The 3 points brought back from Madrid were earned with blood and flesh. Although the whole team had a day off, the medical center at the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper was still bustling.
The morning sun shone through the huge glass curtain wall, spilling onto the teak floor of the physiotherapy room. The air was filled with the smell of safflower oil, liquid nitrogen, and expensive essential oils. Chairman Bartomeu, wearing a casual beige cashmere sweater and holding a cup of espresso, walked into the physiotherapy room like a landowner inspecting his estate.
"How are you feeling, gladiators?" His voice was relaxed and cheerful.
In the room, André Gomes was lying face down on a massage bed, with two physiotherapists working together to knead his back muscles, which were as stiff as granite. A large patch of purplish-black bruising covered his back, left by the studs of Atlético Madrid defender Felipe. In the past, Gomes would have been frowning in distress. But today, upon hearing the Chairman's voice, he lifted his head with effort, a simple, honest smile actually spreading across his face.
"It hurts, Chairman. But it's a good kind of pain," Gomes said, gritting his teeth. "Yesterday, when I went to the supermarket to buy things, a fan actually ran over to ask for a photo with me and praised me as the 'tank of Camp Nou'. This is a first."
"You'll get used to it, André," Bartomeu walked over and patted his shoulder like an elder. "In this city, there's only one shortcut to earning respect: shedding blood. The bruises you have now are your medals."
On another bed, Paulinho was receiving cryotherapy on his knee. The recovery ability of this Brazilian iron man was astonishing; the wound that was still bleeding yesterday had already scabbed over today. "Chairman, schedule more matches like this next time," Paulinho said, chewing gum with a nonchalant look. "I don't think La Liga is as technical as they say it is. It suits my style quite well."
"Don't get complacent, Pauli," Bartomeu shook his head with a smile. "Next, we have to play against Málaga and Athletic Bilbao, which are completely different rhythms. But you can rest a bit for these two weeks."
Bartomeu walked towards Luis Suárez in the corner. The Uruguayan sharpshooter's right knee was wrapped in a thick brace, and he was receiving PRP (Platelet-Rich Plasma) injection therapy. The long needle piercing into the joint cavity was enough to make one's teeth ache just looking at it, but Suárez didn't even frown.
"Luis, I have something to say to you." Bartomeu pulled over a chair and sat down, his expression turning serious.
"If it's to persuade me to have surgery, save your breath," Suárez stubbornly stared at the ceiling. "This is a World Cup year. I can't be out for six months."
"No, I'm not persuading you to have surgery." Bartomeu took a business card from his pocket and placed it next to Suárez's hand. "This is the world's best biomechanics expert, based in Qatar. Taking advantage of the two-week international break, I've already arranged a private jet. You go there for a thorough conservative treatment. Not just a simple fluid drainage, but using the latest stem cell technology to repair the cartilage."
Suárez was taken aback for a moment, then picked up the card. "Stem cells? That must be expensive, right?"
"Money is not an issue," Bartomeu said flatly. "You are Barça's teeth. If the teeth get blunt, we can't bite anyone to death. Take Sofía and the kids, and treat it as a vacation while you're there. The club will cover all expenses."
Suárez's eyes softened. For a veteran who had struggled for years in this commercially driven circle, such meticulous care was more touching than a simple bonus. "Thank you, Chairman. I'll return with a fully healed knee."
Leaving the medical center filled with the smells of sweat and medicine, Bartomeu returned to his spacious office. But he had no time to rest. Because Gerard Piqué was already waiting at the door.
This pillar of Barça's defense, also the most restless 'business tycoon' in the locker room, was now wearing a sharp suit, looking more like a Wall Street elite than a football player.
"Chairman, regarding that reform proposal for the Davis Cup, I'd like to hear your opinion." Piqué held a thick stack of business plans in his hand. "My company, Kosmos, is prepared to invest $3 billion to completely restructure the tennis competition format."
Bartomeu took the proposal, casually flipped through it, then threw it on the table. He looked at Piqué, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
"Gerard, your ambition is great. You want to be a revolutionary in the sports world."
"I want to be the future Chairman of Barça," Piqué stated his ambition without evasion, sitting opposite Bartomeu and crossing his legs. "But before that, I need to earn enough money to prove my business acumen."
"The Davis Cup is a good project, but in 2017, it's too slow." Bartomeu leaned back, crossing his hands. "If you want to make quick money, or accumulate the first bucket of gold for your business empire, I have a better suggestion right now."
"What is it?" Piqué became interested.
"bitcoin." Bartomeu uttered the word.
In October 2017, the price of bitcoin was still hovering between $5,000 and $6,000. Although it had attracted attention, most traditional investors still scoffed at it. But in Bartomeu's 'past life memories,' he clearly knew: the next two months would be one of the craziest bubbles in human financial history. bitcoin would surge to a historical high of $19,000 in mid-December!
"Cryptocurrency?" Piqué frowned. "That thing is too volatile. Many people call it a scam."
"In this world, there are no scams, only information gaps." Bartomeu stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Piqué. "Listen, Gerard. This is my personal advice to you, it does not represent the club's position."
