"It's finally here, my heart is pounding."
Mateo sat on the edge of his bed, completely still. His elbows rested on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The room was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that made every thought louder. It was 5 a.m., the sky outside still dark, the city not yet awake—but his mind was already racing.
Soon, over fifty thousand fans would be screaming, shouting, roaring his name and the club's anthem into the night. His breath would be gone, stolen by adrenaline, by nerves, by the sheer weight of the moment. He imagined the noise crashing down from the stands like a wave, imagined the way the pitch would feel beneath his boots, imagined the pressure tightening around his chest.
He slowly closed his eyes.
I can hear it, he thought.
The whistle sounding.
Sharp. Final. Real.
It was Wednesday, April 27th, and in just a few hours, Mateo and Barcelona would welcome Manchester City, arguably the scariest team in the world right now.
A few hours later.
"The coach gave us a break today, so we're free. Also, me and the guys would be coming to the match today."
Gavi was sitting on his bed as he spoke, voice still rough with sleep. His hair was a complete mess, sticking up in different directions, untouched by water or effort. Across the room, Mateo was already up and moving, fully locked in. He pulled on his training kit piece by piece—the fitted training top, the shorts, compression layers underneath—everything neat, everything routine. His boots sat lined up by the wall, clean and ready, bag half-packed like it always was on big match days.
"Ooh, okay then," Mateo replied casually, adjusting the collar of his top. "I'll inform the liaisons that you guys are coming."
He paused mid-motion.
"Ooh, that's true," Mateo added, glancing up as the thought hit him. "My family members should also be there. You all can watch the game together."
Gavi looked up at him, still half-awake, eyes squinting slightly beneath his bed hair. "That's nice. Who and who?"
"My mom, my aunt, abuela, my uncle Oriol… not sure if Uncle Andrew would be there."
Gavi froze.
"Wait—your uncle Oriol?" he said. "Thought he was banned?"
Gavi had met Mateo's family before. He knew about the stories. He knew about the crazy uncle—Oriol—who never really hid who he was, who he stood with, or what he believed in. From what little Gavi knew, the man had always been proud of his identity as a Boixos Nois ultra, never shying away from it, never softening it for anyone. So hearing that he might be coming to the match made Gavi pause, a little shocked.
Mateo nodded slowly, lips pressing together before he spoke. "Yeah… I figured if I asked the liaison, they should let him in, right?"
Gavi hesitated. His first instinct was to shut it down immediately. He knew better than most how hard the entire league came down on ultras. His own father had been an ultra for Real Betis, so this wasn't abstract to him—it was personal. He'd grown up hearing about bans, surveillance, lifetime exclusions. Especially Barcelona. They weren't just strict; they were pioneers in it. One of the first clubs not only in the league, but in the world, to take a hard, uncompromising stance against their ultras.
He wanted to say it was impossible.
The words sat right there.
But they never came out.
Maybe it slipped his mind for a second. Or maybe it was something else entirely. This wasn't just anyone. This was Mateo's uncle. And that made it different. Gavi thought about it quietly, staring at the floor. Who was Mateo, really? Not just his roommate—Mateo was practically the future of Barcelona right now. The club bent rules for less important things. Letting in just one uncle, even with that history, suddenly felt… trivial enough.
Gavi shifted uncomfortably and started murmuring, the confidence draining from his voice as it turned into a soft stammer. "Y-yeah… I guess so."
He didn't even look up when he said it.
Moments like this always did it. Quiet reminders. Subtle ones. Of just how far Mateo was from him now—from him, from the rest of them.
Mateo finished dressing and straightened up. "Okay, I'm done. I need to start heading out now. Can't believe I slept off."
"They should be used to it by now," Gavi replied lazily.
Mateo groaned. "And I even woke up around five in the morning. Can't believe I slept off back."
Gavi rolled his eyes, turning his head into the pillow as he muttered, "You probably slept again after that your weird match-day ritual."
Mateo was already at the door, bag slung over his shoulder. "You just aren't cultured enough, bro."
He pulled the door open. "Bye, I'm off."
Gavi flopped back fully onto the bed. "Later, mahn. Good luck today."
