Three days after their first permanent training session with the senior squad, Barcelona had started whispering.
Not the loud kind of whisper.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that traveled through cafés, newspaper offices, television studios, locker rooms, and school hallways before exploding into headlines.
Because football cities survived on rumors.
And Barcelona?
Barcelona worshipped possibility.
Especially impossible possibility.
The rumors began quietly enough after a local journalist leaked something vague on a late-night radio show:
"Two academy players have seriously impressed Frank Rijkaard this week. One of them may already be close to the senior squad."
That should have been the end of it.
Instead—
someone asked a follow-up question.
"Messi?"
The journalist hesitated.
Then casually replied:
"Messi, yes. But there's another one too."
That single sentence lit the city on fire.
By Friday morning, sports papers had completely abandoned subtlety.
At the breakfast table inside La Masia, newspapers were spread across nearly every surface.
One headline stretched dramatically across an entire front page:
RIJKAARD'S SECRET WEAPONS
Another:
THE FUTURE OF BARÇA ARRIVING EARLY?
And then—
the name that made Rio sigh quietly into his coffee.
THE GHOST MAY DEBUT
Messi stared at the paper like it had personally insulted him.
"They're insane."
Rio calmly kept eating toast.
"Yes."
"How do they even know?"
"People talk."
Messi looked horrified.
"I hate people."
Reasonable.
Around them, academy players had become unbearable.
Piqué slammed himself into the chair opposite them dramatically.
"You're famous."
Rio did not look up.
"Temporary."
Cesc immediately rolled his eyes.
"You have to stop saying that."
Piqué grabbed the newspaper.
"They called him The Ghost of La Masia," he announced loudly to the room. "Honestly? Kind of cool."
Messi pointed toward another article.
"They think I might start."
His voice carried equal parts disbelief and panic.
Rio looked over calmly.
"You probably will."
Messi blinked.
"What?"
"You fit what Rijkaard needs."
"Why are you saying that like it's obvious?"
"Because it is."
Messi leaned back slowly.
"I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse."
The truth was—
Rio had already begun reading the signs.
The extra tactical conversations.
The way assistants quietly observed him during shape drills.
The questions from Rijkaard.
The increasingly serious tone from senior players.
Something was changing.
Fast.
Faster than expected.
Still—
he disliked assumptions.
Football punished assumptions.
Until names appeared on paper, nothing existed.
Training became harder.
Much harder.
Because rumors affected everyone.
Veterans played sharper.
Younger players became desperate.
Competition intensified naturally.
And Rio?
Rio doubled down.
Every morning before sunrise, while most of La Masia still slept, he stood alone in the gym.
Jump mechanics.
Explosive movement.
Core stabilization.
Controlled strength work.
Nothing excessive.
Everything intentional.
He knew exactly where his weakness remained.
His mind already belonged at senior level.
His body still lagged behind.
And Rio Fiero hated imbalance.
The gym echoed softly as he repeated split-squat jumps, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt.
Again.
Controlled landing.
Again.
Explode upward.
Again.
Build the machine.
Across football history, talent died because bodies failed.
Rio refused to become another cautionary tale.
"You're insane."
Messi's sleepy voice broke the silence.
Rio glanced toward the doorway.
Messi stood there looking deeply offended by morning itself.
Messy hair.
Training jacket half-zipped.
Clearly miserable.
"You woke up willingly for this?"
"Yes."
Messi stared.
"…You frighten me."
Common reaction.
Leo wandered inside and collapsed dramatically onto nearby stretching mats.
"Why are you training already?" he mumbled.
Rio finished another repetition before answering.
"Because senior football is stronger."
"You're already good."
"Not enough."
Messi sighed.
"You say things like a supervillain."
"Efficient villains survive."
Messi groaned.
"I miss normal people."
But beneath the jokes—
Rio noticed something.
Messi's energy felt different.
Off.
Nervous.
Subtle.
But there.
After enough time together, Rio had learned Leo's patterns.
When excited, Messi talked endlessly.
When overwhelmed, he became quieter.
Right now—
too quiet.
Interesting.
After training, Rio finally asked.
"You nervous?"
Messi immediately looked offended.
