From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness

Mateo stood at the edge of the curb, his travel bag slung over one shoulder, passport tucked safely in his jacket pocket, the sweet smell of sticky toffee pudding still lingering faintly in the fabric of his shirt. The warm afternoon sun kissed his cheeks as he turned back to the restaurant one more time, his parents standing just outside the door.

"Byeeee!" he called, drawing out the word with a playful grin, lifting his hand in a wave. He stepped into the waiting cab, the door closing with a soft thud.

"Later!" he added, giving them a mock salute through the rolled-down window.

His mother smiled, cupping her hands to her mouth, her voice trailing after him like a ribbon in the breeze. "Just make sure to have fun! Don't overthink things! Eat well, please!"

"And bring me back some authentic bouillabaisse!" his father called, grinning wide, referring to the classic Provençal fish stew native to France. "I don't trust those French recipes online!"

Mateo burst out laughing. "No problem, Chef King!"

But just as the cab began to roll forward, his mother suddenly waved her hands, remembering something. "Ooo, that's true! Your cousin María and her friend are coming too. It's been ages since she's been in the country, so I told her mom you'd show them around! You're free that day, I already checked! It'll be good for you to catch up, okay?"

Mateo's eyes widened. "Wait, Mom, what?!" he started to protest, leaning forward as if to stop the cab.

But his mom was quicker. She turned to the driver and chirped, "Okay driver, go now!"

"Wait, Mom!" Mateo shouted, but it was too late. The cab began to accelerate.

"Have a great time in Paris, son!" she called, waving with both hands, her voice echoing down the street.

From the doorway, her husband stepped out and stood beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders as they watched the car pull away.

"You and your sister are at it again, ehn?" he said, chuckling as he eyed her sideways.

She blinked innocently, resting her head on his shoulder. "Whatever do you mean, darling?"

"Mmhmm," he muttered with a knowing grin.

Inside the cab, Mateo had twisted around, trying to get one last word in. But when he finally gave up and turned to face forward, his expression shifted immediately. His eyes widened. His lips parted.

Horror.

A vivid image flashed in his mind—a younger version of himself, lying flat on the living room floor, completely at the mercy of a small girl standing over him with a massive, mischievous grin. She held a toy frying pan in one hand like it was Thor's hammer.

His entire body tensed. A chill crept down his spine.

"Not her," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head rapidly, like he could fling the memory away. A full-body shudder overtook him as he collapsed back into the seat.

He barely noticed as the cab came to a halt. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a 10-euro note and extended it to the driver.

"Ah, no no," the man said, shaking his head with a warm smile. "You're Mateo, right? No need. Just make sure to beat PSG!"

Mateo exhaled a soft chuckle, relaxing just a little.

"Visca Catalunya," he said, giving the man a nod.

"Visca Barca!" the driver replied, then drove off, leaving Mateo standing there once more with ten euros in his hand—and a whole trip ahead of him.

Mateo stood there a moment longer, hands in his pockets, breathing in the familiar scent of Barcelona's training ground. A soft smile curled onto his lips as he turned toward the Joan Gamper entrance. But just before he could step in, the doors burst open.

Koeman.

The coach emerged in a rush, surrounded by a flurry of staff. He was halfway through rapid instructions, his phone tucked between his shoulder and ear while speaking to the club's kit manager and an assistant. "Tell the PSG staff we're taking their stadium for tonight's light session. And get Stade Jean-Bouin to confirm backup permission just in case," Koeman ordered briskly.

That was the scene—utter chaos—until he heard it:

"Gaffer?"

Koeman turned, slightly startled from the flood of logistics, his eyes locking with Mateo's. A flicker of relief flashed across the manager's face. "Great! Mateo is here!" he announced without pause, instantly turning to the group trailing him. "Someone take him to the bus. We're heading out now."

Then he stepped up to Mateo, still moving fast, barely slowing. "That's good. You're early, I like that. You rested? Ate well? You've got your boots? We don't want—"

"Yes, yes, all set," Mateo replied quickly, smiling as he tried to match Koeman's energy.

