The week of the Espanyol derby changed the temperature of La Masia.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
The November air carried a sharper cold through the stone hallways of the academy, and even the older players—boys who had spent years pretending they were already professionals—walked with tighter shoulders and quieter voices.
Derbies did that.
Especially in Catalonia.
Especially when blue and red met blue and white.
To outsiders, it was youth football.
To Barcelona?
It was ideology.
Espanyol represented resistance, resentment, the club that lived in Barça's shadow and hated every second of it. Their academy teams played like boys trying to prove violence counted as talent. Every match became personal.
Every tackle arrived harder.
Every foul lasted longer.
Every celebration carried malice.
And this year—
there was something extra.
Because for the first time in months, youth football journalists had started paying attention.
Not only to Lionel Messi.
But to the strange boy beside him.
Rio noticed the shift Monday morning.
A newspaper sat abandoned on one of the cafeteria tables.
Folded.
Half-crushed.
Still readable.
He only glanced at it while grabbing fruit.
But his name caught his eye.
Small headline.
Near the sports section.
"Barcelona's Hidden Architect: Who is Rio Fiero?"
He stopped.
Briefly.
Messi appeared beside him a second later, carrying cereal.
"You saw it?"
Rio looked over.
"You read newspapers now?"
Messi shrugged.
"Cesc showed me."
That meant everyone had seen it.
Bad.
Too fast again.
Rio picked up the paper.
The article wasn't long.
Mostly speculation.
Mentions of his unusual composure.
His chemistry with Messi.
Talk of "unnatural tactical maturity."
A quote from an unnamed scout:
"The frightening thing about Rio Fiero isn't his technique. It's that he already controls games emotionally."
Interesting wording.
Dangerous wording.
Fifteen-year-olds weren't supposed to sound threatening.
Messi looked oddly pleased.
"They finally noticed."
Rio folded newspaper.
"Too early."
Messi frowned.
"You always say that."
"Because it's true."
Messi shoved cereal into his mouth.
"You're weird."
Rio nodded.
"Probably."
Training immediately confirmed the mood.
Guillermo had stopped smiling.
Not that he smiled often.
But derby week turned him into something harsher.
Sharper.
He blew the whistle once.
Everyone froze.
"No laziness this week," he barked.
"No academy football."
"No pretty touches."
His eyes moved across the squad.
Then stopped.
Briefly.
On Messi.
Then Rio.
"Espanyol will kick you."
Pause.
"They will insult you."
Pause.
"They will try to make you emotional."
Longer pause.
"If any of you lose your head…"
His expression hardened.
"…you lose the match."
The message landed.
Especially with younger players.
Rio simply absorbed it.
Already expected.
Espanyol in 2003 played emotionally.
Aggressively.
Predictably.
Which made them dangerous.
But manageable.
If controlled.
Scrimmage became war immediately.
Hard tackles.
Short tempers.
Guillermo encouraging contact instead of stopping it.
Testing reactions.
Minute eight—
Messi got clipped hard.
Stayed down.
Not injured.
Angry.
Different problem.
The defender smirked.
"Too small."
Messi immediately shoved him.
Whistle.
Guillermo yelled.
"Messi!"
Silence.
Leo looked furious.
Young.
Emotional.
Human.
Rio walked over quietly while others reset.
"You good?"
Messi muttered in Spanish.
Not polite Spanish.
Rio almost smiled.
"You're proving their point."
"They kicked me."
"Yes."
"And?"
Messi glared.
Rio lowered voice.
"Do you want revenge?"
Pause.
Messi hesitated.
"…Yes."
Rio nodded once.
"Good."
Then calmly:
"Score twice."
Messi blinked.
Rio pointed toward pitch.
"That hurts more."
Small silence.
Then—
slow grin.
Rare grin.
Dangerous grin.
"Fine."
For the next forty minutes—
Messi became terrifying.
Focused.
Cold.
Every touch aggressive.
Every dribble direct.
Three goals in training.
One assist.
And afterward—
while everyone exhausted themselves cooling down—
Rio quietly handed him water.