"No."
Pause.
"…Maybe."
Honest.
Good.
The Argentine sat heavily on the bench and rubbed his face.
"What if I start and play badly?"
Rio leaned back.
"You probably will."
Messi froze.
"…What?"
"Not badly."
Rio clarified calmly.
"But imperfectly."
"That didn't help."
"You're fifteen."
Rio shrugged.
"You'll make mistakes."
Messi looked miserable.
"Great."
"But," Rio continued, "you're still Messi."
Silence.
Leo blinked.
"…What does that even mean?"
"It means eventually you'll embarrass defenders."
Messi stared for several seconds.
Then—
quiet laugh.
Small.
Needed.
"Sometimes I think you believe in me more than I do."
Rio didn't answer immediately.
Because true.
He did.
The world had not yet met Lionel Messi.
Rio already knew what was coming.
Later that afternoon, first-team training felt different again.
Tighter.
Sharper.
Everyone sensed something approaching.
The weekend squad announcement.
Every player knew it.
No one talked about it directly.
Professionals rarely did.
But tension existed anyway.
Even Ronaldinho looked more focused.
Puyol barked louder.
Rijkaard watched longer.
And during possession drills—
Rio noticed senior players testing him differently now.
Not academy treatment.
Competition treatment.
An older midfielder pressed harder than usual, clearly irritated by rumors.
At one point he muttered quietly:
"Kids getting too much attention."
Rio heard it.
Ignored it.
Football handled insecurity naturally.
Winning fixed everything.
Then came the tactical match.
Messi played with starters.
Rio with rotational group.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Because coaches revealed intentions accidentally.
Messi clearly fit something Rijkaard wanted.
And Rio?
Observation phase.
Yet—
during transitions, Rio kept disrupting shape.
Organizing.
Correcting.
Reading spaces faster than older players.
Twice he created clear chances.
Once—
he intercepted a passing lane before it even formed.
Xavi noticed instantly.
Again.
Always watching.
And afterward, while jogging back into shape, the midfielder quietly muttered:
"You're annoying."
Rio blinked.
"Why?"
"You solve problems too quickly."
High praise.
Xavi-style praise.
By evening—
Barcelona buzzed harder than ever.
And somewhere across the city—
inside an expensive private school parking lot—
Sofia Valera sat inside her father's black car scrolling through football articles.
Everywhere—
Rio Fiero.
Rumors.
Photos.
Analysis.
The mysterious boy who barely looked at her.
Who somehow ignored attention.
Who spoke like he already belonged in rooms older men fought to enter.
Her lips curved slightly.
Interesting boys bored her quickly.
Rio?
Rio only became stranger.
And now—
rumors said he might debut.
Her father entered the car moments later.
She looked up casually.
"Is he really that good?"
Her father paused.
Already knew who she meant.
"…Better than people realize."
Sofia leaned back slowly.
A dangerous smile appearing.
Good.
Because she intended to understand him.
One way or another.
Saturday arrived carrying a strange kind of tension.
Not fear.
Not excitement.
Something sharper.
Expectation.
At Barcelona, squad announcement day always changed the atmosphere. Even players who pretended not to care cared deeply. Football careers could shift in a single meeting, a single decision, a single sentence spoken by a coach standing in front of a tactical board.
And for the first time in their young lives—
Rio and Messi stood close enough to touch that reality.
La Masia woke unusually early.
Nobody admitted why.
But everyone knew.
The common room stayed louder than usual during breakfast, conversations bouncing between predictions, rumors, and exaggerated confidence.
Piqué, naturally, had opinions.
Far too many opinions.
"You're both getting called," he announced confidently while attacking breakfast like someone preparing for war.
Messi looked horrified immediately.
"No chance."
Rio calmly spread jam on toast.
"Possibly."
Cesc narrowed his eyes.
"You're weirdly calm."
Rio shrugged slightly.
"Control what matters."
"You're both psychopaths," Piqué muttered. "If Barcelona even whispers my name, I'm crying."
"That sounds accurate," Messi replied quietly.
Piqué pointed dramatically.
"At least I have emotions!"
The bus ride toward first-team training felt quieter than usual.
