April 27th, 2021 – 6:30 PM, a few hours before the match, in a studio in the Sant Andreu district of Barcelona, just a short drive from Camp Nou.
"Do you love me, want me, hate me?
Boy, I don't understand
No, I don't understand."
The voice floated through the studio, clear and haunting, each note cutting through the quiet hum of the equipment. It was Olivia Rodrigo, recording the final track for her soon-to-be-released album—a song that carried the weight of emotions she had been bottling up for months. The melody lingered as she hit the last note, the final echo resonating through the walls. Slowly, she removed her headphones, the click breaking the intimate stillness of the booth.
A clap snapped her attention. Through the glass of the studio booth, she saw her best friend Aina, hands pressed over her mouth as she clapped wildly, her grin stretching from ear to ear. Olivia couldn't help but smile back, her tension melting away in the warmth of the familiar face.
Then came a voice through the studio speakers. "That was great, Olivia. Superb session."
Olivia, still smiling, replied, "Thank you, Omar." Omar—the studio owner and audio engineer—had been handpicked by her label to guide her through the final recordings. His presence was quiet but steady, a constant behind the soundboard.
Stepping out of the booth, Olivia approached him, and he looked up from the equipment. "We are set for the day. You're free to head out. I'll bounce this, clean it up, and send the finished version to you and Dan later."
Aina moved closer, handing Olivia a bottle of water. She accepted it, sipping slowly before turning to Omar. "Then I'll be expecting it."
He sighed, a mix of amusement and focus in his expression. "Well… time to get to work. Need to finish up so I can catch the match later."
Aina glanced around and muttered, "The ride should be outside already."
Olivia laughed softly. "Later then, Omar."
"Later," Aina echoed, grinning. Omar waved them off without looking back. "Bye, girls."
Stepping outside, the air was crisp, a slight breeze moving through the narrow streets of Sant Andreu. Aina checked her phone as they walked, scanning the surrounding cars before muttering, "4821." She glanced at a parked vehicle matching the plate and nodded. "That should be our ride. Let's go."
The driver greeted them with a nod as they slid into the back seat. Olivia and Aina returned the greeting, and he started the car, the engine humming softly as they pulled away.
"Ughh, my dad's been blowing up my phone," Aina groaned, sinking into the seat.
Olivia looked at her with concern. "Hope everything's okay?"
Aina waved a dismissive hand. "Everything's fine. Don't mind him. He just wants us to get to the match early."
Olivia furrowed her brow. "I thought the match was at nine?"
Meanwhile, upstairs in the Kings' restaurant apartment, a different kind of chaos was unfolding.
...
"Oriol, I've told you—you need to get rid of all those things!" Isabella exclaimed, standing in the center of the room, arms crossed.
Her brother, Oriol, looked like a man possessed. Excitement radiated off him in waves. Finally able to attend a match at Camp Nou again, he had gone all out: banners draped across the walls, painted faces, jerseys, scarves, and flags covering nearly every surface. He wore layers of Barça merchandise proudly, but more dangerously, he had added his Boixos Nois gear—shirts, hats, patches—all flaunting the banned ultras' insignia.
"I told you you wouldn't be able to wear them," Nora—Isabella's best friend and Oriol's wife—scolded softly, her eyes gentle but firm as she looked at her husband. Oriol's face fell, but he continued grumbling.
"This is why the game is dying!" he shouted suddenly, his voice rising. "Laporta, all these restrictions! You can't even bring your gear, can't show your loyalty! What's the point of being a fan if they make us invisible?"
Even as he complained, Oriol started carefully removing anything with the Boixos Nois logo, muttering under his breath but complying with the rules.
"And where are the girls?" he bellowed suddenly, running a hand through his hair. "Don't they know we're late?"
...
"Fuck… that girl was beautiful."
Baldé muttered it under his breath, leaning casually against the entrance of the VIP gate. They had come early for the match, waiting for Mateo's parents so the whole group could go in together. But in that brief moment, a girl had passed by and completely stole Baldé's focus. His jaw had practically dropped.
"Dude, forget it. She's way out your league… plus she looks older," Gavi said, smirking knowingly as he glanced at his friend. He had clearly clocked the girl Baldé was talking about.
"Older just means more experienced," Baldé shot back without missing a beat, a cheeky grin on his face.
Fermín and Casado immediately burst out laughing. "Guy, why are you acting like you could even talk to her?" Fermín teased, nudging Casado.
"Yeah… didn't you see how he froze when she passed?" Casado added, shaking his head.
"Plus, looks like she's got a boyfriend already," Gavi chimed in, squinting as he remembered the boy walking beside the girl.
Baldé just waved them off. "I'm coming. Let me go talk to her for a bit."
The other three just laughed as he strolled away. Casado muttered under his breath, "He actually went to meet her…"
They all froze for a moment as they watched Baldé weave through the crowd near the snacks area, trying to look casual.
"No way… he's gonna pass them and act like he just wants some snacks," Fermín whispered, eyes wide.
"Yeah, yeah… totally casual," Gavi added, nudging Casado.
"He's actually talking to her," Casado muttered, stunned as Baldé extended his hand and shook hers. The three friends' jaws practically hit the floor.
Then Baldé did something even more shocking—he pointed toward them. The trio scrambled instantly, pretending to be busy with their phones, standing upright, shifting nervously.
"Wait… he's pointing here… what do we do?" Fermín hissed, glancing at Casado.
"Act natural… just… natural!" Casado stammered, pressing his phone like a prop.