"Thanks," Mateo said.
He stepped out into the hallway, then suddenly leaned back in, his head popping through the door again. "Yeah almost forgot—my cousin Aina should also be there. Bye. Later. See you tonight."
He said it fast, almost in one breath, and shut the door immediately.
Inside the room, Gavi shot up from the bed. "Wait—what?"
But by then, Mateo had already left.
Mateo walked down the hallway with a quiet giggle slipping out of him, his shoulders shaking slightly as Gavi's panicked reaction replayed in his head. The way he'd shot up from the bed, the confusion in his voice—it still amused him. Mateo shook his head, smiling to himself as he adjusted the strap of his bag and kept moving.
He stepped into the main building of the Joan Gamper Training Center, leaving the residential facility behind. The atmosphere immediately changed. It was alive now—buzzing, restless, charged with match-day energy. As soon as he appeared, voices started flying at him from different directions.
"Good luck today, Mateo!"
"Good morning!"
"Mateo, make sure you score at least a goal today for my parlay—just one goal!"
"Let's show them who we are!"
"Visca Barça!"
So many things at once. Mateo just laughed, lifting a hand in greeting, giving out quick fist bumps as he passed, pointing playfully at one staff member and waving at another. "Visca Barça!" he shouted back, laughing as he moved deeper into the building, soaking it all in.
"It should be here, right?"
He muttered it under his breath, slowing his pace. Normally, he went straight down the hall and turned left. It was muscle memory by now. But this time, he passed that familiar turn. Instead, he headed right. Toward the liaison office. Usually, they came to him. Today was different. He was the one asking for something.
"Yes… this should be the place," Mateo murmured, stopping in front of an office he'd only briefly noticed the day before while rushing past.
As he moved closer to the door—First-Team Player Services printed clearly across it—voices spilled out from inside.
"Make sure the preparations are ready. The players need to get to Camp Nou by 7:00 sharp. Not a minute less or ahead. Also arrange the press we have cleared to stand at the front."
"And—Messi's wife and kids are coming. Make sure their security is handled properly. We don't need any mishaps."
"Boss, the cafeteria is saying they're out of fish for lunch, and that's what some of the players prefer—"
"Then what are you still doing here?" the boss snapped before the sentence could even finish. "Go sort it out."
It was like this every big match day. Controlled chaos. The room had already descended into it. Phones ringing, voices overlapping, people moving in and out with clipboards and tablets. If anyone was more pressured than the players themselves on a day like this, it was the team liaisons. They worked nonstop, invisible but essential, making sure everything—everything—was perfect for the first team's comfort.
They handled transportation schedules, family access, security clearances, meal preferences, last-minute kit requests, hotel arrangements, warm-up logistics, media restrictions, VIP seating, parking passes, locker-room temperatures, music playlists, hydration details, massage timings—every trivial detail that allowed the players to focus on just one thing.
Hearing the chaos inside, Mateo didn't hesitate any longer. He stepped closer to the door and rapped on it firmly, once, twice, then a third time, the sound sharp and confident. Inside, voices paused mid-task. "Who's that? Let them in!" someone shouted, and Mateo heard the faint shuffle of feet moving toward the door.
He waited a heartbeat, then knocked again—more out of habit than necessity. Mateo had been taught since he was very young to always announce himself before entering any room, no matter who was inside. This wasn't one of those accidental barge-ins he'd done yesterday while running away from the team; he respected boundaries, and it showed. As soon as he heard the approval to enter, Mateo didn't waste another second. He swung the door open and stepped inside.
The moment he did, he found himself face to face with nearly seven staff members, each frozen for a brief instant as their eyes widened in recognition. Mateo scanned the room quickly, committing faces to memory. The person standing by the right side was the one who had followed him out during the interview he'd been dragged into the other day. On the left, two others were familiar too—helpers who had arrived with the movers yesterday, busy with boxes and preparations but now stopping to watch him enter.
"Mateo… is everything okay?" the boss asked, standing from behind the massive desk at the far end of the room. His voice carried calm authority, though there was curiosity behind it—it wasn't often that players came here in person. Mateo appreciated that formality and responded quickly.
