The air in the office was heavy—dense with disbelief and tension. Ronald Koeman stood there, frozen for a moment, his eyes glued to the document that had just been handed to him. Then came the explosion.
"What four games?" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the sleek walls of the training facility's locker room office.
His assistant, pale and visibly shaken, took a cautious step back. He had delivered the news, sure—but he hadn't written the damn ruling. Still, under Koeman's furious glare, he felt like a criminal awaiting sentencing. In his mind, all he could think was, Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just doing my job.
Koeman wasn't having it. That single nod from the assistant was all the confirmation he needed. He snapped.
"How can he get a four-match ban? It was just a pull! A small pull!" he yelled, demonstrating the so-called foul by grabbing the assistant's shirt with exaggerated force, jerking it hard as if to reenact the scene. The assistant stumbled back, his hands instinctively rising to guard his neck.
Pulling himself free, the assistant adjusted his collar and tried to compose himself. "The RFEF initially issued a two-match suspension For the pull and his celebration of the final goal in the bench area," he began cautiously, his voice trembling slightly but steadying as he went on. "The club appealed the decision, arguing that it was a standard foul—at most worthy of a single-match ban."
Koeman nodded, breathing heavy but listening now, hopeful that reason had prevailed.
But the next words crushed that hope.
"The RFEF considered the appeal as an undermining of their authority," the assistant said, his voice lower now, almost apologetic. "They said—and I quote—'In light of the club's decision to challenge a clearly justified ruling and considering the player's recent return from a previous red card suspension, the committee finds this act of protest both unwarranted and indicative of a lack of respect for disciplinary protocol.'"
Koeman's mouth fell open.
"They went on to say that 'Such actions set a poor precedent and show disregard for the sporting values upheld by the federation. Accordingly, the previous two-match ban is hereby revoked and replaced with a four-match suspension.'"
There was a silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.
Then Koeman laughed, bitterly. "So, for daring to challenge a bad call, we get punished harder?"
The assistant didn't answer. He knew better.
All across Spain, the story was breaking. It dominated every headline: Lionel Messi suspended for four games following red card incident. The nation erupted.
Barça fans were livid. On Twitter, Instagram, even outside Camp Nou, they screamed into the void:
"This is rubbish!" "Papa Pérez paid the refs again!" "Get Tebas out!"
Every fan outlet, every commentator, every podcast had an opinion. The RFEF had their reasons—repeat offense, aggressive conduct, and what they termed a "disrespectful challenge" to the committee's authority—but no one cared. Not when it meant Barcelona would be without their captain, their talisman, their Messi for four games.
And those weren't just any four games.
The Liga title race was razor-tight. Barça were locked in a three-way dogfight with Real Madrid and Atlético. They were second, clinging to hope. Now, without Messi—and with key forwards like Ansu Fati, Coutinho, and Braithwaite sidelined—Barcelona were staring into a potential trophyless season.
Koeman slumped onto the bench, rubbing his temples.
"Oh Lord… what are we going to do," he whispered.
For a moment, he allowed himself to feel what the fans felt: helplessness, frustration, panic. But then he straightened up. He was the coach. He couldn't afford to wallow.
He stood and crossed the room to the tactical board—the laminated sheet covered in magnetic name tags. His eyes scanned the formation, landing squarely on one name: Messi. It was on the right side, where it always was.
Koeman stared at it for a second too long before finally reaching out and pulling it off. He set it to the side, where it sat—weighty and irreplaceable.
Then he began to work.
First, he moved Dembélé from the center to the right wing, Messi's usual spot. The Frenchman had been patchy but promising. Then, he took Griezmann—his name magnet had been parked among the reserves—and slotted him in on the left wing. That left the center forward position empty.
The hole.
Koeman frowned, pacing slightly. He opened his locker, pulling out a magnetic name tag he'd been fiddling with since the day before. A name that had him second-guessing himself for hours.
He held it in his hand, staring down at it, unsure.
"Didn't I say this was the moment…?" he muttered under his breath. Laughing at himself as his words had been granted albeit in a way he wouldn't have wanted.
He walked back to the board. His fingers hovered over that empty central slot.
And then—click.
He placed the name down.
He took a step back. Examined the setup.
Was this enough?