"You manipulated me."
Rio shrugged.
"I redirected you."
Messi narrowed eyes.
"Same thing."
Maybe.
That night—
Room 12 felt quieter than usual.
Rain tapped softly against the window.
Messi sat cross-legged on his bed, replaying moments mentally.
Rio knew the look now.
Competitive obsession.
Good sign.
Means growth.
"You think they'll kick me like that Saturday?"
"Yes."
Messi sighed heavily.
"Annoying."
Rio looked up from notebook.
"You know why they target you?"
"Because I'm good?"
"Because you're dangerous."
Pause.
"They're afraid."
Messi stared briefly.
Not used to hearing that.
Fear?
Directed at him?
Rio continued:
"When people can't stop talent…"
He closed notebook.
"…they try to hurt it."
Silence lingered.
Then Messi asked quietly:
"You ever scared?"
Interesting question.
Honest question.
Rio thought about Jake Simmons.
Heart attack.
Failure.
Loneliness.
Second life.
Pressure.
Then answered honestly.
"Yes."
Messi looked surprised.
"Of football?"
"No."
Pause.
"Of wasting opportunity."
The room stayed quiet after that.
Because somehow—
that fear felt heavier.
Realer.
Wednesday afternoon—
Sofia appeared again.
Of course she did.
Waiting near training exit.
Hands inside expensive coat pockets.
Watching.
Always watching.
This time—
Rio stopped first.
Interesting.
He wasn't sure why.
"You're persistent."
She smiled faintly.
"You're difficult."
Fair.
"What do you want?"
"Conversation."
Rio adjusted bag.
"About?"
"You."
Immediate answer.
Annoying.
Expected.
She walked beside him naturally.
No permission asked.
"You don't act like football boys."
"Football boys?"
"Arrogant."
Pause.
"Loud."
"Trying too hard."
Her eyes flicked toward him.
"You're quiet."
Rio considered briefly.
Then:
"Talking less wastes less energy."
She laughed unexpectedly.
"You actually believe that."
"Yes."
Long pause.
Then—
first serious question.
"Do you ever think about losing?"
Rio looked ahead.
Thoughtful.
Interesting question.
Honest one.
"Yes."
She blinked.
"You admit it?"
"Of course."
Pause.
"I think about failure often."
Now she looked genuinely curious.
"Why?"
Rio answered simply:
"To prepare for it."
Silence.
Wind moved softly between them.
Then Sofia said quietly:
"You're frighteningly serious for fifteen."
Rio glanced at her once.
"I'm busy."
Unexpectedly—
she smiled again.
Real smile.
Not social smile.
Different.
"Maybe that's why people can't stop watching you."
Thursday.
Media arrived.
Not major press.
Small football reporters.
Regional attention.
Enough to create noise.
Boys noticed.
Some loved it.
Others panicked.
Rio ignored it.
Mostly.
But jealousy inside academy?
Growing.
Again.
Harder now.
Because articles had started mentioning him beside Messi.
Not beneath him.
Beside him.
Important distinction.
Dangerous distinction.
Friday tactical session.
Guillermo gathered squad.
Board ready.
Expression severe.
"Espanyol play direct."
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Magnets moved sharply.
"They'll overload physically."
"They'll press emotionally."
His eyes landed on Rio.
Then Messi.
"You two."
Pause.
"They'll target you."
Messi crossed arms.
"Good."
Rio almost smiled.
Growth.
Guillermo nodded slightly.
"Good answer."
Then—
unexpectedly—
he pointed at Rio.
"If things break down?"
Long pause.
"You adjust shape."
Entire room looked over.
Shock.
Real shock.
Rio?
Given tactical authority?
At fifteen?
Huge.
Messi looked weirdly proud.
Cesc looked impressed.
Others?
Less happy.
Guillermo ignored reactions.
"I trust your eyes."
Pause.
"Don't make me regret it."
Rio nodded once.
"I won't."
And suddenly—
the derby stopped feeling like youth football.
Because now—
expectation had entered the room.
Saturday arrived cold.
Sharp.