"The current price is around $5,800. Take out an amount of money you can afford to lose—say, 5 million euros. Buy now." "Then, you have to hold on tight." "Wait until December 17th." Bartomeu turned around, his eyes sharp as knives. "On that day, no matter how high the price is, sell everything. Don't hesitate for a second."
Looking at the Chairman's confident gaze, Piqué felt an inexplicable shock. He had only seen this kind of look when Guardiola was explaining tactics—an absolute control over the future situation.
"Are you... sure?"
"I never joke. Especially when it comes to money." Bartomeu walked back to the desk and wrote a number on a sticky note: $19,000. "This might be the easiest windfall of your life. When you make the money, remember to donate a pitch to La Masia."
Piqué picked up the sticky note, his Adam's apple bobbing. He had only come to talk about tennis, but unexpectedly received guidance from a 'financial guru.' "Alright, I'll trust you this once. I'll have someone handle it right now."
"And," Bartomeu called out to Piqué, who was about to leave. "Regarding your status in the locker room. I know you want to be a leader." "After Puyol retired, you need to take on more. Not just arguing on Twitter, but protecting those newcomers on the pitch." "Like Iñigo Martínez. I don't want to see you mocking him in the locker room for his mistake in Madrid; I want you to teach him how to position himself. That's what a future Chairman should do."
Piqué put away his playful smile and nodded solemnly. "Understood, Chairman. I'll take care of that Basque fellow."
The climax of the day occurred in the coastal town of Castelldefels, 20 kilometers from downtown Barcelona. This is where Messi and Suárez live.
Today, Messi was hosting a private Argentine barbecue at home. Usually, only core players attended such gatherings, and management was never invited. Players often complained about the club's higher-ups in private. But today, a black audi a8 slowly drove into Messi's estate. The door opened, and Chairman Bartomeu stepped out, carrying two bottles of Romanée-Conti.
"Hey! The Chairman is here!" Suárez, who was flipping steaks at the grill, shouted loudly. Wearing an apron and holding tongs, he looked just like an ordinary neighbor.
Messi, holding his big dog (Hulk), wearing shorts and flip-flops, smiled and came forward. "Josep, I'm glad you could come." Messi didn't say much, but his eyes were sincere.
"I'm glad too, Leo." Bartomeu handed the red wine to Antonela beside him. "I hope I'm not intruding on your family time."
"Not at all." Messi pointed to the long table in the yard. "Everyone wants to see you. Especially André."
In the yard, Barça's core circle was all there. Piqué was whispering with Busquets (probably talking about bitcoin), Alba was playing with Suárez's children. And the two 'newly popular' players, André Gomes and Paulinho, were sitting somewhat awkwardly in a corner, drinking mate tea.
Seeing the Chairman arrive, Gomes quickly stood up. "Sit, sit." Bartomeu took off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and took the tongs Suárez handed him. "When it comes to barbecuing, I'm an expert."
The atmosphere soon became lively. The smoky scent of the charcoal, the savory aroma of grilling meat, and the rich taste of expensive red wine made everyone forget the pressures of the season.
During the gathering, Messi, holding his wine glass, walked over to Bartomeu. The two stood at the edge of the terrace, gazing at the distant Mediterranean Sea.
"That formation..." Messi suddenly spoke up, "I mean, that giant lineup in Madrid. It's... special."
"Did you like it?" Bartomeu asked.
"I wouldn't say I liked it," Messi shook his head honestly. "It was exhausting to play. The ball was always in the air, my neck is almost broken. And without Andrés by my side, I don't get those comfortable passes."
"But," Messi turned his head, looking at Gomes who was drinking competitively with Paulinho, "I was surprised. André used to not even dare to look me in the eye. But that day at the Wanda Metropolitano, he charged forward and pushed Filipe Luís away. In that moment, I felt he was a teammate."
"That's enough, Leo," Bartomeu took a small sip of his wine. "We can't always rely on art. Sometimes, we need a bit of savagery."
"I know," Messi sighed. "Xavi is gone, Neymar is gone. We've changed. But I'm worried, if we keep playing like this, will Barça still be Barça?"
It was a soul-searching question.
Bartomeu put down his glass and looked at the king of football. "Leo, what do you think is the soul of Barça? Is it Tiki-Taka? Is it possession percentage?"
"Isn't it?"
"No," Bartomeu pointed at Messi's chest. "The soul of Barça is winning. Cruyff created Total Football to win; Guardiola created Tiki-Taka to win." "Now, our weapons aren't sharp anymore, so we need to find a new way to win." "But this is only temporary."
Bartomeu's voice became low and seductive: "Believe me, Leo. Endure these two months of 'ugliness'. Wait until winter passes, wait until spring arrives, I'll give you a gift."
"What gift?" Messi asked curiously.
"Two kids from Ajax," Bartomeu winked. "One can distribute the ball like Piqué, one can think like Xavi. They'll help you rediscover the joy of playing football."
Messi's eyes lit up. He didn't need names, he just needed that promise. "If that's true, then I toast to you with this glass." Messi raised his glass and clinked it firmly with Bartomeu's.
