A week after the interview, Barcelona's training ground had developed a new hobby.
Teasing Rio.
Relentlessly.
The relationship was still technically private.
Technically.
In reality, almost everyone had figured it out.
The journalists suspected it.
The players knew it.
Bella acted like it had been public information for months.
Only Rio and Sofia continued pretending they were successfully hiding it.
Which amused everyone else.
Especially Messi.
The Argentine had become unbearable.
One morning, Rio arrived at training carrying a sports drink.
Messi immediately pointed at it.
"Did Sofia buy that?"
"No."
Five minutes later.
Rio tied his boots.
Messi looked over.
"Did Sofia help with that too?"
"No."
Ten minutes later.
Rio completed a passing drill.
Messi nodded seriously.
"He's playing for love now."
The entire group burst out laughing.
Even Xavi nearly lost control of the ball.
Ronaldinho was even worse.
Because Ronaldinho genuinely enjoyed the situation.
The Brazilian believed happiness should be celebrated.
And Rio looked happier than he had six months ago.
So naturally Ronaldinho discussed it constantly.
"You're smiling more."
"No."
"You are."
"No."
"You literally smiled yesterday."
Rio looked horrified.
The dressing room erupted.
By now, defending himself had become pointless.
Meanwhile, preparations for the Copa del Rey Clásico continued.
Barcelona versus Real Madrid.
Again.
The first match had been dramatic enough.
The second promised even more.
Newspapers spent every day discussing it.
Television panels debated tactics.
Supporters argued online and in cafés.
And once again, Rio and Messi found themselves at the center of attention.
Only now things felt different.
The first Clásico had been about proving themselves.
The second was about proving it wasn't a fluke.
That reality wasn't lost on anyone.
One afternoon, after training ended, several players remained on the pitch.
Messi.
Rio.
Xavi.
Ronaldinho.
The usual group.
They practiced finishing for nearly an hour.
The stadium was empty.
The atmosphere relaxed.
Exactly the kind of environment Rio enjoyed.
Then someone arrived.
A visitor.
Messi noticed first.
Which was unfortunate.
Very unfortunate.
The Argentine immediately started grinning.
Rio followed his gaze.
And froze.
Sofia.
She had arrived to meet him after training.
Nothing unusual.
Except this time she had come directly to the training facility.
Which meant several first-team players were watching.
A catastrophic development.
Messi looked delighted.
Ronaldinho looked even more delighted.
The Brazilian immediately dropped the ball he was holding.
"Oh."
That single word carried entirely too much meaning.
Xavi shook his head.
"We're never hearing the end of this."
Correct.
Absolutely correct.
Sofia approached.
The moment she realized multiple Barcelona stars were staring at her, she looked slightly uncomfortable.
A reasonable reaction.
Ronaldinho immediately walked over.
Of course he did.
The Brazilian extended his hand.
"You must be Sofia."
Rio closed his eyes.
There was no escape now.
None.
Sofia laughed nervously before shaking Ronaldinho's hand.
"Hello."
Messi appeared beside him seconds later.
Another disaster.
"I'm Messi."
Sofia blinked.
"I know."
The answer earned laughter from everyone nearby.
Even Messi laughed.
Eventually introductions happened.
Xavi.
Puyol.
Several others.
The entire situation felt surprisingly normal after a few minutes.
That was Sofia's talent.
She adapted quickly.
Soon she was chatting comfortably with everyone.
Even Ronaldinho.
Especially Ronaldinho.
A combination that should have worried everyone.
As the conversation continued, Rio noticed something.
The players liked her.
Genuinely.
Not because she was dating him.
Because she was easy to talk to.
Funny.
Confident.
Exactly the reasons he liked spending time with her.
The realization made him smile slightly.
Unfortunately, Messi saw it.
The Argentine immediately pointed.
"THERE."
The entire group turned.
Rio instantly stopped smiling.
Too late.
Far too late.
The damage was done.
Ronaldinho started laughing.
Sofia looked amused.
And Rio accepted that this was simply his life now.
The group eventually separated as the evening approached.
Players headed home.
Training ended.
The facility gradually emptied.
As Rio and Sofia walked toward the exit together, several teammates watched from a distance.
Messi folded his arms.
"They're terrible at hiding it."
Xavi nodded.
"Horrible."