"Everything's fine," he said, a little breathless from hurrying down the hall. "I just came to inform you all about something and ask something."
The boss nodded, gesturing with his hand. "Okay, then. Say anything—we will make sure it's handled to the best of our ability."
Mateo let out a small laugh, the nervous energy in him relaxing slightly. "It's not really that serious," he said, the words tumbling out. "I just wanted to say that some of my family and friends are coming to watch the match later today, so I…"
Before he could finish, the boss cut in smoothly but firmly. "There is no need to worry. We'll make sure they're tended to properly. Your VIP box will be prepared, comfortable, everything taken care of. They'll be safe, well-fed, and well-attended to—nothing will be overlooked."
Mateo's face brightened at that reassurance. The boss added, "When you leave now, we'll have Adrián follow you to get the details—who is coming, and all the necessary arrangements."
"Thank you," Mateo said, smiling genuinely. The boss leaned back slightly, his expression softening. "Is that all?" he asked.
Mateo shook his head, still smiling. "No, no. There's still one more thing."
"Okay… and what would that be?" the boss prompted, his tone patient but curious.
Mateo swallowed, a tiny pause in his voice. "It's like this… my uncle—one of the people coming—technically, he's a member of the Boixos Nois. I was wondering if it would still be possible for him to come."
The reaction in the room was immediate. A murmur ran through the staff, soft at first and then growing louder as they processed the words. "The Boixos Nois? Where have I heard that name?" one said. "How could you forget—they're the Ultras!" another muttered. "I never knew Mateo had an ultra member in his family… I thought they were all banned!" Someone else asked nervously, "What should we do?"
Even the boss, who had maintained a calm smile since Mateo entered, now furrowed his brow slightly. His mind was already racing, weighing possibilities and risks. An ultra member… this is tricky, he thought.
The boss had been in the club for over twenty years, so he knew the inner workings of Barcelona better than most of the younger staffers could ever hope to. The person who banned all the Ultras in the first place was President Laporta, he thought, his mind running through years of policies and rulings. He remembered vividly how strict Laporta had been—how he had enforced bans on Ultras attending games, restricted any presence at parades or official club events, and removed any trace of their existence from club websites. The man had left no loophole, no gray area, and the legacy of that hardline stance still echoed throughout the club.
The boss ran through all the possibilities in his head, each thought spinning into another. What should I do? Do I need to ask someone higher up for permission first, or am I overthinking this whole thing? It's just one person—if precautions are taken, nothing bad should happen, right? The mental back-and-forth continued, his thoughts racing like a rollercoaster as he weighed the risk against the practical reality: it was Mateo's uncle, and Mateo was one of the most promising young players in the world. The kid's presence alone carried weight, influence, and trust.
Finally, he exhaled slowly and spoke aloud, his voice firm but measured. "Well… it shouldn't be an issue," he began, the room immediately quieting as the murmurs died down, the staff listening closely. "But we would need that person to make sure he doesn't bring anything related to them. He also cannot show any tattoos, if he has any. No clothing, symbols, signs, or anything that could indicate any affiliation with the Boixos Nois."
The words carried authority, and as he spoke, the room settled into a careful attentiveness. Mateo, standing quietly off to the side, couldn't help but smile. "Thank you," he said sincerely, his voice warm and grateful. "I'll inform him of your instructions."
Instead of sending Adrián—the same person who had followed him to that awkward interview last week—to handle the details, Mateo stayed right there in the office. He provided everything the staff would need, pulling together full names, photographs, phone numbers, medical reports on anyone of them allergies or whatnot and any other contact information for the family members he knew would be coming. He even added his dad's details, just in case he decided to come at the last minute or for future matches.
Once everything was submitted, he sent a quick message to his mom, letting her know that the club had been informed about their arrival, that some of his friends would be accompanying them, and that the team had given the okay for his uncle to attend under the conditions specified. A sense of relief washed over him as he finished the message, knowing that everything was properly arranged and no one would be left guessing.