"Great, great." Koeman barely let him finish, already patting Mateo on the shoulder. "Make sure you hydrate. You'll start light tonight, but tomorrow, we go all out. Champions League means everything."

He turned again, this time barking behind him, "Is the plane ready? I want us airborne in thirty minutes tops!"

And just like that, he was gone again—engulfed in his orbit of chaos, already coordinating the rest of the travel team. Mateo stood watching, caught in the whirlwind and still feeling the heat of the coach's hand on his shoulder.

"Mateo," a voice called from the side, breaking through his thoughts.

He turned quickly, slightly startled.

"Oh—sorry," he said, blinking at the staffer.

"Your passport, please."

"Oh yeah, of course." Mateo reached into his pocket, pulling out the carefully folded document and handing it over.

The man looked it over, checked the name and photo, then nodded. "All good. The bus is—"

"Yeah, I know where it is," Mateo cut in, offering a faint smile.

"Alright then," the man said with a nod, stepping aside.

"Thanks," Mateo replied, already walking toward the familiar blue and red coach parked outside the training facility.

As he rounded the corner and saw it—Barcelona's team bus gleaming under the early afternoon sun—a slow smile tugged at his face. Yeah, he thought, there it is.

But then something caught his eye.

To the side, behind a low barrier, stood a small group of kids—maybe eight or nine years old—wearing oversized Barcelona jerseys that dwarfed their small frames. The La Masia kids. They were giggling, pointing, waving their hands frantically in Mateo's direction.

He waved back instinctively, but then paused.

His eyes settled on one particular boy near the front. Big curls. Shoes half untied. Grinning like the world couldn't possibly get any better.

And for a split second, Mateo didn't just see the kid—he saw himself.

He saw himself behind that fence years ago, face pressed against the metal mesh, watching the first team walk past, his heart pounding like a drum. A kid with scuffed boots, wild dreams, and the foolish audacity to believe one day he'd ride the same bus as the stars he worshipped.

And now here he was.

Inside the fence.

Inside the dream.

His throat tightened—not with sadness, but with something like quiet awe. A silent thank you to the boy he used to be for not giving up.

Then he turned, climbing onto the bus.

The familiar scent hit him first—liniment oil, aftershave, fresh leather seats, and the faintest whiff of energy drinks. The team was already buzzing inside, some lounging, some tossing small balls across the aisle, a few scrolling through their phones, others laughing loudly at inside jokes.

Mateo walked down the narrow aisle, eyes scanning the locker room-on-wheels. He took it all in—the veterans, the rookies, the chaos, the life. And in his heart, one simple thought bloomed:

From the boy behind the fence staring at the stars… to now riding with them.

In the front, a staff manager—dressed in club gear and holding a tablet—stood addressing the group.

"Alright, listen up!" the man shouted above the noise. "We're staying at Hotel Raphael. Two per room, pairings are already assigned. Don't mix them up, or I'll switch you with the keeper coach, and trust me, he snores like a tractor. Dinner's at 7. Light training at 9. Bus leaves for the stadium at 8:45 sharp tomorrow."

A few heads turned, a few others nodded distractedly.

No one was really paying attention.

Mateo was no different from the rest of the squad, sunk comfortably into his seat next to Pedri, their heads leaned together over the buzz of casual conversation. A FIFA debate had sparked between them, one of many.

"So is it that Balde is only good when using Barca and Leo, or what?" Pedri asked, smirking.

Mateo, hearing that, lit up like a flare. "YES! Finally someone who gets it! He isn't really good, bro, he just hides behind Messi. All he does is that same left flick turn and finesse shot to the far post—the Messi cheat code! That's his whole game!"

He threw his hands up in mock frustration, animated as always when it came to FIFA. But before Pedri could laugh, a sudden roar echoed from outside.

"Ehn? What's that?" Mateo muttered, brow furrowing.

"Oh, that should be the fans," Pedri replied casually.

"Fans?" Mateo blinked.

Pedri, seated by the window, pulled open the blinds.

Mateo leaned in and saw it—a sea of blue and claret. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of Barcelona fans lined the roadside, chanting, waving banners, clapping, cheering. Some had scarves spinning above their heads, others were holding up signs with his name on them. His name.