The kind of Catalonian morning where the air carried tension before the sun even fully rose.
Rio woke before the alarm.
Of course he did.
Habits.
He sat up slowly inside Room 12, listening to the quiet hum of the dormitory.
Messi was still asleep.
Half-buried beneath blankets.
Hair chaotic.
One sock somehow missing.
Future greatest player in history.
Terrible sleeper.
Rio stood and stretched carefully.
Mobility work.
Ankles.
Hips.
Hamstrings.
Then breathing.
Slow.
Controlled.
Centering himself.
Not superstition.
Preparation.
In his old life, Jake Simmons had seen too many talented athletes collapse under pressure because they misunderstood nerves.
Pressure wasn't the enemy.
Pressure was information.
Your body telling you something mattered.
The trick was learning not to drown in it.
Across the room—
Messi groaned.
"You're creepy."
Rio didn't turn.
"You're awake."
"You stare at walls before matches."
"I think."
"You stare aggressively."
Rio almost smiled.
Fair.
Messi sat up, rubbing eyes.
"You nervous?"
"Some."
Messi frowned.
"You?"
"Yes."
Pause.
Messi looked strangely relieved.
"Good."
"Why?"
"Means I'm not weird."
Rio stood.
"You're definitely weird."
Messi threw a sock at him.
Missed badly.
Breakfast felt tense.
Nobody laughing loudly.
Nobody messing around.
Even Piqué looked unusually serious.
Players ate quietly.
Focused.
Anticipating.
Cesc sat beside Rio.
"You sleep?"
"Enough."
Cesc nodded.
"Good."
Then leaned closer.
"Espanyol midfield presses emotionally."
Rio looked over.
"I know."
"Thoughts?"
Rio thought briefly.
Then:
"They'll overcommit."
Cesc paused.
"…Meaning?"
"We bait aggression."
Pause.
"Then kill space behind."
Cesc slowly smiled.
"God."
He shook head.
"You really do think like a forty-year-old."
Messi joined conversation late.
Half awake.
"Forty-year-olds are slow."
Rio nodded.
"Good thing I'm fifteen."
Messi rolled eyes.
The bus ride felt quiet.
Outside—
Barcelona moved normally.
People shopping.
Coffee shops opening.
Ordinary life.
Meanwhile—
inside the bus—
twenty teenagers sat carrying futures heavy enough to reshape families.
Football at this level wasn't a game.
Not really.
For some boys—
failure meant school.
Normal jobs.
Dream over.
For others—
success meant changing generations.
Rio understood that deeply.
Probably more than anyone else here.
Across aisle—
Messi bounced knee repeatedly.
Nervous habit.
Rio reached over once.
Tapped his leg lightly.
"Breathe."
Messi frowned.
"I'm fine."
"Knee says otherwise."
Small silence.
Then Leo sighed.
"…Hate derbies."
"Good."
Messi blinked.
"What?"
Rio looked outside.
"Hate means you care."
Pause.
"Just don't let emotion drive."
Messi muttered quietly:
"You sound old."
Maybe because he was.
The stadium looked hostile before kickoff.
Smaller than Camp Nou.
Louder than expected.
Espanyol supporters already chanting.
Mocking.
Aggressive.
Teenage football with adult bitterness.
Typical derby.
As Barcelona warmed up—
jeers started immediately.
Especially toward Messi.
Small.
Skinny.
Easy target.
"Too weak!"
"Go back to Argentina!"
"Little rat!"
Messi's jaw tightened instantly.
Rio noticed.
Walked beside him casually.
"Still want revenge?"
Messi exhaled.
"…Yeah."
Rio nodded.
"Good."
Pause.
"Make them regret talking."
Tunnel atmosphere felt ugly.
Espanyol players louder.
Physical.
Trying intimidation early.
One taller defender bumped Messi deliberately.
"Won't survive today."
Another looked at Rio.
"You're the famous one?"
Rio stayed calm.
"No."
The boy smirked.
"Scared?"
Rio met his eyes briefly.
"No."
Pause.
Then quietly:
"Prepared."
