greetings.
"You were brilliant for Spain, kid," one of the analysts said, walking past with a laptop under his arm.
Another voice joined in, grinning ear to ear. "That third goal against Greece—was that on purpose, or just a happy accident?"
Before Mateo could even respond, a trainer nearby burst into laughter. "You doubt our young Ronaldinho? Of course he planned that! Didn't you see the bounce? He meant every touch!"
The whole corridor seemed to hum with life. Phones were buzzing, screens flashing highlights, boots clicking against tile. The building was alive—like the inside of a beehive. Mateo smiled, nodding, giving the occasional wave, but his mind was far from the moment. It was still back outside, in the car, minutes earlier.
He could still hear his uncle's voice.
"Don't worry, Mateo. Just forget about what I said. I shouldn't have even said it."
He had frowned. "Wait, Uncle, what do you—"
"Mateo, don't worry. I promise all will go well." His uncle's tone had been firm, the kind that shut the door on further questions. The man's eyes locked onto his with a steadiness that only added weight to his words. "Just forget what I said."
Now, walking down the hallway, Mateo let out a low groan under his breath. "Ahh… how can I forget it?"
But even if he couldn't forget it, he had to.
Not a minute into the building, his attention was hijacked. A kit man jogged up to him, clipboard in hand. "Mateo, the coach wants everyone in the tactics room in five."
From there, the day pulled him into its current.
The tactics meeting bled into a long session in the training center—cones and sprints for stamina, tight-space rondos for ball control, finishing drills until the grass wore thin under his boots. After that came the massage tables, physios kneading tired muscles, the smell of menthol cream hanging in the air.
It was a full day, the kind that left no mental room to dwell on outside thoughts. And the next days were no different. Wake, train, recover, repeat. A robotic cycle. The conversation with his uncle stayed lodged in the back of his mind even the visit to the media team postponed, but there was never a quiet moment to go back and pull it forward.
Not even a week since returning from international duty, Mateo now found himself in a different environment—but the same pressure.
Over 20,000 fans filled the stands, their noise crashing down in waves—some shouting, others singing, others just screaming his name.
He looked around. It was game time.
And then, after weeks of being almost an afterthought, he heard something he hadn't in a while.
[Ding — sign-in detected.]
A/N
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