Ronaldinho smiled.
"The newspapers will figure it out soon."
Puyol looked toward the parking lot.
Then shook his head.
"Probably."
And for once, everyone agreed.
Because what had started as a mystery was rapidly becoming an open secret.
Three days remained until the Copa del Rey Clásico.
The atmosphere at Barcelona's training ground was completely different from a normal week.
The laughter was still there.
The jokes still existed.
But underneath everything was intensity.
Every player knew what was coming.
Real Madrid.
Again.
The first Clásico had ended in a Barcelona victory.
That made the second one even more dangerous.
Madrid would be motivated.
Angry.
Determined.
And everyone at Barcelona understood that.
Training began early.
The players gathered on the main pitch while coaches prepared drills.
Rio immediately noticed the difference.
Everything was sharper.
Passes moved faster.
Challenges came harder.
Mistakes were punished instantly.
Nobody wanted to be the weak link before a Clásico.
The first exercise focused on possession.
Two-touch football.
Quick decisions.
Constant movement.
The ball flew around the grid.
Xavi controlled the tempo.
As always.
Watching him was like watching a lesson.
Every movement had a purpose.
Every touch created space.
Every pass arrived at exactly the right moment.
Rio found himself studying the midfielder even during the drill.
There was always something new to learn.
The exercise intensified.
A misplaced pass from one player immediately led to extra running.
Nobody wanted that.
The pace increased further.
Suddenly the drill resembled a real match.
Pressure arrived instantly.
Time disappeared.
Decisions became automatic.
Exactly what the coaches wanted.
After nearly thirty minutes, the squad moved to tactical work.
This was where Clásicos were won.
Or lost.
Rijkaard stopped play repeatedly.
Adjusting positioning.
Correcting movement.
Explaining details.
The smallest details mattered against Madrid.
A defensive line positioned half a meter too deep.
A midfielder arriving one second too late.
A run mistimed by a fraction.
Those mistakes could decide matches.
The coach knew it.
The players knew it.
Everyone listened carefully.
At one point Rijkaard divided the squad into two teams for a practice match.
The intensity immediately exploded.
Ronaldinho nutmegged a defender.
The entire training ground reacted.
Five seconds later the same defender launched into a tackle.
The balance of football was restored.
Messi spent most of the session attacking anyone unfortunate enough to defend him.
The Argentine seemed to become stronger whenever important matches approached.
Rio had noticed the pattern months ago.
The bigger the occasion.
The better Messi became.
Not everyone possessed that quality.
Messi definitely did.
The practice match continued.
One attack.
Then another.
The ball moved quickly from midfield.
Rio received possession between the lines.
A defender stepped forward.
He turned.
Accelerated.
Played a pass into space.
Messi reached it.
Goal.
The coaches immediately stopped play.
Not because of the finish.
Because of the movement before it.
The positioning.
The timing.
The decision-making.
Exactly what they wanted to see.
The exercise restarted.
And continued for another hour.
By the end, every player was exhausted.
Sweat covered shirts.
Breathing grew heavier.
Legs became tired.
Yet nobody complained.
Because Clásico week was different.
Every player wanted to prove something.
The younger players wanted to show they belonged.
The veterans wanted to show they were still the standard.
The stars wanted to decide the match.
And Barcelona needed all of them.
As the session finally ended, the squad gathered around Rijkaard.
The coach looked at each player carefully.
"We won the first one."
A pause.
"Forget that."
The players listened.
"Saturday starts at zero-zero."
Another pause.
"Nothing else matters."
Simple words.
But true.
Football had no memory.
The previous victory guaranteed nothing.
The previous defeat guaranteed nothing.
Only the next match mattered.
As the players headed toward the dressing room, Rio glanced back at the pitch.
Three days.
Three days until another Clásico.
Three days until Camp Nou filled again.
Three days until Barcelona and Real Madrid met once more.
The first one had introduced him to the rivalry.
The second would test whether he truly belonged in it.
Two days before the match, the intensity increased again.
If the previous training session had been sharp, this one felt almost like a real game.
The challenges were harder.
The runs were faster.
The concentration was absolute.
Nobody needed reminders.
Everyone understood what was coming.
A Clásico.
For Rio, something felt different compared to the first one.
The first Clásico had been about surviving.
About proving he belonged.