Messi sat beside Rio, bouncing his knee unconsciously.
A nervous habit.
One Rio had noticed appearing more frequently lately.
The little Argentine stared blankly out the window while Barcelona passed around them in flashes of early sunlight.
"You're thinking too loudly," Rio said eventually.
Messi turned.
"…What?"
"You look stressed."
"I'm not stressed."
Pause.
"Okay," Messi admitted. "I'm extremely stressed."
Honest.
Good.
"What if they don't call us?"
Rio leaned back calmly.
"Then we train harder."
Messi frowned.
"That answer annoys me."
"What if they call us?"
Rio looked over.
"Then we train harder."
Messi stared for several seconds.
"You're impossible."
Reasonable conclusion.
Training intensity somehow increased again.
Which should not have been possible.
Yet everyone felt it.
The edge.
The invisible competition.
The knowledge that squad selection approached.
Even senior professionals sharpened naturally when matchday neared.
Ronaldinho joked less.
Puyol shouted more.
Deco looked irritated at everything.
Xavi became laser-focused.
The football itself moved quicker.
Cleaner.
Crueler.
Mistakes punished instantly.
No wasted movement.
No sympathy.
Rio preferred it this way.
Pressure clarified things.
Pressure revealed truth.
And the truth today?
His body still lagged behind his football mind.
Twice during transition play he escaped pressure beautifully only to lose the final physical duel against older players.
Strong players.
Finished bodies.
Adult strength.
Frustrating.
Very frustrating.
Rio hated weakness.
Even temporary weakness.
After training ended, while most players headed toward recovery rooms, Rio remained outside.
Sprints.
Acceleration work.
Controlled resistance drills.
Nothing dramatic.
Everything measured.
He repeated explosive starts across short distances until sweat soaked through his shirt.
Again.
Explode.
Reset.
Again.
Build the body.
Fix the gap.
Football punished incomplete players eventually.
Rio refused incompletion.
"You know," a familiar voice said behind him, "normal people stop training eventually."
Rio looked up.
Ronaldinho stood nearby holding water bottle, still somehow smiling after ninety brutal minutes.
"Recovery matters too," the Brazilian added.
Rio slowed slightly.
"I'm recovering."
Ronaldinho laughed loudly.
"No."
Pointing.
"This?"
He gestured dramatically.
"This is obsession."
Rio considered.
Fair.
"Maybe."
The Brazilian stepped closer.
Expression softening slightly.
"You remind me of older players sometimes."
Rio looked over.
"Good older?"
"Yes."
Pause.
"Very serious older."
Another grin spread across Ronaldinho's face.
"But football must stay fun too."
Rio stayed quiet.
Because fun had never really been part of survival.
Football had been necessity.
Escape.
Plan.
Future.
Ronaldinho somehow seemed to understand anyway.
"You think too much," he said again. "Sometimes just play."
Then he walked off casually, spinning the ball once with impossible ease before disappearing into the building.
Rio watched him go.
Interesting advice.
Hard advice.
Messi struggled more privately.
Rio noticed immediately during tactical drills.
Tiny mistakes.
Extra hesitation.
Second-guessing.
Fear creeping in.
Dangerous.
Because confidence mattered enormously for players like Leo.
After lunch, Rio finally cornered him near the lockers.
"What happened?"
Messi frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"You're overthinking."
Silence.
Then Leo sighed heavily.
"What if I start and mess everything up?"
Rio leaned against the locker calmly.
"You probably won't."
"But what if I do?"
Rio answered honestly.
"Then you improve."
Messi looked deeply unconvinced.
"You make failure sound easy."
"It's required."
Leo stared.
"You really think like old person."
Common observation.
"But listen," Rio continued quietly, lowering his voice slightly. "If they call your name, it means you earned it."
Messi looked down.
Small.
Fifteen.
Suddenly very fifteen.
"…You really think I'm ready?"
Rio didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
The certainty mattered.
Because Rio never said things he didn't mean.
And somehow—
that steadied him.
A little.
Later that afternoon, Rijkaard called for a short internal match.
Starters versus reserves.
Final observations.
Final decisions.
