From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

Mateo sat at the small, square dinner table tucked into the corner of the living room, a generous slice of sticky toffee pudding in front of him. The golden-brown sauce shimmered under the afternoon light, slowly dripping down the sides of the warm sponge cake like caramel lava.

He stabbed his fork into the soft pudding and brought it to his mouth, closing his eyes briefly as the rich flavor hit his tongue. It was just as he remembered — maybe even better.

"Mmm," he hummed mid-bite, speaking through a mouthful of dessert. "The place... it's just... so nice."

Another bite.

"I mean... me too, I even introduced Pedri to the youth squad. Since we're all similar in age, we clicked instantly him and Gavi even formed a partnership when we trained together."

He chuckled softly, licking a little toffee sauce from the corner of his lips before scooping up another forkful, talking in between chews like someone completely at home.

"And Leo — that's Messi for your information he told me to call him Leo — he and I are very close."

Chomp.

"Like... he even invited me to meet his wife and kids after our next match."

Pause for another bite, chewing noisily.

"Apparently... his kids really like me."

He grinned proudly, eyes dancing with the memory as he licked the spoon clean, fully immersed in the taste and the moment.

Just then, his father, David, stepped in from the hallway, his hands holding a small slip of paper. His smile was calm, steady — the smile of a man holding something meaningful.

"Here's your passport," David said, placing it gently on the table just beside Mateo's plate.

"Thank you, sir," Mateo mumbled, still laser-focused on scraping every last drop of pudding from the plate. He grabbed the dish, tilting it in the light, chasing streaks of toffee like a hunter on a mission.

"I should probably start heading out soon," he added, now aggressively scraping his fork around the porcelain like he was trying to excavate buried treasure.

He lifted the plate to his lips, tongue hovering as he gave the rim a quick, unapologetic lick — and that's when he noticed something. Out of the corner of his eye, both his parents stood quietly at the other side of the room. Neither spoke. They just watched him with soft smiles on their faces.

Mateo paused mid-lick.

Slowly, he lowered the plate, his expression tightening in slight confusion.

"What?" he asked, glancing between them. "Is there something on my mouth?"

His dad chuckled, arms crossing loosely. "No... Well... yes. But that's not why we were looking at you."

Mateo blinked, then started wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a sheepish grin spreading across his pudding-streaked face.

His mother, Isabella, stepped forward, her eyes shimmering as her voice went gentle, almost hushed with emotion.

"We're just... so proud of you, son."

She placed a hand on her chest, her breath catching a little.

"My own son... FC Barcelona's main striker."

As the words escaped her lips, she gasped softly again, almost like she was still trying to believe it herself. Then, before Mateo could react, she swooped in for another hug, arms wrapping around him with a tightness only a mother could offer.

"Mommm..." Mateo laughed, squirming a little but not truly resisting. "You're gonna ruin my jersey!"

"You'll get another one!" she laughed back, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

David stood a few steps behind, watching the scene unfold with a quiet pride that didn't need grand gestures. His voice was low but firm, laced with deep feeling.

"You know, son... we don't say it enough. But we're proud of you."

He stepped forward, resting a hand on Mateo's shoulder — firm, grounding.

"You're our shining star. You always have been. No matter what happens out there... we're just glad you're our son."

Mateo looked up at him, his smile softening, emotions swirling behind his eyes.

"Thanks, Dad," he said quietly.

David's expression cracked into a grin as he reached over, ruffling Mateo's hair playfully.

"Now go wash that toffee off your face, superstar."

Mateo had barely recovered from his mother's ironclad hug, the warm scent of her perfume still lingering around him, when his father suddenly spoke, stepping forward with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"Oh, that's true," David said, tapping his temple like he'd just remembered. "Your Uncle Andrew said he's coming to the country soon. Something about your board... and your contract."

Mateo, who had just picked up his now-empty dessert plate, paused. He had been about to take it to the kitchen, but his mother gently intercepted him with a soft smile, collecting it from his hands.

He turned slightly, passport now safely tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, and muttered, "Uncle Andrew?"

David nodded. "Yes. According to him, he should be here the day after your PSG match."

Uncle Andrew. His father's twin brother, and His dads only living relative.

Both born in the slums of Manchester, Andrew and David King were orphans from a young age. Life had not been kind. David, being the older twin by just a few minutes, had taken on the role of protector. He gave up everything—his education, his dreams, his youth—to work and make sure Andrew had a shot at a better life.

Andrew never forgot that.

While David found solace and purpose in kitchens—developing a fierce love for cooking—Andrew buried himself in books. He studied like a man possessed, determined to honour every sacrifice made on his behalf. He became a respected lawyer, sharp, eloquent, always wearing his signature tightly-knotted tie and neatly-pressed suits. Even in success, he remained grateful.