About showing he could handle the occasion.
This time, the feeling was different.
He already knew what the occasion felt like.
He knew how loud Camp Nou became.
He knew how intense Madrid's pressure could be.
He knew how quickly one mistake could change everything.
The unknown was gone.
Now there was only football.
Training focused heavily on tactics.
Madrid had adjusted since the previous meeting.
The coaching staff spent nearly an hour reviewing clips.
Defensive movements.
Pressing triggers.
Attacking patterns.
Every detail mattered.
Rio sat near Messi during the video session.
The Argentine was unusually focused.
No jokes.
No comments.
Just attention.
That alone revealed how seriously he was taking the match.
After the meeting, the squad returned to the pitch.
The final practice match before the Clásico began.
The tempo immediately exploded.
Puyol barked instructions constantly.
Xavi controlled possession.
Ronaldinho attempted things that should not have been physically possible.
Messi attacked defenders without mercy.
And Rio found himself involved in almost everything.
One-touch combinations.
Quick transitions.
Recoveries.
Switches of play.
The session felt smooth.
Natural.
Several times the coaches stopped the exercise to praise the midfield movement.
That was a good sign.
Very good.
After nearly ninety minutes, the whistle finally blew.
Training ended.
The players gathered around Rijkaard.
Nobody spoke.
Because everyone knew what was coming.
The starting lineup.
The coach looked around the group.
Then began reading names.
Goalkeeper.
Defenders.
Midfielders.
Forwards.
The room remained silent.
Every player listened.
Every player hoped.
Eventually—
"Rio."
A brief pause.
"Lionel."
Neither reacted outwardly.
But both heard it.
Starting.
Again.
A second Clásico.
The lineup announcement continued until all eleven names had been read.
When it ended, the players dispersed.
Some looked disappointed.
Others relieved.
Others excited.
That was football.
Not everyone could start.
As Rio walked toward the dressing room, Messi appeared beside him.
Naturally.
"We're starting."
"Yes."
Messi grinned.
"I want another goal."
Rio wasn't surprised.
The Argentine always wanted another goal.
It didn't matter if he had scored one last week.
Or yesterday.
Or ten minutes ago.
The answer remained the same.
Another.
Later that evening, newspapers began publishing quotes from Madrid players.
The psychological games had started.
One veteran defender spoke confidently.
"We've learned from the first match."
Another player added:
"The young players won't surprise us this time."
The comments spread quickly.
Television channels discussed them.
Radio stations repeated them.
Supporters debated them.
Inside Barcelona's dressing room, nobody seemed particularly concerned.
Ronaldinho actually laughed when he heard one of the quotes.
"Good."
A reporter nearby looked confused.
"Good?"
The Brazilian smiled.
"Matches are more fun when both teams are confident."
The answer appeared in newspapers the following morning.
Meanwhile, Rio didn't pay much attention to any of it.
He never had.
Comments didn't change matches.
Headlines didn't change matches.
Predictions didn't change matches.
Only performances did.
That night, after returning home, he sat quietly in his room.
The city outside buzzed with anticipation.
Supporters were counting the hours.
Journalists were preparing stories.
Players were preparing themselves.
Another Clásico was almost here.
The first had been unforgettable.
The second promised to be even bigger.
And this time, nobody could claim Barcelona's young stars were unknown.
Madrid knew exactly who they were.
which meant beating them again would be even harder.
Match day arrived.
The city felt different from the moment the sun rose.
Barcelona always changed during a Clásico.
The cafés filled earlier.
The streets became louder.
The scarves appeared everywhere.
Supporters discussed lineups over breakfast.
Then discussed them again at lunch.
Then argued about them all afternoon.
Nobody could think about anything else.
At Barcelona's training complex, the players arrived throughout the morning.
The atmosphere was calm.
Not relaxed.
Not nervous.
Focused.
The difference mattered.
The first Clásico of Rio's career had felt like stepping into a storm.
Everything had been new.
Everything had been overwhelming.
This time felt different.
He knew what waited for him.
The noise.
The pressure.
The intensity.
The expectations.
Especially the expectations.
That was the biggest change.
Nobody viewed him as a promising academy player anymore.
Nobody viewed Messi that way either.
The newspapers had spent the entire week discussing them.
One headline called them the future of Barcelona.