Fireworks sparked in the distance. A flare burned red, casting shadows across the waving arms. One young fan had painted his face with Mateo's number, his shirt barely fitting over his hoodie.

Mateo stared, lips slightly parted.

"Wow..." he breathed.

From behind him, Pique leaned forward with a chuckle. "You think this is much? Win tomorrow, and you'll see real madness."

Mateo barely heard him. His heart beat like a drum, deep and fast. The weight of the shirt he wore now felt different—heavier, but in the best way.

And then, softly, almost like a whisper to himself, he said, "We can't let them down."

The rest of the bus ride was electric. Fans had crowded the airport, too, some waving and cheering, others crying with emotion just seeing the players pass by.

But the mood shifted as they arrived in Paris.

Here, it wasn't chants and cheers that met them. It was a wall of boos, the buzz of flashing lights, aggressive camera clicks, PSG fans shouting and banging barriers. Some had smoke sticks, a few chanting taunts in French. One held a sign that read: "Go home, Barcelona!"

Still, the players moved with calm professionalism, guarded but composed.

They reached the hotel—a five-star luxury retreat tucked within the heart of Paris. Polished marble floors, golden chandeliers, and walls that smelled of rosewater.

Dinner was brief. Messages came in from staff. Later, they went for a light training session under the glow of the stadium lights at Parc des Princes. The empty seats loomed above them, massive and echoing. The calm before the storm.

When they returned to the hotel, most of the players looked quiet, contemplative.

Koeman gathered them in the lounge. He didn't speak loudly, just clearly.

"Get a good night's sleep. Don't spend the night on your phones reading what people are saying. You're ready. You've trained for this. Enjoy the moment. Sleep with calm hearts and clear minds. Good night, boys."

A chorus of soft replies followed:

"Good night, gaffer." "Good night, coach."

Mateo clutched his room key in hand, nodding to the rest of the team as they filtered out toward their rooms.

He stared at the number printed in gold.

Room 512.

He walked the quiet corridor, polished wood beneath his feet, and reached the door. A gentle beep. The door swung open.

Inside, the room was nothing short of luxury. Cream-colored sheets, a perfectly folded robe on the bed, and curtains the size of sails.

Mateo laughed softly to himself as he ran his hand over the bed. He bounced on it once, just because he could, then walked to the small desk where he plugged in his phone. It lit up with message after message—texts, missed calls, tagged photos, fan art, reporters. He didn't respond. He just turned the screen face-down.

Silence.

Then he walked over to the balcony.

The doors slid open, and a soft breeze kissed his face. Paris shimmered below him, quiet and golden. The Eiffel Tower blinked in the distance like a sleepy guardian.

He inhaled deeply. The night air filled his lungs. Tomorrow would be war.

But tonight...

Tonight was still.

Mateo stood on the balcony of his Paris hotel suite, breathing deeply.

The cold night breeze brushed his face, the low hum of distant traffic and the faint chants of fans still echoing from below, rising from the depths of the city like an invisible tide. From his high vantage point, he could see the lights of Paris flickering across the skyline like restless stars. Tomorrow, all eyes would be on the Parc des Princes. PSG. Champions League. A defining moment.

But Mateo wasn't nervous.

His heart beat steadily, his breath calm. He could hear the loud chants of the PSG fans already trying to rattle the visitors, already writing off Barcelona. He knew the pressure was immense—the city, the club, the badge—all weighed heavily on his shoulders. But the thing was... it didn't bother him. Not one bit.

And the reason was simple.

It wasn't arrogance or ignorance. It was certainty. And that certainty stemmed from one place:

His stats.

[Host: Mateo

Attack power: 89 (96)

Possession: 80 (85)

Dribbles: 85 (90)

Speed: 90 (99)

Shots: 91 (96)

Passing: 85 (87)

Headers: 85 (90)

Explosive Power: 80 (85)

Strength: 75 (80)

Confrontation: 80 (90)

Stamina: 71 (77)

Defensive Abilities: 40 (50)

Steals: 50 (60)]

After receiving the legendary long-pass precision of Xabi Alonso, and the devastating left-footed shooting ability of Rivaldo—including his signature barb shot—Mateo's offensive capabilities had exploded. His once-dominant right foot was now matched nearly equally by his left. He was a threat from every angle.