While most players were enjoying their holidays and the barbecue, heavy breathing echoed from the gym at the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper.
Christian Eriksen was running on an anti-gravity treadmill. This expensive machine uses air pressure to reduce body weight load, allowing him to start aerobic recovery just one week after his heart surgery, without worrying about physical impact.
Sweat dripped from his blond hair. His heart rate monitor showed: 140 bpm. Very stable. That strange 'heart rhythm gap' was completely gone.
"Slow down, Christian," the head physiotherapist reminded him from the side. "It's your first day of recovery, don't go over 20 minutes."
"I feel great, Roger," Eriksen panted, but his steps didn't stop. "I watched the match a couple of days ago, seeing Gomes fight like that, how could I just lie around?"
At that moment, the gym door was pushed open. A bald, short figure walked in. It was Andrés Iniesta.
Although El Mago wasn't with the national team, he was also doing recovery training. Seeing Eriksen, Iniesta smiled and walked over, handing him a bottle of water.
"Looks like our new engine is up and running?" Iniesta joked.
"That's a v12 engine," Eriksen stopped the treadmill and wiped his sweat. "How are you, Captain?"
"Just an old part, can still be used with some patching up," Iniesta touched his calf. "But to be honest, watching that match against Atlético, I was anxious. If we were on the field..."
"If we were on the field," Eriksen took over, a glint of tactical intelligence in his eyes, "I would position myself on the left inside channel, draw Saúl out, and then you could play a through ball to Leo. We wouldn't need long-ball tactics."
"Exactly," Iniesta nodded appreciatively. "That giant lineup is for emergencies. Barça's football needs to roll on the grass."
"I really look forward to playing with you, Andrés," Eriksen said earnestly. "Even before coming to Barça, I was studying your footage. Your La Croqueta, your turns..."
"Don't learn from me," Iniesta waved his hand, smiling somewhat wistfully. "I'm almost retired. What you need to do is surpass me. And, I heard the Chairman is buying more players in the winter?"
"Who knows? The Chairman's mind is as deep as the ocean," Eriksen shrugged. "But no matter who comes, I need to secure my spot first. After all, that guy Paulinho is scoring more than me right now."
The two midfield maestros smiled at each other. The setting sun shone through the window onto them. One was a legend nearing his curtain call, the other was a new core reborn from the ashes. In this quiet gym, Barça's technical soul was quietly awakening.
After a day of social engagements, Bartomeu returned to his luxury apartment in Barcelona. There was no family here, only cold modern furniture and piles of financial reports. This was the lonely side of being a 'Transmigrator'. He had to stay sharp at all times.
He opened his laptop. The screen displayed complex candlestick charts and financial spreadsheets.
Personal Asset Operations: He logged into an encrypted offshore account. There lay the massive amount of bitcoin he had strategically bought early in his rebirth in 2015. Cost per coin: less than $300. Current price: $5,800. Quantity: 10,000 coins. Current value: $58 million.
It was a huge sum. But it wasn't enough. Bartomeu stared at the candlestick chart, a cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "Two more months. By December 17th, this will become nearly $200 million." This money was not just his personal wealth; it was his secret emergency fund for when Barça faced extreme financial crises in the future. A so-called 'Financial Godfather' not only needs to know how to spend the club's money but also be able to dig into his own pockets to fill holes at critical moments.
Club Financial Planning: He opened another document—'FC Barcelona Commercial Development Plan 2018-2019'.
Nike: Renewal negotiations have entered a critical phase. Must leverage this year's performance to increase the annual sponsorship fee from €105 million to €150 million.
Rakuten: The Japanese are very satisfied with Paulinho's influence in Asia. Can try to develop a 'Barça x Rakuten' co-branded e-commerce business.
Camp Nou Naming Rights: This is the biggest gold mine. In his previous life, Barça dragged this out until Laporta's era to sell to Spotify. In this life, Bartomeu plans to act early.
"The €600 million loan is just the beginning." He wrote a line in his notebook: "Goal: Break €1 billion in revenue in 2018."
Only with absolute economic power can one compete with Paris's oil money and the Premier League's broadcast fees in this era of financial football.
At that moment, his phone vibrated. It was a text from Piqué. A screenshot: He had placed an order for €5 million worth of bitcoin on a cryptocurrency exchange. The message read: "Chairman, I believe you. This is the money I was saving to buy Shakira a diamond ring."
Bartomeu replied: "Relax. In two months, you'll be able to buy a diamond mine. But don't forget your promise: No matter how big the diamond ring, you have to hold the defensive line for me this season."
Piqué instantly replied with a'salute' emoji.
Bartomeu closed his laptop and walked to the balcony. The night view of Barcelona stretched out before him. In the distance, the spires of the Sagrada Família were faintly visible in the lights. The city was quiet and beautiful. But beneath the calm surface, a massive transformation was brewing.
Injured players are about to return. Wealth is skyrocketing. And in faraway Amsterdam, those two future hopes are waiting for his call.
"Winter is coming," Bartomeu whispered into the night breeze. "But it's to welcome the grandest spring."