Years later, in an effort to repay his brother, Andrew gifted David a world culinary tour—a dream trip to explore global cuisines. But on David's first stop, Barcelona, fate took over.

There, he met Isabella—a local Catalan woman with fiery eyes, a loud laugh, and a heart just as big as his. He never made it to the next destination. He cancelled the rest of the tour, used the remaining money to buy a modest property, and married the woman who became Mateo's mother. The rest was history.

That was Uncle Andrew—but to Mateo, he was more than just a sharply-dressed uncle with a briefcase.

He was also his agent.

Mateo chuckled softly to himself, remembering the moment he made that happen. He couldn't have been more than six or seven, chasing Uncle Andrew around the house with a crayon and a hand-drawn contract.

"Sign it! Sign it! You're my agent now! When I play for Barça and make millions, you'll handle it!"

Uncle Andrew had tried to reason with the hyperactive boy, dodging behind furniture, holding up his hands.

"Mateo, you don't even have a club!"

"Doesn't matter! I will! Just sign!"

Eventually, worn down by the relentless energy of a child who knew exactly what he wanted, Andrew gave in and scrawled his name beneath the scribbled title: Official Agent Contract.

It was silly. It was playful. But somehow, it became real.

Years later, Andrew King was officially Mateo King's agent. And if David mentioned the board and contract, Mateo knew exactly what his uncle was referring to.

The last few weeks had been a whirlwind.

With every touch of the ball, every thrilling goal, every post-match interview, Mateo's name exploded across the footballing world. Seventeen years old and lighting up the Camp Nou like he owned it. He was everywhere—headlines, social media, the mouths of analysts and fans alike. Kids wore his name. Coaches called him generational. Sponsors came knocking.

But for all the glamour and excitement, nothing had been quite as surreal as hearing his name during the presidential campaigns.

No, not Spain's general election. Something bigger—at least, to the people of Barcelona.

The FC Barcelona presidential election.

Barcelona wasn't just a city. It was a heartbeat. A culture rooted in fierce pride and identity. With Catalonia's unique history and desire for self-determination, the people here lived and breathed their symbols. And none were greater than FC Barcelona.

Eight in ten people in the city supported the club. Elections for Barça president weren't just football decisions—they were deeply emotional, almost sacred civic moments.

And this year? It was monumental.

Following years of turmoil—the Anfield collapse, the Roma disaster, the humiliation against Bayern, and astronomical spending on underperforming stars—the club had reached its breaking point. The previous president had resigned amidst scandal. The interim president was wildly unpopular.

A new leader was inevitable.

There were three main contenders.

The favourite: Joan Laporta. The man who oversaw the club's golden age from 2003 to 2010. A charismatic figure whose legacy stood tall, especially compared to the failures that followed. When things go bad, people long for what once brought them joy. Laporta was that comfort.

Then came Víctor Font. A wealthy and highly respected businessman who had been campaigning for years. He had vision, polish, and had even come second in the previous election with 30% of the vote.

Lastly, Toni Freixa. Ambitious, persistent, and deeply entrenched in the club's politics. He had served on the boards of Rosell and Bartomeu and was known for his fiery opinions and insider strategies.

The election was the talk of the city—in cafes, in schools, on the radio, and in every taxi cab.

And somehow, in all that noise, Mateo King's name had been spoken.

By more than one candidate.

And how was Mateo involved in all this?

Well… in a city where football was religion, Mateo King had become its latest young prophet. The new darling of Barcelona. The boy wonder whose name now echoed from every corner of Catalunya — from tapas bars in the Gothic Quarter to grandmothers watching El Clásico on flickering TV sets in the hills of Montjuïc.

Mateo wasn't just playing football. He was electrifying the pitch. Every touch, every turn, every audacious run set hearts pounding. He had the kind of magic in his boots that made strangers hug in stadium aisles, made grown men believe again.

So it came as no surprise that in the heat of Barcelona's most important presidential election in years — Mateo was a key point of discussion. A recurring name, uttered with a mix of awe and anxiety, in every debate, every round-table, every interview.

And the topic?

His contract.

As of now, Mateo was still technically an academy player — bound by the slim threads of a youth contract. A contract that had served well enough when he was just another promising talent on the training ground, but now… now he was something else entirely. A rising star. A symbol. A golden boy.

And that meant something dangerous.

With every dazzling performance, the fear grew — in the boardroom, in the locker room, and especially among the fans. The fear that another club, with deeper pockets and colder intentions, might swoop in with a monstrous offer. That someone from Paris, Manchester, or even Madrid might whisper numbers into his ear too big to ignore.

And for FC Barcelona… that would be a disaster. Not just a loss of talent, but a blow to the very soul of the club.

Because now, more than anything, there was one headline looming over the election:

"Forget votes. Forget promises. Whoever gets Mateo's signature… gets the future."

A/N

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