And suddenly—
the tension became visible.
Nobody wanted mistakes.
Nobody wanted weak performances.
Senior players sharpened instinctively.
The football became faster than ever.
Messi played brilliantly for twenty minutes.
Then nervously overdribbled.
Twice.
Trying too hard.
Again.
Rio saw it immediately.
At halftime break, he quietly pulled Leo aside.
"You're forcing moments."
Messi rubbed his face.
"I know."
"No."
Rio shook his head slightly.
"You're trying to prove you belong."
Messi stayed silent.
Because true.
Rio pointed lightly toward the pitch.
"They already know you're special."
Pause.
"You don't have to prove magic."
Another pause.
"Just play."
Messi looked at him for several moments.
Then quietly nodded.
Simple.
Needed.
The second half changed.
Leo relaxed.
Trusted instincts.
Stopped forcing.
And immediately—
everything flowed again.
One assist.
Two impossible dribbles.
One shot barely saved.
Rijkaard noticed.
Of course he noticed.
But what interested him more—
was Rio.
Because somehow—
every time Messi settled—
Rio had spoken to him first.
Interesting.
Leadership without ego.
Rare.
Very rare.
Evening arrived colder than expected.
Training ended.
Players changed quietly.
Nobody saying much now.
Because everyone knew what came next.
The squad announcement.
Rijkaard finally entered the room carrying a clipboard.
Conversation stopped instantly.
The coach stood calmly at the front.
Professional calm.
Dangerous calm.
"We'll keep this simple," he said.
Silence settled heavily.
Rio sat still.
Messi looked seconds away from collapse.
Rijkaard started reading names.
Veterans first.
Expected names.
Ronaldinho.
Xavi.
Puyol.
Deco.
Then substitutes.
The room somehow became quieter.
Messi stopped breathing.
Rio simply listened.
Then—
Rijkaard looked down once more.
"Lionel Messi."
Complete silence.
Leo froze.
Actually froze.
Eyes wide.
Heart visibly pounding.
The coach looked up.
"You're starting."
The locker room shifted.
Some surprise.
Some approval.
Ronaldinho grinned immediately.
Puyol nodded once.
Messi looked like reality had temporarily stopped functioning.
Then—
Rijkaard continued.
"Rio Fiero."
Silence again.
Different silence.
Curious silence.
"You're on the bench."
Rio nodded once.
Calm.
Controlled.
"Understood."
But inside—
his mind had already started.
Patterns.
Scenarios.
Possibilities.
Because for the first time in his second life—
Rio Fiero would sit on the bench of a real La Liga match.
Waiting.
Watching.
Ready for the moment football called his name.
The locker room remained quiet for several moments after Rijkaard finished reading the squad list.
Not awkward quiet.
Heavy quiet.
The kind that followed important moments.
Professional footballers understood what call-ups meant. A place in the squad was not charity. It was not a reward for potential. At Barcelona, even sitting on the bench meant the staff believed you could affect a match if everything went wrong.
That belief carried weight.
Messi still looked frozen.
Actually frozen.
His expression sat somewhere between disbelief and panic, like someone had accidentally handed him the keys to an airplane and expected him to fly it tomorrow.
Ronaldinho noticed first.
Of course he noticed first.
The Brazilian stood, walked over casually, and wrapped an arm around Messi's shoulders with an easy warmth that immediately softened some of the tension.
"You breathe now," Ronaldinho said with a grin. "Tomorrow you play football. Same game."
Messi blinked slowly.
"…Not same."
"Yes same," Ronaldinho replied immediately. "Ball still round."
The locker room laughed lightly.
Even Messi smiled despite himself.
Rio stayed seated quietly, already processing logistics.
Bench role.
Possible tactical substitutions.
Likely match scenarios.
If Barcelona led comfortably, youth minutes became possible.
If the match tightened, probably not.
Unless—
injuries.
Fatigue.
Need for control.
Need for possession.
Need for unpredictability.
His brain had already started running simulations.
The opponent's defensive shape.
Pressing tendencies.
Transition vulnerabilities.
Possible substitution windows.
He had not even seen tomorrow's tactical briefing yet.
Still—
patterns existed.