Baldé returned shortly after, grinning, and waved back at the girl and the boy. They waved in return, and then walked away, disappearing from view.
Fermín immediately grabbed Baldé by the shoulder. "Dude… you actually did it!"
The group erupted with praise and questions. "Did you get her number?" "What did you even say?" "Tell us everything!"
Baldé's eyes dropped, and he let out a soft sigh. "Well… it's complicated."
"How complicated?" Fermín and Gavi asked in unison.
Baldé let out another sigh and muttered, almost reluctantly, "Her name… is María Guardiola."
All three heads snapped up. The moment the name "Guardiola" hit them, every La Masia player in the vicinity would have known exactly what that meant.
"Wait… Guardiola, as in—" Fermín started, eyes widening.
Baldé just nodded. "Yeah. Pep's daughter."
Casado immediately whipped out his phone, fingers flying across the screen. Fermín and Gavi leaned in. "Well… it doesn't mean anything, right?" Gavi asked hopefully.
"Yeah… bet you can still try your luck," Fermín added, smirking.
Casado's eyes widened as he scrolled. Then he made a long, dramatic "Yessh" sound, tongue sucked in like he'd discovered a hidden treasure.
"What's wrong?" Fermín asked.
Casado looked up, half laughing, half serious. "Well… it's good news and bad news."
The three of them leaned in eagerly.
"The good news," Casado said, "is that the guy walking with her? Not her boyfriend."
Baldé smirked. "I already know that. That's her younger brother, Màrius."
Casado nodded, then sighed. "Yeah… well, the bad news is… she does have a boyfriend."
"Oooohhh," they all groaned in unison.
Gavi shrugged. "Well… it's just a boyfriend, right? Don't sweat it."
Casado shook his head, finishing the reveal. "It's Spurs' player… Dele Alli."
Gavi's face scrunched up. "Oouuff…"
Fermín, laughing, hooked an arm around Baldé. "Dude… wanted to play in the Champions League with Girona-level budget."
The three of them burst into laughter, Baldé shoving Fermín lightly. "Get out, man!"
Their laughter continued as they leaned against the gate, waiting for Mateo's family to arrive, teasing, joking, and enjoying the warm pre-match chaos that only Barcelona could bring.
...
The restaurant had been fully booked out for the morning, every table cleared, chairs neatly pushed back, and lights dimmed just enough for the cameras to capture the scene. Microphones were set up on the polished wooden tables, coffee cups and water glasses scattered here and there, and camera crews moving quietly to get the best angles. Rio Ferdinand leaned back slightly in one of the chairs, headphones placed in his chest area, while Michael Carrick shuffled through some notes, both clearly enjoying the calm between the old teammates.
"So, Barcelona versus Manchester City," Rio began, voice smooth but energetic, "tough one. How do you think Mateo will do today? I mean, he's facing a Premier League team for the first time, right?"
Carrick nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, the first real intensity test for him at this level. City looks… complete. Their midfield, the pressing… it's going to be a proper challenge."
Rio leaned forward, gesturing with his hands. "Exactly. He's a bright talent, no doubt. But Premier League pressure—fast, physical, relentless—it's a different beast. How he handles this could tell us a lot about where his ceiling really is."
Carrick chimed in, adding, "I reckon he's got the skills to cope, but the atmosphere, the pace, the tactical awareness of City… he'll need to be sharp."
Just as the two were mid-discussion, the studio door swung open. Sir Alex Ferguson stood there, looking slightly bemused.
"Boss!" Rio called instinctively, raising a hand.
"Sir Alex, good morning!" Carrick added, a half-smile on his face.
Sir Alex, unimpressed, pointed at the cameras with a raised brow. "What's all this? What is this for? I'm not doing any podcast."
He started to turn and walk away, clearly unimpressed with the setup.
"No, boss!" Rio said quickly, stepping in front of him. "You've come too early. We're almost done here, just a few more minutes—"
Carrick joined in, trying to smooth things over. "Why don't you go grab a coffee? We'll join you soon. Promise. You're way ahead of schedule—match isn't even for another thirty minutes."
Sir Alex paused mid-step, eyeing them. "Oo… you're finishing already?"
"Yes, boss," Rio said, hands raised in mock surrender. "This isn't for you today. Just… hang tight, we'll come join you."
"Early as ever," Sir Alex muttered, shaking his head, but a small grin tugged at his lips. He wandered off to another booth slightly away from the camera, muttering, "I want to know what nonsense you all talk about."
Rio and Carrick exchanged a glance and chuckled. "Right, back to it," Rio said, leaning toward the mic again. "So… Barca, City. Thoughts?"
Rio rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I mean… I'm thinking City, I can't lie. They've got balance, quality everywhere, depth—"
Carrick tilted his head, weighing it carefully. "Well… I'm not sure. I mean, if I had to pick one, I'd say City qualifying. Honestly, I could even see them winning the whole thing."
Rio smirked. "And what about you, boss?" he asked casually, glancing toward the booth where Sir Alex had settled.
Sir Alex, looking momentarily confused, muttered, "What?"
"Barcelona versus Manchester City. Who do you think will win, boss?" Rio repeated, louder this time, a playful grin on his face.
Sir Alex leaned back, folding his arms. "Can't they both lose?"
The resturant erupted in laughter. Rio doubled over, Carrick clapped his hands against the table, and even a few production assistants peeked from behind the glass, laughing at the sheer audacity.
Sir Alex just shook his head, a small, satisfied grin breaking through his usual stern expression. "Aye… let's see what happens tonight."
A/N
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