Could this really be enough?
His eyes trailed down to that center forward spot.
The tag simply read: Mateo.
His lips moved without sound, then whispered it aloud.
"Mateo."
A loud, unmistakable sneeze shattered the morning silence.
"Achoo!"
"Jesus, dude! All over my body!" Gavi groaned as he stood shirtless, halfway into his training top. His face twisted with a mix of disgust and disbelief as he turned toward his roommate.
Mateo, standing near the wardrobe rubbing his nose, looked sheepish. "Sorry, sorry! I didn't know you were right there."
Gavi rolled his eyes. "Yeah right. You did that on purpose, I'm sure of it."
Mateo opened his mouth to protest, his face forming a perfect 'What?!' of innocence, but before he could speak, a voice echoed from the doorway.
"Guys, let's go! We're late."
It was Fermín López, leaning on the doorframe, dressed and ready, the morning light silhouetting his figure. Despite barely sleeping the night before—lights out had only come at 12:30 a.m. after a few too many video game rematches—the boys looked surprisingly fresh. Years of living at La Masia had drilled the routine deep into their bones. It didn't matter if your head hit the pillow at midnight or dawn; 6 a.m. meant wake-up. No excuses.
By 6:15, they were at the cafeteria, scooping up steaming trays of scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. Between bites, the banter continued.
"Later, dude."
"Yeah, see you later."
"Balde, when I get back, let's play. And if you're so sure of yourself—no Barça."
The group chuckled. Hands waved in parting, trays clattered, and the boys went their separate ways.
Most of them headed toward the La Masia training grounds, where the lush green fields glistened under the soft morning dew, awaiting drills, passing exercises, and tactical briefings. For many, it was a daily grind—a necessary repetition to refine reflexes until every motion felt natural, like breathing.
It was football distilled to its most mechanical essence.
But for Mateo, this morning was different. He didn't follow the others.
He turned left, away from the junior squads, walking alone through the quiet corridor that led toward the senior team facilities. The walls here were different. Lined with photographs, trophies, and the echoes of legends—Xavi, Iniesta, Messi—this side of the complex felt heavier, filled with history.
And expectation.
Mateo had been here before. Ever since his surprise promotion to the first team, he had trained among Barcelona's finest, sharing pitch space with the likes of Ter Stegen, Busquets, and Pique. Still, he hadn't quite felt like he belonged. Not really.
Until now.
He pushed through the doors and was immediately greeted by a playful slap on the back from Araujo.
"There's our golden boy!" someone called out.
"That goal, eh? You saved us!"
"He's still blushing, look at him!" Pedri added, nudging him.
Mateo chuckled nervously, basking in the warm energy that surrounded him. His performance the previous night had clearly made an impression. It had been the kind of debut young players dreamed about, etched now in the memories of fans—and perhaps, in the minds of coaches too.
After a few more jokes and pats on the back, the assistant coach entered.
"Alright, enough, let's get going. Field in five!"
As the players began changing, the kit boys rolled in with piles of training bibs—standard issue for every session. One by one, they handed them out: then, they reached Mateo.
The boy paused, glancing up from tying his boots. The kit boy handed him a bright yellow vest.
Mateo frowned. "Wait—this isn't mine. I think you handed me the wrong one."
The kit boy didn't blink. "No mistake. Coach said that's yours."
And with that, he turned and walked off.
Mateo just stood there.
Yellow.
A yellow vest.
In Barcelona's training routine, there were only two colors. White for the backups. Yellow for the starters.
Until now, Mateo had always worn white.
Always.
His mouth went dry. The banter faded into white noise as he stood there holding the bib in both hands, staring down at it like it was made of gold. Slowly, almost ritualistically, he slipped it over his head.
His heart was hammering. His breath came in shallow waves. Around him, others were chatting, stretching, lacing their boots, but he was still frozen.
He reached down, tightened his laces one more time.
Yellow.
He was starting.
The gravity of it sank in.
Barcelona. Starting. First team.
He had arrived.
Taking a deep breath, he turned toward the door, the morning sun now fully casting its glow across the training pitch just a few steps away. As his boots hit the turf, there was a soft voice in his mind, clear and digital—as if spoken from some inner software finally recognizing its user.
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A/N
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