With the VIP arrangements finalized, Mateo turned and made his way toward the locker room, feeling the familiar weight of anticipation settle in his chest. The nerves, the excitement, and the preparation all mingled together, but now at least the off-field concerns had been handled. He could focus entirely on the pitch ahead.
...
"Im so dead." Mateo stared down at his phone, the bright numbers mocking him: 9:08 a.m. The gaffer had made it very clear yesterday that everyone needed to be there by 9:00, and here he was—already eight minutes late. He let out a long, heavy sigh, muttering to himself, "Let's just get this over with," before pushing the door open with another dramatic sigh.
As soon as he stepped in, the teasing began. "He's here! He's here! Ha ha!" one of his teammates shouted, and a chorus of laughter erupted.
"Mateo, how can you be the last one here when you live in the building? Ha ha!"
"The gaffer is going to swallow you whole," another added, shaking his head with a grin.
"Hey, Mateo! What's this? Why did you let someone else touch the beautiful hair I helped you with? boo you are so ungrateful" someone else chimed in, wiggling their fingers in mock horror.
The teasing rolled on, relentless, as the locker room echoed with laughter. Mateo just rolled his eyes, ignoring the barrage of jokes as he made his way toward his locker.
Pedri, standing nearby, looked up as Mateo approached. "Hey, dude," Mateo greeted with a small smile.
"Hey," Pedri replied, nodding back, clearly stifling a grin.
Before Mateo could respond further, an assistant coach emerged from the coaches' office, calling out sharply, "Mateo! The gaffer is looking for you."
"Woooowoooowoo!" The teammates whistled, clapped, and shouted, teasing him mercilessly that he was in trouble.
Mateo, unfazed, grabbed a towel from the side, flicked it at Araujo—the ringleader of the teasing—and muttered, "Rest, dude."
The locker room erupted again into laughter, some players doubling over, some holding their stomachs as Mateo simply ignored them, a calm smirk tugging at his lips. Without a word, he stepped into the coaches' office, leaving the chaos of the locker room behind.
As Mateo stepped into the office, the first thing he noticed was Koeman speaking quietly with his assistant coaches, papers and tactics spread out across the desk. Mateo paused for a moment, giving them a polite nod before gently interrupting. "Good morning, everyone," he said, his voice calm but respectful. "Hope all is well." A couple of the assistants smiled and nodded back, clearly used to Mateo's presence yet still showing a bit of professional warmth.
Then he turned toward Koeman, the gaffer himself, and said softly, "Gaffer, you called?"
Koeman looked up, his gaze calm but piercing, taking a measured moment before looking back at the assistants. "So that should be all," he said, his voice carrying authority without being harsh. One of the assistants gave Mateo a friendly pat on the shoulder before leaving, and slowly, one by one, they all exited the room, leaving just Mateo and Koeman alone. The quiet that followed made the office feel suddenly heavier, charged with expectation.
"Mateo, you are late," Koeman said immediately after the door clicked shut behind the last assistant.
Mateo started, his voice quick to explain, "I know, Gaffer, but I had to—"
"Excuses, excuses, excuses," Koeman interrupted sharply, his tone firm yet measured, and that single phrase made Mateo fall silent. He bowed his head slightly, the weight of the words settling on him.
Koeman leaned back, sighing gently, but his eyes stayed locked on Mateo. "You need to start learning how to take responsibility for yourself. I know you are just seventeen, and it might seem harsh, but your abilities on the pitch dictate we can't treat you like a kid fully. Look Mateo, you are already a massive presence in this squad, especially among the younger players. Imagine if they see you coming late—they'll think it's acceptable. Is that the example you want to set?"
Mateo nodded quietly, feeling the weight of the lesson, his shoulders slightly hunched.
Koeman stood up, closing the space between them. He placed both hands firmly but gently on Mateo's shoulders. His voice softened, losing none of its authority but gaining warmth. "Hey… don't be too down on yourself. You are still learning, and that's okay. Every great player has had moments like this. I have no doubt in a couple of years, you'll be a leader on this team—not just on the pitch, but off it too. Someone everyone looks up to."