Another called them the future of Spanish football.
A third claimed they could define the rivalry for the next decade.
Rio found that one particularly ridiculous.
He was seventeen.
Thinking ten years ahead seemed impossible.
Yet the expectations existed anyway.
The team bus departed in the late afternoon.
The streets around Camp Nou were already packed.
Thousands of supporters lined the roads.
Flags waved.
Songs echoed through the city.
The closer the bus moved toward the stadium, the louder everything became.
Several players looked out the windows.
Even veterans.
Because scenes like this never became ordinary.
Rio glanced across the aisle.
Messi was staring outside.
Unlike before, he wasn't nervous.
If anything, the Argentine looked impatient.
Like someone waiting for a match to finally begin.
"Excited?"
Rio asked.
Messi grinned.
"Very."
That answer was expected.
The Argentine loved big matches.
The bus eventually entered the stadium.
Security escorted the players inside.
The familiar corridors appeared.
The familiar tunnel.
The familiar dressing room.
Yet the atmosphere still felt special.
Because it was.
A Clásico was never normal.
No matter how many you played.
The players changed into their kits.
Prepared their boots.
Completed their routines.
Ronaldinho spent part of the time dancing to music.
Nobody questioned it anymore.
That was simply Ronaldinho.
Puyol sat quietly.
Focused.
The captain looked ready for battle.
Xavi reviewed tactical notes one final time.
Deco stretched.
Eto'o paced around the room.
Every player prepared differently.
The minutes passed quickly.
Soon the team headed out for warmups.
The moment they stepped onto the pitch, Camp Nou erupted.
The sound hit like a wave.
More than ninety thousand people.
All waiting.
All believing.
All demanding victory.
Rio looked around briefly.
The first Clásico had left him stunned by the atmosphere.
The second allowed him to appreciate it.
The massive flags.
The colors.
The noise.
The energy.
Everything felt alive.
The warmup continued.
Passing drills.
Shooting exercises.
Movement patterns.
Simple routines.
But beneath them all sat anticipation.
The knowledge that kickoff approached.
As the players returned to the dressing room, Rijkaard gathered everyone together.
The room fell silent.
The coach looked around carefully.
At veterans.
At stars.
At teenagers.
Then he spoke.
"Last time, they underestimated us."
The players listened.
"This time they won't."
A pause.
"They know exactly how good you are."
Another pause.
"They're coming here prepared."
The room remained completely silent.
"Good."
The single word landed heavily.
Rijkaard nodded.
"That's what we want."
A few players smiled.
The coach continued.
"If we win today, there are no excuses."
A pause.
"No surprises."
Another pause.
"No lucky breaks."
His eyes moved around the room.
"Just football."
The players stood.
Ready.
The time had arrived.
The tunnel filled once again.
Barcelona on one side.
Real Madrid on the other.
The atmosphere felt even more intense than the first Clásico.
Because now both teams knew what to expect.
No mystery remained.
Only rivalry.
Rio glanced across the line.
Several Madrid players looked back.
Focused.
Determined.
The respect was there now.
Not because of reputation.
Because of performance.
The referee checked his watch.
One minute.
The stadium roared above them.
Messi bounced lightly on his feet.
Puyol stared straight ahead.
Ronaldinho smiled.
Rio felt his heartbeat quicken.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.
This was where he wanted to be.
Exactly where he wanted to be.
The referee signaled.
The players began walking forward.
Camp Nou exploded.
The lights.
The noise.
The colors.
The rivalry.
Everything returned.
And as Rio stepped onto the pitch for his second Clásico, one thing was clear.
The first time, he had entered as a promising teenager.
This time, he entered as someone Real Madrid had specifically prepared to stop.
And proving they couldn't would be the biggest challenge yet.
From the opening whistle, Real Madrid made their intentions clear.
This wasn't the first Clásico anymore.
They knew exactly who Barcelona's biggest threats were.
And they planned to deal with them.
Aggressively.
Very aggressively.
The first challenge on Messi arrived within two minutes.
Not dirty.
Not malicious.
Just hard.
A message.
Welcome to the match.
Three minutes later, Rio received the same treatment.
A Madrid midfielder crashed into him immediately after a pass.
The referee awarded the foul.
The crowd whistled furiously.
The Madrid player simply walked away.
Another message delivered.