Always patterns.
"You're doing the thing again."
Messi's voice interrupted him.
Rio looked over.
"What thing?"
"The weird stare."
"I'm thinking."
"You look like villain planning world domination."
Reasonable.
Puyol approached next.
The captain stood over Messi first.
"You start tomorrow," he said plainly.
Messi nodded carefully.
"You nervous?"
A pause.
Then Leo answered honestly.
"…Yes."
Puyol crossed his arms.
"Good."
Messi looked confused.
"What?"
"If you're not nervous, something wrong."
The captain's expression softened slightly.
"Just compete."
Simple advice.
Important advice.
Then Puyol turned toward Rio.
"And you."
Rio looked up.
"Stay ready."
Three words.
Short.
Sharp.
Professional.
Because veterans understood bench life.
Sometimes ninety minutes passed and nothing happened.
Sometimes destiny arrived in thirty seconds.
The dangerous players were always prepared.
Rio nodded once.
"I will."
Puyol studied him briefly before walking away.
Still serious.
Still intimidating.
Still somehow supportive in his own terrifying way.
The ride back to La Masia felt surreal.
Neither boy talked much at first.
Barcelona passed outside the bus window beneath soft evening lights, the city moving normally while their worlds quietly shifted.
Tomorrow.
Everything suddenly centered around tomorrow.
Messi eventually broke the silence.
"I can't believe I'm starting."
"You earned it."
Leo groaned dramatically.
"That somehow makes me more nervous."
Rio looked over calmly.
"You'll be fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
Messi rested his forehead against the cold window.
"What if I mess up?"
"You'll recover."
"What if everyone hates me?"
"They won't."
"What if I freeze?"
Rio looked at him for several seconds.
Then answered honestly.
"You won't."
Messi sighed.
"You sound too sure."
"I know your level."
The words landed quietly.
Because Rio rarely exaggerated.
And somehow—
that certainty mattered.
Again.
La Masia exploded when they arrived.
Completely exploded.
News traveled fast.
Too fast.
Piqué practically sprinted toward them.
"YOU GOT CALLED!"
Cesc looked only slightly calmer.
Only slightly.
"You're both insane."
Messi looked overwhelmed immediately.
Rio remained composed.
"Temporary."
Piqué threw a pillow at him.
"You have to stop saying that!"
The common room erupted into overlapping questions.
"Messi's starting?"
"Seriously?"
"Rio's on the bench already?"
"No way!"
"Did Ronaldinho talk to you?"
"What does the first-team locker room smell like?"
Messi looked seconds away from collapse.
Rio quietly escaped toward Room 12.
Strategic retreat.
Necessary retreat.
Later that night—
the room stayed quieter than usual.
Messi sat on his bed staring blankly at his boots.
The boots.
Tomorrow's boots.
La Liga boots.
Professional boots.
Real football.
The reality clearly had not settled properly yet.
Rio sat at the desk reviewing handwritten notes.
Patterns.
Positioning reminders.
Recovery timings.
Likely substitution scenarios.
Messi finally looked over.
"…Are you studying?"
"Yes."
"For football?"
"Yes."
Leo looked genuinely offended.
"Who studies football before debut?"
Rio didn't even glance up.
"People who want long careers."
Messi sighed loudly.
"I hate how much sense you make."
Eventually—
silence settled again.
Then—
quietly—
Messi asked:
"…Do you ever get scared?"
The question hung there longer than expected.
Rio stopped writing.
Considered.
Then answered honestly.
"Yes."
Messi blinked.
"You do?"
"Yes."
"Then why do you always look calm?"
Rio leaned back slightly.
"Because panic solves nothing."
Silence.
Then softer—
rare honesty—
he added:
"I'm scared my body won't catch up."
Messi frowned.
"What?"
"I think faster than I move."
Pause.
"I hate limits."
Leo looked at him differently for a moment.
Because suddenly—
Rio felt fifteen again.
Human again.
Not impossible.
Not invincible.
Just someone trying very hard not to waste something important.
Messi leaned back slowly.
"…I'm scared of disappointing everyone."
Rio answered immediately.
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do."
"How?"
