[Congratulations to the host for signing in to the La Masia training ground and getting Iniesta Dribbling and footwork ability]
The sound completed as Mateo took a step on the field.
He was shocked.
Not just at getting a new skill set—this wasn't the first time he had stepped on this field.
Why did it just sound now?
And more than that… could he keep signing in here every time he stepped on the field?
Barcelona has had some crazy talents who had trained on this field. If he could be getting a new sign-in every time he stepped on this field...
He smiled—grinning, wide.
"Holy shit, I am going to be so broken."
But just as he thought that, another sound came in his head, killing that short dream instantly.
[La Masia Training base is a one-time sign-in and cannot be repeated. Congrats on being a starter.]
'Boring,' Mateo thought in his mind.
Then he shook his head.
He shouldn't be too greedy.
As he stepped into the field, he couldn't wait to try it out.
Iniesta nutmegs... hmmm... this is going to be so nice.
He grinned.
"Where are you going?" Mateo heard.
He turned around—an assistant coach was looking at him.
He turned back, blinking.
"Ehn?"
The assistant coach gave him a look. "Go stretch."
Mateo looked around.
Everyone else was stretching—pulling quads, lunging, bending, rolling hips like pros.
Mateo, on the other hand?
He was just walking in like he was about to start the match straight up.
His face turned red.
Not pink—red.
He scratched the back of his head like it suddenly itched and began the slow walk of shame back to the halfway line.
Behind him?
Laughter.
Lots of it.
Players chuckling.
Some pointing.
One or two clapping.
Mateo's ears were burning.
He dropped into a stretch, pretending like he totally meant to do that from the start.
Yup. Nothing to see here.
Totally intentional.
"Even here I won't get to play with him, ehn..." Mateo muttered.
Because right in front of him...
Messi.
Wearing a white shirt.
Clearly the opposite of his yellow one.
They stood opposite each other—face to face.
No words. Just silence. Just a stare.
Then—
FWEEEEET!
The whistle sounded.
Mateo jogged back lightly into position.
To his left was Griezmann.
To his right, Dembele.
He smiled, looking back at the sea of white.
'Game on.'
Koeman, who had just blown the whistle, moved to the sideline and folded his arms as he observed the action unfolding on the pitch. His eyes weren't scanning aimlessly—no, he had a clear target. His focus zeroed in on the yellow team, specifically on the attackers wearing that bright strip of color. But one player drew his attention above all: Mateo, who stood poised at the center, the calm in the middle of a tactical storm.
This was a significant session.
It marked the first time these three forwards would be training directly with each other. And to truly evaluate them—to truly see what they were made of—Koeman had made a deliberate adjustment to the usual structure.
Typically, the yellow bibs signified the starting eleven. That tradition held true today, at least when it came to the midfielders and attackers. But when it came to the defense… well, Koeman had taken some liberties.
And by liberties, he meant he had turned the norm on its head.
The starting defensive line—Alba, Lenglet, Piqué, and Dest—had not been placed on the yellow team as expected. Instead, they were all lined up with the white team. A direct challenge. A test. A wall for the attack to break through.
And Koeman had made sure to give his defenders clear instructions before the session started.
Do not go easy. Not even for a second.
"Mateo, here!" Pedri's voice sliced through the pitch, loud and purposeful. In one fluid motion, he sent a perfectly weighted, low-driven ball zipping between two midfielders of the white team. The pass wasn't just accurate—it was daring. It cut through the lines with surgical precision.
Mateo, already anticipating the ball, curved his run and adjusted his path. He didn't even turn his head—didn't need to. He had read the game, read Pedri, and understood the rhythm. He knew exactly where the ball would arrive.
And when it did?
He stopped it cold—trapping it under his sole in one smooth, controlled movement that brought the play to a momentary halt, like a magician freezing time. It was stylish. Confident. Cool in the kind of way that left defenders biting their lip and coaches nodding in quiet approval.
But he wasn't done. Not even close.
Without wasting a second, Mateo burst forward. He didn't glance behind. He didn't hesitate. His acceleration was immediate—explosive—catching the defenders off guard before they could even shift their footing or process the danger.