Barcelona didn't back down.
Neither did Rio.
The midfielder stood up and continued playing.
The game exploded into life.
Unlike the first Clásico, Barcelona started brilliantly.
The nerves were gone.
The hesitation was gone.
The young players attacked immediately.
In the 11th minute, Messi slipped between two defenders and nearly scored.
The shot flew inches wide.
Camp Nou groaned.
Then applauded.
The warning had been delivered.
Madrid responded quickly.
Their attack forced a difficult save from Valdés.
The crowd roared its approval.
Back and forth.
Attack after attack.
The match became exactly what everyone expected.
Fast.
Violent.
Relentless.
In midfield, Rio was everywhere.
Recovering possession.
Switching play.
Driving forward.
Every time Madrid thought they had contained him, he found another angle.
Another pass.
Another solution.
In the 24th minute, Barcelona nearly broke through.
Ronaldinho danced past one defender.
Then another.
The Brazilian slipped a perfect pass into the area.
Eto'o reached it first.
Shot.
Saved.
The stadium couldn't believe it.
Neither could Eto'o.
The score remained 0-0.
The match continued.
The tackles became harder.
The referee issued a yellow card.
Then another.
The tension kept rising.
By the thirty-fifth minute, every challenge seemed to provoke a reaction from the crowd.
Every foul felt personal.
Every decision felt controversial.
It was pure Clásico.
Then came the moment.
The moment that silenced Camp Nou.
Rio collected the ball near midfield.
A normal situation.
One he had experienced hundreds of times.
He turned away from pressure.
Escaped one challenge.
Advanced forward.
The crowd began rising from their seats.
Space had opened ahead of him.
A dangerous attack was forming.
Then—
A Madrid player arrived late.
Far too late.
The challenge came from the side.
The sound echoed across the pitch.
A horrible sound.
The kind every footballer recognized immediately.
Rio's legs disappeared beneath him.
His body spun violently.
Then crashed into the grass.
The ball rolled away.
For a second, nobody reacted.
Nobody quite understood what they had seen.
Then Rio didn't get up.
Camp Nou fell silent.
Completely silent.
Messi was first to arrive.
The Argentine immediately turned toward the referee.
Shouting.
Ronaldinho sprinted across the pitch.
Puyol followed.
Several Madrid players looked concerned.
The referee rushed over.
And when he reached the scene, his expression changed immediately.
The card appeared instantly.
Red.
Straight red.
No discussion.
No hesitation.
The Madrid player didn't even argue.
That told everyone everything.
Meanwhile, Rio remained on the ground.
The medical staff were already running.
The stadium watched.
Waiting.
Praying.
Nobody cared about the red card anymore.
Nobody cared about the match.
Only one thing mattered.
Was he okay?
In the stands, Bella had gone completely pale.
"Get up."
Her voice was barely audible.
"Come on."
Beside her, Rio's mother looked terrified.
Hands clasped together.
Unable to look away.
Football suddenly felt very unimportant.
A few rows away, Sofia stood frozen.
The tackle replayed repeatedly on the giant screen.
She hated it.
Every replay looked worse.
Every angle made her stomach drop.
For weeks she had watched football as a supporter.
Today she was watching someone she loved lying on the ground.
The difference was unbearable.
Back on the pitch, the doctors continued examining Rio.
The crowd remained silent.
Ninety thousand people.
Silent.
One of the strangest sounds in football.
Messi stood nearby.
Arms folded.
Jaw clenched.
The Argentine looked angrier than anyone had seen him in months.
Puyol looked much the same.
Ronaldinho paced back and forth.
Nobody liked seeing teammates injured.
Nobody liked seeing friends injured.
Several minutes passed.
Then movement.
Small movement.
Rio sat up.
The entire stadium reacted instantly.
Applause erupted.
Not celebration.
Relief.
Pure relief.
Bella nearly collapsed back into her seat.
His mother covered her face.
Sofia finally released a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
But the concern remained.
Because sitting up wasn't the same as standing.
And standing wasn't the same as continuing.
The doctors spoke with him.
Asked questions.
Checked his leg.
The entire stadium waited.
The first half was nearly over.
The score remained 0-0.
But nobody was thinking about the score anymore.
Everyone was staring at one player.
Waiting to discover whether Barcelona could continue with him.
Or without him.