Mateo's eyes lifted, meeting Koeman's gaze, and a small smile broke across his face. The mixture of scolding and reassurance left him feeling both humbled and inspired. In that moment, Mateo understood the kind of guidance and belief that forged not just great players, but great people. He felt the enormity of Koeman's mentorship—the balance of discipline and care—and it resonated deeply.
Koeman squeezed his shoulders lightly, letting the silence of understanding linger for a heartbeat. "Remember, Mateo… talent will only take you so far. Responsibility and respect—that is what will make you truly great."
Mateo nodded again, this time with resolve, a warmth spreading through him as he straightened up, the weight of the reprimand lifted, replaced by a quiet determination. It was a moment he would carry with him long after leaving the office—a lesson wrapped in respect, care, and belief that his journey had only just begun.
After his talk with the coach, Mateo headed back into the locker room, the weight of Koeman's words still lingering in his mind. It was a big game, and the atmosphere was already thick with anticipation. Mateo was no stranger to game preparations; by now, the routine was almost second nature. Every match day followed a rhythm that felt as precise as clockwork.
First, the team arrived at 9:00 a.m., using the next twenty minutes to talk, change into their training kits, lace up their boots, tape ankles, and double-check equipment. They discussed last-minute tactics, final reminders from the coaches, and sometimes even joked around a little to ease the tension. By 9:30, the stretching and warm-up routines began: dynamic stretches, light jogging, ball drills, passing exercises, and finishing touches like sprinting ladders and reflex exercises with goalkeepers. Every movement was deliberate, designed to prime the players' bodies without wearing them down.
By 10:30, it was breakfast time in the cafeteria. The options were strict—Eggs or omelettes, toast or oats, a selection of fresh fruit, and water or juice. Junk food or heavy fats were strictly forbidden; nutritionists ruled every meal to ensure peak performance. Mateo, like most of the team, stuck to the rules, grabbing some oats and fruit, mindful of the energy he would need later.
After breakfast, from 11:30 to 1:30 p.m., it was free time. They couldn't leave the facility, but they had a variety of ways to pass the hours. Some players went for short walks around the grounds to clear their heads, others played video games or watched TV. Music was popular, and some players used the time for their unique rituals—visualizing goals, replaying training drills in their heads, mentally rehearsing movements. Mateo chose a mix: he played some games, chatted with teammates, and went for a small stroll with Pedri, enjoying the quiet moments before the storm.
At 2:00 p.m., it was time for the pre-match lunch. Once again, the menu was carefully controlled: pasta or rice, chicken or fish, vegetables—highly carbohydrate-heavy foods that were easy to digest. The meal was functional, not indulgent, designed to fuel them without slowing them down.
Then came the crucial period of 3:00–5:30 p.m.—mandatory rest. Phones were on silent, lights dimmed, curtains closed. Players could nap for 60–90 minutes or, if sleep didn't come, simply lie down quietly. This was a critical aspect of match preparation, especially for night games, and Mateo made the most of it. He drifted off instantly, the earlier tension melting away under the soft hum of the facility. Players who managed to sleep were gently woken at 5:30 to prepare for the final pre-match routine: dressing in club-provided formal wear or tracksuits, selecting headphones, and listening to music if desired. Mateo wasn't much of a music fan, so he opted out, observing Messi and Pedri choosing their playlists instead.
Finally, by 6:30 p.m., it was time to head to Camp Nou. The once lively corridors of Barcelona's facility were now steeped in an almost reverent silence. The chatter of normal training had vanished, replaced by a tense quiet that seemed to hum with anticipation. Every step toward the stadium carried weight; every glance at a teammate's face reflected focus and determination. In just a few hours, a few meters away, they would clash with Manchester City in the semi-finals of the Champions League, and the stakes had never felt higher.
The pressure pressed down, palpable in the air, a deafening silence that promised the kind of night where every pass, every tackle, and every decision would define the team—and test just how far they were willing to go together.
A/N
I know this chapter leaned more toward slice-of-life, but I really wanted to give you a glimpse into what a big-game preparation looks like—from the quiet routines to the small rituals—so you can feel the buildup before the clash on the pitch.