"Beautiful!" Koeman exclaimed from the sideline, his voice filled with surprise and satisfaction. He couldn't help it. That was special. That was why he had made the tactical shuffle in the first place.
If there was one thing Koeman was absolutely sure of, it was this—he was glad he made the change. It had already begun to pay off.
Since the start of this training session, one thing had become crystal clear: the connection between Pedri and Mateo was extraordinary. It wasn't just decent chemistry. It was something more—something you rarely saw. They moved like they shared a brain, as though they had been playing together not for minutes, but for seasons.
That kind of synergy usually came only after years of being teammates—grinding through games, wins, losses, highs and lows. But in this case, it wasn't time that forged their bond. It was instinct. It was game intelligence. It was the way elite players recognized each other on a pitch and clicked instantly.
With these two, it was definitely the latter, not the former.
There was something timeless about good football. Smooth transitions. Perfect passes. Movement that flowed like music. Even in training, moments like these stood out.
Because no matter who you were, or where you watched from—
Smooth, flowing, beautiful ball movement was always pleasing to the eyes—no matter what.
Mateo had accelerated with his new speed, surging forward like a bullet. He had expected to blitz past the defenders easily—just like he did yesterday. But almost immediately, he realized something was different. As he ran, eyes sharp and focused on the defensive line ahead, he noticed they were not reacting like yesterday's opponents. No, these ones weren't rattled. They weren't caught off guard.
In fact, they looked ready.
He could see it in their posture—calm, composed, locked in. They were watching him like hawks. Not one, not two, but the entire backline was keyed in on him. They were fully alert. That alone told him one thing: if he tried to bulldoze through like he had yesterday, relying purely on raw speed, he would get stopped cold. Dispossessed. Blocked.
These weren't tired, worn-out defenders dragging their legs through the final minutes of a long match. These were elite, first-choice starters—Alba, Lenglet, Piqué, and Dest—all laser-focused and prepared.
And they had been warned.
Koeman had made it clear: no mercy, no holding back, and definitely no underestimating the new kid. Mateo could practically feel the weight of all those eyes on him the second he got the ball. The yellow shirt on his back might have meant starter status—but he'd have to earn it all over again on this pitch.
Koeman, watching from the sidelines, hadn't been fully sold on Mateo's performance yesterday. Sure, it was exciting. Yes, it was flashy. But raw speed and a surprise factor only go so far. Mateo had come on late in the match when the opposition was already gassed out after 80 long minutes. There was a huge difference between sprinting past tired defenders and holding your own from minute one against fresh legs.
Besides, Huesca hadn't seen it coming. They had no scouting report on Mateo, no footage, no data. They hadn't known a thing about his lightning pace or his killer instinct in front of goal. That kind of element of surprise couldn't be repeated.
Next game, things would be different. He wouldn't be an unknown threat anymore. Sure, he wouldn't be treated like Messi or Ronaldo—those guys had entire midweek sessions dedicated to neutralizing them—but by the time the next match came around, opponents would know. They'd have seen the hat trick. They'd know the name. They'd expect the speed.
And once you're expected, it's a whole different game.
That's what Koeman was watching for now. That's what mattered. Mateo's hat trick had been thrilling, electric even—no one could deny that. But now came the real test: could he prove it wasn't a fluke? Could he deliver not just once, but consistently? Could he show that he truly deserved that starting lineup spot—that it wasn't just a one-night magic show?
Especially with what lay ahead.
Their next match wasn't going to be easy by any stretch. They were facing Sevilla—one of the most in-form teams in the league. Seven games unbeaten. They had managed to hold both Atlético Madrid and Real Madrid to draws. That alone was no small feat. And as if that wasn't enough, they were just five points behind Barcelona… with two games in hand.
Koeman's eyes scanned the pitch, his arms folded tightly across his chest. The smile that had briefly played on his face was gone now, replaced by a look of deep contemplation. He knew what was coming. This stretch of games would separate the boys from the men.
As he stared at Mateo sprinting across the grass, a thought crossed his mind—quiet, serious, and hopeful.
"I just hope you are what you've shown so far."
A/N
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