From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

"No, no, seriously. You don't need to pay!" the cab driver insisted, waving both hands with a bright smile, rejecting the 10-euro note Mateo was offering him.

"No, take it," Mateo replied, pushing the bill forward politely but firmly. He didn't like feeling like he owed anyone anything.

The cab driver shook his head, laughing warmly, his eyes twinkling with excitement.

"Don't worry about it, young man. You can repay me by making sure we beat PSG in the next match!"

For a brief moment, the words hung in the air. Mateo paused, feeling the weight behind them — not pressure, but passion. The passion of a fan, of a city, of millions who lived and breathed Barcelona.

A small fire ignited inside his chest as he smiled back, his voice full of resolve.

"Don't worry. We're going to give everything. We'll fight until our last breath on that pitch."

The cab driver beamed like a proud uncle, his voice rising with enthusiasm.

"That's what I like to hear! VISCA BARÇA!" he shouted, pumping his fist into the air.

"RAMATONDA!" he suddenly added, his voice even louder, mixing his own burst of excitement into the chant.

Without missing a beat, Mateo matched his energy.

"VISCA CATALUNYA! RAMATONDA" he shouted back, his voice echoing down the narrow Barcelona street.

The two men laughed together for a moment, sharing in that unspoken bond only football could create, before the driver gave one last honk of his horn and pulled away, his car disappearing into the mid-afternoon traffic.

Mateo stood still for a moment, his hands in his pockets, watching the car fade into the distance, his smile lingering. Then he turned slowly back toward the building that stood in front of him.

Home.

It wasn't grand.

It wasn't fancy.

But it was home.

The restaurant stood tucked between two slightly taller buildings, its warm brick exterior quietly worn by time and years of hard work. Above the door hung a hand-painted wooden sign that read:

"King's Palace Restaurant"

The gold lettering shimmered slightly under the soft rays of the afternoon sun. The restaurant's large front window was decorated with small potted plants, and behind the glass were simple but inviting red-checkered curtains, gently swaying in the breeze.

But something felt... off.

Normally, at this hour, the restaurant would have a handful of tourists inside—foreigners craving a taste of home-cooked English food while visiting the heart of Barcelona. Yet now, the place was oddly still. No chatter. No clinking of plates. No soft music humming in the background. Not a single person walking in or out.

Mateo frowned slightly, curiosity prickling at him, but he quickly shrugged it off. Maybe it was just a slow afternoon. He reached for the door handle.

The wooden door was old but sturdy, its surface polished smooth by the touch of countless hands over the years. The brass handle was cool to the touch as he gripped it and gently pushed forward, the familiar creak of the hinges greeting him like an old friend.

As the door swung open, he stepped inside with a wide grin, his voice ringing out with warmth:

"I'm ho—"

But his words died in his throat.

Silence.

The restaurant was completely empty.

The wooden tables sat neatly arranged, the chairs perfectly aligned, untouched. The afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting long, soft shadows across the polished wooden floor. The air inside was still, almost unnervingly still. It was eerie — not a single customer, not a single voice, not even the faintest sound of clattering dishes.

Mateo's smile faded into a puzzled expression as he stood in the doorway, scanning the room with growing confusion.

"Mom? Dad? I'm home…" he called out, his voice softer now, echoing slightly in the emptiness.

No answer.

His steps echoed as he slowly moved deeper into the restaurant, looking left and right.

"Mom? Dad?" he called again, a faint nervousness creeping into his voice.

Passing through the dining area, he pushed open the swinging doors to the kitchen. The familiar smell of baked sugar, butter, and caramel hit him instantly, a scent that made his stomach rumble almost involuntarily. And there, sitting inside the oven with the timer blinking "00:00," was his father's famous Sticky Toffee Pudding — Mateo's personal favourite.

The top was perfectly caramelized, its glossy brown surface glistening under the kitchen lights. Mateo quickly grabbed an oven mitt, sliding the tray out carefully. The heat radiated against his face as the rich scent filled his nostrils.

"Mmm… smells amazing," he whispered to himself, a soft smile tugging at his lips as his stomach gave a hungry growl.

He inhaled deeply, momentarily comforted by the familiar aroma, but as he looked around the kitchen — so quiet, so empty — the uneasiness returned.

"Dad must've just finished this… but where is he?" Mateo thought, glancing over his shoulder. The kitchen was spotless, all the usual signs of activity absent — no open cabinets, no bustling, no clatter of utensils. Just the pudding. And silence.

He set the dessert gently on the counter, wiped his hands on the oven mitts, and headed toward the back of the restaurant. Maybe they were in the apartment attached behind the restaurant. That's where his parents usually went to rest between shifts.