Rio looked toward him calmly.
"Because I've watched you train."
Messi went quiet.
Again.
Then muttered softly:
"…You're annoyingly supportive."
Fair.
Across Barcelona—
inside a luxury apartment overlooking the city—
Sofia Valera sat curled against the couch scrolling through sports headlines.
Every article mentioned Messi.
Most mentioned Rio too.
The mysterious academy boy already making first-team conversations.
The beautiful one.
The intelligent one.
The strange one.
The one who somehow ignored everyone.
She still remembered the gym.
The way he barely looked at her.
The way he dismissed attention like it bored him.
Nobody dismissed Sofia Valera.
Nobody.
And somehow—
that only made her more curious.
Her fingers tapped lightly against her phone.
Tomorrow.
Maybe she would attend.
Maybe she wanted to see for herself what happened when Rio Fiero stepped close to greatness.
Or maybe—
she wanted to understand why someone so young already carried himself like he belonged somewhere untouchable.
Either way—
she knew one thing:
She was no longer casually interested.
Back at La Masia, sleep came slowly.
Messi tossed constantly.
Nervous energy impossible to contain.
Rio slept lighter than usual.
Mind still running simulations even in dreams.
Because tomorrow—
football changed again.
For both of them.
And somewhere inside Camp Nou—
two lockers waited.
One for a boy starting his first professional match.
And one for a boy waiting on the bench—
ready for the moment destiny finally looked his way.
Sunday arrived cold.
Not freezing.
But sharp enough that the morning air felt awake before the city itself.
Barcelona moved slowly beneath a pale sky, cafés only beginning to open while streets still carried the quiet calm that existed before football swallowed everything.
For Rio—
sleep had barely counted.
Not because of nerves.
Because of preparation.
He had woken before sunrise automatically, his body already conditioned to routine. Twenty minutes of mobility work beside the bed. Light stretching. Controlled breathing.
Then silence.
Mental repetition.
Visual patterns.
If substituted in—
what scenarios mattered?
Protecting possession.
Breaking compact lines.
Managing tempo.
Supporting Messi.
Simple.
Football was always simpler when emotions stayed quiet.
Across the room—
Messi looked like someone preparing for judgment day.
The Argentine sat motionless on the edge of his bed, staring at his boots with an expression somewhere between terror and disbelief.
Rio had been awake for forty minutes.
Leo had not moved.
"You're thinking too loudly again," Rio finally said.
Messi looked up slowly.
"…I might throw up."
"You won't."
"I genuinely might."
"You won't."
Messi narrowed his eyes.
"You answer everything too calmly."
Rio shrugged.
"Doesn't help to panic."
Messi dragged both hands through his hair.
"I'm fifteen."
"Yes."
"I'm starting for Barcelona."
"Yes."
"In a real league match."
"Yes."
Messi stared.
"…Can you stop saying yes like this is normal?"
Rio paused.
Then, calmly:
"For us?"
A beat.
"It becomes normal."
Messi hated how reassuring that sounded.
Breakfast at La Masia felt strangely ceremonial.
Nobody acted normal.
Nobody even pretended.
The younger academy boys stared openly now.
Some looked inspired.
Others jealous.
Most simply looked shocked.
Because suddenly—
two boys who slept in the same building as them were stepping into real football.
Piqué slammed down into the seat beside them dramatically.
"You realize if either of you score today, you become unbearable."
Messi nearly choked on water.
"Score?"
He looked horrified.
"I'm trying to survive!"
Cesc sat opposite them with crossed arms.
"You'll survive."
Then he pointed toward Rio.
"Him I'm less worried about."
Rio calmly continued eating.
"Why?"
Cesc sighed.
"You act like forty-year-old coach trapped in teenager."
Messi nodded immediately.
"Yes."
Piqué nodded too.
"Actually terrifying."
Fair.
The drive to the stadium felt different.
Heavier.
No academy bus now.
First-team transport.
Professional silence.
Senior players scattered through seats wearing headphones, resting, conserving energy.
No wasted movement.
No unnecessary conversation.
Matchday seriousness.
Messi sat beside Rio, bouncing his knee constantly again.
