By nine o'clock, La Masia had gone quiet.
Not silent.
Never silent.
The old farmhouse breathed differently at night. Pipes groaned softly through ancient walls. Somewhere downstairs, a television murmured beneath hushed laughter before a coach barked for lights out. Footsteps occasionally echoed through hallways, followed by doors closing just a little too loudly.
But the training grounds—
Those belonged to shadows.
And obsession.
Rio stood alone inside the academy gym.
The fluorescent lights overhead flickered faintly, washing the room in pale white. Old weight racks lined one wall. Resistance bands hung loosely beside aging medicine balls. Nothing impressive.
No cutting-edge recovery equipment.
No modern sports science.
No biomechanics department.
Just iron.
Effort.
And guesswork.
Welcome to football in 2003.
Rio rolled tension from his shoulders and looked at his reflection in the mirror.
Lean frame.
Too lean.
His body still betrayed him.
The finishing drills replayed endlessly in his mind.
Correct positioning.
Clean contact.
Weak result.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Technique without force.
Precision without punishment.
The ball obeyed him—
But it didn't fear him.
That mattered.
At the highest level, hesitation lasted milliseconds.
Goalkeepers adapted.
Defenders recovered.
If his shot lacked authority, elite football would expose him eventually.
And Rio hated future weaknesses.
Especially obvious ones.
He stepped toward a wooden plyometric box near the wall.
Simple.
Basic.
Unsafe by modern standards.
Perfect.
"Alright," he muttered quietly.
"Fix the engine."
Depth jumps first.
Controlled.
Measured.
He stepped onto the platform.
Paused.
Dropped.
Land.
Explode upward.
Again.
Land.
Explode.
Again.
Every movement deliberate.
Not random effort.
Purpose.
In 2026, sports science had evolved massively.
Explosive power relied on tendon elasticity as much as muscle. Neuromuscular efficiency mattered. Ground contact time mattered.
But in 2003—
Most youth coaches still believed:
Run more.
Train harder.
Endurance solves everything.
Rio knew better.
Especially for midfielders.
Especially for explosive movement in tight spaces.
The problem wasn't size.
It was force transfer.
His body didn't yet understand how to generate violence efficiently.
His calves burned.
Good.
Again.
Land.
Explode.
Quads trembling now.
Again.
Controlled.
Again.
Sweat darkened his shirt.
Again.
The landing felt slightly unstable.
Too stiff.
He adjusted.
Better knee bend.
Softer deceleration.
Protect the joints.
Young body.
Growing body.
Careful.
Always careful.
Because the fastest way to destroy talent—
Was injury.
After twenty minutes, his breathing turned heavy.
Chest rising sharply.
Legs burning.
But still—
Not enough.
Medicine ball next.
Rotational work.
Core stability.
Hip drive.
Everything connected.
Football power began from the ground upward.
Weak chain.
Weak shot.
Simple.
He finished another set.
Bent slightly at the waist.
Sweat dripping steadily to the floor.
And then—
A voice interrupted quietly behind him.
"You train like someone much older."
Rio straightened immediately.
Calm.
Alert.
Not startled.
He turned.
Sofia Valera stood near the doorway.
No dramatic entrance.
No expensive glamour exaggerated under fluorescent lighting.
Just composed.
Observant.
Dark coat over casual clothes.
Hair loosely tied back.
Expression curious.
Like she had wandered into a conversation halfway through.
Rio frowned slightly.
"You're lost."
Unexpectedly—
She smiled.
"No."
"Probably not."
He recognized her now.
The girl from the VIP section.
Outside school.
Watching.
Always watching.
"You've been following me?" Rio asked flatly.
"Watching," she corrected.
"Different thing."
Reasonable distinction.
Still inconvenient.
She stepped farther inside.
Not too close.
Respecting distance.
Good sign.
"My father had meetings at the club," she explained. "I was waiting."
Her eyes moved toward the equipment.
"Then someone mentioned the Zaragoza midfielder was still training."
Pause.
"So I got curious."
Rio grabbed a towel.
Wiped sweat from his forehead.
"Curiosity usually sleeps at nine."
"You say strange things for someone fifteen."
Fair.
Again.
He ignored it.
Sofia looked toward the plyometric setup.
"What exactly are you doing?"
"Training."
"No," she said.
"I know football training."
"This looks different."
Rio considered how much to answer.
Too much intelligence invited questions.
Too little sounded evasive.
Balanced truth.
"Explosive movement."
She tilted her head.
"You mean speed?"
"Not exactly."
Rio gestured toward the box.
"Reaction."
"Force."
"How quickly your body creates power."
Her expression sharpened.
"You think about football like science."
He shrugged.
"Football is science."
"Most people just don't notice."
Interesting silence followed.
Not uncomfortable.
Observational.
Sofia leaned lightly against the doorway.
"You know," she said eventually, "everyone talks about Messi."
Expected.
"Of course."
"But after Zaragoza…"
Pause.
"…people started talking about you."
Rio resumed adjusting weights.
"People overreact."
"You controlled the match."
"No."
He corrected automatically.
"We controlled the match."
Interesting reaction.
That answer seemed to surprise her.
No ego.
No spotlight chasing.
Just football.
"You really like him," she said.
"Messi."
Rio looked over briefly.
"He sees football correctly."
Which, somehow—
Sounded like unusually high praise coming from him.
Sofia folded her arms.
"You don't act like anyone else at the academy."
There it was again.
Different.
Older.
Strange.
Potentially dangerous observation.
Rio stayed neutral.
"Different isn't always good."
"No," she said quietly.
"But it's memorable."
The sentence lingered.
Then—
She glanced toward the hallway.
"I should go."
Her father probably waiting.
Club politics.
Rich people schedules.
Complicated world.
Before leaving, she paused.
"You play again Saturday?"
"Yes."
"I'll be there."
Not flirtation.
Observation.
Interest.
Like someone tracking a story before understanding it.
Then—
"You should sleep eventually."
Rio glanced toward the weights.
"Eventually."
She shook her head once.
Almost amused.
"You football people are terrifying."
Then disappeared into the hallway.
Quiet footsteps fading slowly.
The gym felt strangely still afterward.
Rio stood motionless briefly.
Thinking.
Important family.
Club connections.
Influence.
Potential complication.
Potential opportunity.
Neither mattered right now.
Because the real problem still waited.
He looked toward the mirror again.
Too thin.
Too unfinished.
Body lagging behind mind.
Frustrating.
Fixable.
He returned to work.
Lunges.
Core stabilization.
Controlled jumping.
Careful mechanics.
No shortcuts.
No ego lifting.
Only progress.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Necessary.
By the time he finally returned to Room Twelve—
The dorms had gone still.
Dark.
Quiet.
Messi already asleep.
One arm hanging off the bed awkwardly.
Blanket half-fallen.
Football magazine resting against his chest.
Rio stood in the doorway for a second.
Unexpectedly human scene.
The future greatest player in history—
Sleeping like an exhausted teenager.
Rio quietly picked the magazine up.
Placed it on the desk.
Pulled the blanket back over him.
Messi stirred slightly.
Mumbled something unintelligible.
Probably football.
Then settled again.
Rio sat on the edge of his own bed.
Legs aching.
Muscles burning.
Good.
Pain meant adaptation.
Eventually.
He looked toward the dark window overlooking the training fields.
Nobody would remember this part.
The lonely work.
The weak legs.
The empty gym.
People remembered trophies.
Goals.
Applause.
Never the nights spent building the body required to survive greatness.
Rio leaned back slowly.
Eyes heavy now.
One thought repeated quietly before sleep finally reached him:
Talent gets noticed.
Work changes history.