The gym at La Masia was usually a tomb by 9:00 PM. Most of the boys were in the common room, their faces illuminated by the glow of Pro Evolution Soccer or smuggled magazines. But for Rio Fiero, the night was a laboratory.
He stood in the center of the weight room, looking at the equipment. In 2003, football training was still heavily focused on endurance and traditional "laps." The idea of a fifteen-year-old doing specific plyometric drills was almost unheard of in the academy. But Rio wasn't a fifteen-year-old; he was a man from 2026 inhabiting a prodigy's shell.
He knew that to survive the professional game, his "beautiful" technique needed a foundation of steel. He needed explosive power.
Jump. Land. Explode.
Jump. Land. Explode.
He began a series of depth jumps from a wooden bench, focusing on the "stretch-shortening cycle" of his tendons—concepts that wouldn't be mainstream for another decade. His skinny legs burned. Sweat matted his dark hair to his forehead, dripping onto the concrete floor.
"Again," he whispered to himself. He wasn't just training for the next game; he was building a masterpiece.
The Watcher in the Shadows
"You're going to snap a tendon if you keep landing like that without a proper eccentric load."
The voice was cool, sharp, and entirely out of place in the humid, iron-scented gym. Rio didn't break his rhythm. He finished his final jump, cushioned his landing with professional grace, and turned slowly, his chest heaving.
A girl stood in the doorway. She looked about sixteen, dressed in expensive, tailored casual wear that screamed high-society Barcelona. She wasn't a student here, and she certainly wasn't an athlete. She leaned against the frame with a casual, predatory confidence, her dark eyes tracking the steam rising from Rio's shoulders.
Rio didn't know her name. He didn't know she was the daughter of one of the club's most powerful directors. To him, she was just an interruption.
"The gym is closed to visitors," Rio said, his voice steady despite his racing heart. He grabbed a grey towel and wiped his face, his sharp, beautiful features catching the harsh fluorescent light.
"I'm not a visitor," she replied, stepping into the room. She walked a slow circle around him, her gaze lingering on his lean, corded muscles. "I've watched the youth team for years. Most boys your age are terrified of the weights. They think it makes them slow. But you... you're doing something different. Who taught you those jumps? They aren't in the Barcelona manual."
Rio leaned against a squat rack, his gaze meeting hers with a level of calm that usually unnerved people. "I have a good memory for things that work. And I don't follow manuals. I write them."
The Unspoken Gravity
The girl stopped in front of him. She was close enough that the scent of her perfume—something expensive, like jasmine and sea salt—cut through the smell of sweat. She tilted her head, looking at him not as a boy, but as a fascinating puzzle.
"You're the one they're calling the 'Ghost,' aren't you?" she asked, a small, challenging smirk playing on her lips. "The one who made Messi look like he was playing in slow motion last Sunday."
"I'm Rio," he said simply.
"I know who you are, Rio Fiero," she whispered. Her hand reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from the damp fabric of his shirt before she pulled back, as if testing a flame. "But you don't know who I am. And I think I like it that way for now."
Rio didn't ask. He didn't chase. He stood his ground, his eyes cold and analytical. In his past life, he might have been flustered by a girl this striking. Now, he saw her as a variable—a distraction or an ally, yet to be determined.
"I have two more sets," Rio said, turning back toward the bench. "Unless you're here to spot me, you're in my light."
The Departure
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed her face. No one in the Barcelona social circles talked to her like that. She let out a short, melodic laugh and backed toward the door.
"You really are as arrogant as they say," she noted, her eyes bright with a sudden, intense interest. "I'll be in the VIP boxes for the next home game. Don't make me regret watching."
She disappeared into the dark hallway, the rhythmic click of her boots fading into the silence of the academy.
Rio stood still for a moment, the silence of the gym feeling heavier than before. He felt a strange spark—the first time his new life had felt "alive" outside of the white lines of the pitch. But as he looked at his skinny reflection in the mirror, his focus snapped back.
Power first. World second.
He picked up the weights and started again. In the room next door, Leo was probably asleep, dreaming of goals. Rio stayed awake, building the engine that would deliver them.
Chapter Management