The intense diet and training imposed by the club had finally begun to show results. His stamina, long his weakest stat, had started catching up with his explosive pace and attacking aggression. No longer could fatigue pull him down as it once did.

But most of all... what filled him with unshakable confidence wasn't just the numbers—it was the quiet note blinking at the bottom of the system panel.

[Note: Host is currently ranked among the Top 15 best players in the world. In his position as a striker, host ranks within the Top 3 globally.]

Just a couple of meters away, inside the now-silent Parc des Princes stadium—the same pitch where Barcelona had trained only hours ago—another fire was quietly burning, refusing to go out.

CLANG!

The sharp echo of a football rattling off the crossbar cut through the heavy night air.

"Oof… a bar. That would've been some shot."

A low voice muttered from the shadows just behind the advertising boards.

"How long's he been at this?" another asked, a figure stepping forward from the tunnel light.

"Since the Barca squad left," came the reply. The voice belonged to one of the senior kit managers, arms folded, watching the lone figure on the pitch.

"Seriously? That long? He needs to rest, we've got a game tomorrow."

"Just leave him," the kit manager said, sighing. "He needs this."

The assistant coach squinted toward the field where a lone player paced like a caged panther. "Hmph. I guess all those comparisons got to him, huh?"

"You don't know the half of it," the kit man said, shaking his head. "Let's just hope it fuels him tomorrow. Lord knows—with the form Barça's been in—we're going to need it."

The player sprinted again, charging with the ball like a missile, slicing between invisible defenders. A quick shift, one flick of his boot, and the ball curved into the top corner with brutal elegance.

The net rippled.

The man behind the shot stopped at the edge of the box, breathing hard, sweat glistening under the floodlights still dimly lit for maintenance. His chest heaved with effort, but his eyes—his eyes were steady flames.

"Kylian," a voice called gently from the sidelines. "That's enough. You need to rest for tomorrow."

Kylian Mbappé turned his head slightly, but said nothing. His gaze was locked on the goal, on the ball nestled in the net like it had been ordered there by destiny.

His jaw tightened.

He had heard the whispers. He had read the articles. He'd seen the videos—hell, they were everywhere. The New Prodigy. The New Golden Boy. Barcelona's Crown Jewel.

Mateo King. Seventeen years old. Lighting up the world.

And now… the media was doing what it always did. Comparing. Pitting one against another.

Mbappé vs Mateo.

The young king of France versus the boy wonder of Spain.

Kylian didn't hate the boy. He didn't even know him. But what he did know—what boiled inside him—was the fire of a competitor, a predator. The idea that someone, anyone, was coming for his crown, made something primal burn in his chest.

Paris Saint-Germain had not been at their best lately. A string of poor league results. Unstable performances. Unimpressed fans. Headlines speculating if Mbappé had lost his edge.

And now? Now the spotlight was turning toward some new name. A kid.

He clenched his fists.

He remembered when he was the kid. When the world couldn't stop talking about his blistering pace, his hat-tricks in the Champions League, the teenage World Cup winner.

And now… they thought he would just fade into the background?

They were wrong.

If Kylian Mbappé had a system like Mateo, if he could see numbers flashing in his vision, one note would appear in bold glowing text:

[Top 3 Player in the World]

And if anyone doubted it—he didn't.

Because when an athlete believes in himself without hesitation, it isn't arrogance.

It's confidence.

Kylian Mbappé had earned that right. Since 2020, he'd dominated every competition he stepped into. His talent wasn't up for debate. And if the list said Top 3?

There was no doubt in his mind… he wasn't number 3.

Not tonight.

And not tomorrow.

Now, that player—arguably the greatest footballer on the planet in this very moment—was fired up. His blood ran like lava, and his sights were locked onto one target:

FC Barcelona.

And the boy they now dared to compare to him.

Mateo King.

A/N

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