With growing curiosity, and now a slight pulse of nervousness in his chest, Mateo moved toward the inner parts of the building, calling softly as he walked:

"Mom? Dad?"

After leaving the sticky toffee pudding cooling behind him, Mateo made his way through the back of the kitchen, passing through a narrow hallway where the warm scent of baked goods still lingered in the air. His eyes soon landed on a staircase tucked at the corner, its wooden steps slightly creaking under his weight as he started climbing upward. The soft hum of the old ceiling fan above greeted him, its slow rotations whispering like an old house welcoming back its child.

At the top of the stairs stood a modest wooden door, slightly ajar. He gently pushed it open, its hinges letting out a faint squeak as he stepped inside. Immediately, a calm warmth wrapped around him like an embrace — this was their living space, their home above the restaurant.

"Mom? Dad?" Mateo called softly, his voice floating into the room as he carefully stepped forward.

The living room greeted him like an old friend. A small smile tugged at his lips as he whispered to himself, Home sweet home. The room was simple but full of life — a comfortable beige couch sat near a small television, while a dark oak coffee table held a stack of neatly arranged magazines, a few half-burned candles, and a vase of fresh flowers. The curtains gently swayed as sunlight filtered through, illuminating every corner with a soft golden glow.

His gaze wandered to the shelf that ran along one wall, filled with framed photographs — frozen memories lovingly displayed. Mateo walked over and began observing them one by one, his smile widening with every frame.

In one photo, a much younger version of himself stood proudly in an oversized La Masia jersey, barely reaching his knees, a scraped knee showing through as he smiled defiantly at the camera. Another showed him mid-game as a child, focused intensely, ball at his feet. In another, he was propped up between two beaming young parents. His father — an Englishman with thick blond hair, warm blue eyes, and a mischievous grin — stood arm around his mother, a beautiful Spanish woman with soft brown hair, olive-toned skin, and kind hazel eyes that sparkled like the Mediterranean sun.

Looking at the photos, it was impossible not to see where Mateo came from. His mother's eyes, his father's nose, his mother's smile, his father's chin — a perfect blend of two worlds living inside him.

Still holding one of the frames, a sudden crash startled him. The loud clang echoed from deeper within the house, making him freeze for a brief moment before he instinctively moved toward the source of the noise.

Following the sound, Mateo stepped into the second kitchen — this one much smaller, more intimate, and clearly reserved for family use rather than the restaurant's customers. The smell of caramelized sugar and warm custard filled the air.

From inside, he heard familiar voices bickering — voices that filled him with so much comfort it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

"I told you to leave it to me, you're just making a mess again!" came his mother's slightly exasperated but affectionate voice.

His father immediately shot back, "Mateo will be here any moment, and you know he prefers my cooking. Just leave it to me, Isabella!"

"Exactly!" his mother snapped playfully. "It's been 30 minutes since they called us — go check on the pudding! It should be done already, and leave this part to me."

Mateo stood there, watching them quietly with a glowing smile stretching across his face, his heart swelling at the sight. It was like stepping into one of the photographs — the same couple, only a little older now. His father's once-lush blond hair was now thinning, with a small bald patch forming at the crown, and faint wrinkles lined his face. His mother's brown hair had streaks of silver, but her eyes still carried the same warmth and energy that had comforted him since childhood.

For a moment, he simply let himself soak in the scene. After all these weeks of pressure, responsibility, and the weight of playing for one of the biggest clubs in the world — this was what home truly meant.

Finally, he spoke up, his voice filled with playful warmth:

"There's no need to worry, I already took it out of the oven."

His mother froze mid-motion, and his father continued stirring the custard without even glancing up, replying matter-of-factly, "See? Mateo's already taken it out. Now stop worrying, woman."

But as he said so, he paused, suddenly registering what he had just heard. His hand stilled over the saucepan, his eyes widening. "Wait... Mateo?!"

Before he could even turn fully, his mother had already spun around, letting out an emotional squeal.

"My baby!!" she cried, rushing toward him with open arms.

Mateo barely had time to brace himself before she embraced him tightly, her arms squeezing him with all the strength of years of love and longing.

"Mom! You're squeezing me too tight!" Mateo laughed breathlessly, though his voice trembled with emotion as his mother buried her face into his chest, refusing to let go.

"You're finally home, my baby. I've missed you so much," she whispered, her voice cracking ever so slightly.

His father soon joined, stepping beside them. He placed his hands firmly on Mateo's shoulders, his eyes glistening with unshed tears but wearing a proud, heartfelt smile.

"Welcome home, son."

Mateo looked between them, feeling the warmth of his family wrapping around him. For the first time in a long while, the weight on his shoulders lightened, and all the noise of the outside world melted away.

A/N

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