Ronaldinho noticed from across the aisle.
The Brazilian leaned forward with a grin.
"Little brother nervous?"
Messi sighed.
"Yes."
Ronaldinho laughed warmly.
"Good."
Same answer as Puyol.
Interesting.
Then the Brazilian pointed toward the front windshield.
"You know what happens when game starts?"
Messi blinked.
"What?"
"You forget."
Pause.
"Ball comes."
Another grin.
"Everything else disappears."
Simple.
Probably true.
Messi quietly held onto that.
Then—
Camp Nou appeared.
Massive.
Silent from distance.
Yet somehow already alive.
Even after all the visits—
it still looked impossible.
Not stadium.
Monument.
Football cathedral.
Messi went completely quiet.
Rio noticed immediately.
The scale hit differently today.
Because this time—
they weren't visiting.
They belonged to the match.
Security.
Staff.
First-team entrance.
Everything suddenly felt more real.
More dangerous.
More permanent.
As they entered through the professional corridor, cameras already waited outside barriers.
Fans shouting names.
Mostly senior players.
Ronaldinho.
Puyol.
Xavi.
But then—
something unexpected.
"MESSI!"
Another voice:
"RIO!"
Rio glanced briefly.
Interesting.
Fast.
Very fast.
A few teenagers held signs already.
One even read:
THE GHOST OF LA MASIA
Messi looked deeply alarmed.
"…How do people know us?"
Rio adjusted his bag.
"Barcelona talks."
Messi sighed dramatically.
"I hate Barcelona."
"You love Barcelona."
"…Unfortunately."
Inside the locker room—
their shirts waited.
Real shirts.
Not academy versions.
Not training tops.
First-team shirts.
Professional numbers.
Professional expectations.
Messi stopped walking.
Actually stopped.
For several seconds—
he simply stared.
His shirt.
Waiting.
Real.
Rio stayed quieter.
But even he paused slightly.
Because moments mattered.
And somewhere deep down—
beneath planning—
beneath discipline—
beneath control—
a small part of him still remembered Jake Simmons.
The football analyst who had spent years dreaming from screens.
Studying systems.
Watching greatness.
Never living it.
And now?
He stood inside Barcelona's senior locker room.
Fifteen years old.
Second life.
Second chance.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
"You okay?"
Messi's voice interrupted.
Rio looked over.
"Yes."
Leo narrowed eyes.
"You're doing weird stare again."
Fair.
Rijkaard entered shortly after.
The room settled instantly.
Professional focus replacing noise.
The coach stood before the tactical board.
Today's opponent displayed clearly.
Formation.
Pressing triggers.
Weaknesses.
Roles.
Then—
he looked directly at Messi.
"You start wide right."
Leo froze slightly.
"You don't need hero football."
Pause.
"Simple football."
Another pause.
"Trust yourself."
Messi nodded quickly.
Still nervous.
Still terrified.
But listening.
Then Rijkaard turned toward Rio.
"You stay ready."
Simple sentence.
Heavy sentence.
"You may not play."
Pause.
"You may play five minutes."
Another pause.
"You may change the match."
Rio nodded once.
"Understood."
And he meant it.
Because bench players survived through readiness.
No ego.
No expectation.
Just preparation.
The tunnel before kickoff felt surreal.
Crowd noise vibrating through concrete.
Distant.
Massive.
Alive.
Messi stood among grown professionals looking impossibly young.
Tiny.
Quiet.
Trying very hard not to look overwhelmed.
Rio stood behind the starting line with substitutes.
Watching.
Studying.
Feeling stadium energy pulse around him.
Then—
Camp Nou erupted.
The sound crashed into the tunnel like thunder.
Real thunder.
Seventy thousand people breathing at once.
Messi looked back briefly.
Eyes wide.
Rio met his gaze calmly.
One nod.
Simple.
Steady.
You belong.
Messi exhaled slowly.
Then walked forward.
Into history.
And as Rio stepped toward the bench—
heart quieter than expected—
he realized something strange.
For the first time since becoming Rio Fiero—
he wasn't thinking about the future.
Only the game.
Because somewhere inside ninety unpredictable minutes—
football might finally call his name.