The defender laughed.
Didn't understand.
Would later.
Kickoff.
Immediate violence.
Espanyol pressed like angry dogs.
No patience.
No shape.
Just aggression.
Hard tackles.
Body checks.
Constant shouting.
Guillermo had been right.
This wasn't football yet.
It was survival.
Minute five—
Messi clipped hard.
Again.
Stayed standing.
Good.
Growth.
Minute eight—
Rio shoulder-checked heavily.
Foul ignored.
Expected.
Referees loved "letting derbies flow."
Idiot habit.
Fine.
Adjust.
Minute twelve—
problem.
Espanyol overloaded midfield.
Aggressive double-marking.
Cutting passing lanes.
Messi isolated.
Barcelona struggling rhythmically.
Rio noticed instantly.
Mental simulation running.
Pattern recognition.
Weakness found.
Their left midfielder pressed emotionally.
Overcommitted.
Full-back too narrow.
Gap forming.
Tiny.
But real.
Rio drifted deeper.
Changed angle.
Without asking.
Without permission.
Guillermo noticed immediately from sideline.
Didn't interrupt.
Good.
Trust.
Minute seventeen—
first breakthrough.
Rio dropped beside Cesc.
Received ball.
Pressure instantly arrived.
Expected.
One touch.
Turn.
Second defender lunged.
Too aggressive.
Rio used body feint.
Simple.
Efficient.
Space opened.
And there—
the corridor.
Tiny gap.
Messi already moving.
Because now—
they understood each other without language.
Rio clipped ball first-time.
Outside foot.
Perfect weight.
Perfect spin.
Messi accelerated.
Gone.
Just—
gone.
Defender late.
Keeper rushing.
Messi touched once.
Twice.
Goal.
1–0.
Silence.
Sharp silence.
Then—
Barcelona bench exploded.
Messi turned instantly.
Not toward crowd.
Toward Rio.
Again.
Always.
Pointing directly at him.
Message obvious.
Him.
The partnership becoming undeniable.
Espanyol reacted badly.
Emotionally.
Predictable.
Harder tackles.
More anger.
Good.
Angry teams made mistakes.
Minute twenty-seven—
Rio got kicked hard.
No ball.
Just leg.
Crowd cheered.
Messi snapped instantly.
Shoving started.
Players gathered.
Chaos.
Rio stood slowly.
Leg aching.
Messi furious.
"Are you stupid?!"
Espanyol defender laughed.
"He falls easy."
Messi looked ready to swing.
Rio grabbed his shoulder.
Firm.
"Leo."
No response.
"Leo."
Again.
Finally—
eye contact.
Rio lowered voice.
"You want revenge?"
Messi breathing hard.
"…Yes."
Rio nodded.
"Then score again."
And somehow—
that worked again.
Because Messi trusted him now.
Really trusted him.
He stepped back.
Still furious.
But focused.
Minute thirty-five.
Barcelona struggling physically.
Game messy.
Ugly.
Exactly what Espanyol wanted.
Rio adjusted shape again.
Moved wider.
Pulled defender.
Created overload left side.
Future football.
2003 defenses hated rotational movement.
Didn't understand it.
Chaos formed.
Perfect.
Cesc found Rio near edge of box.
Pressure arriving fast.
Shot angle open.
Old Rio shoots.
New Rio calculates.
Keeper leaning near-post.
Messi marked.
Three defenders collapsing.
Then—
he saw it.
Impossible angle.
Tiny.
Beautiful.
Rio chipped ball softly.
Not cross.
Not shot.
Something between.
Ball curved behind defensive line.
Hung.
Dropped.
Messi met it first touch.
Volley.
Goal.
2–0.
Stadium dead silent.
Even Espanyol supporters paused.
Because this?
This looked different.
Too coordinated.
Too natural.
Like watching boys play football from the future.
VIP section—
Sofia stood.
Completely still.
She had watched football all her life.
Seen talented boys.
Seen hype.
Seen disappointment.
But this?
This partnership felt… inevitable.
And Rio—
God.
He played like somebody remembering football instead of learning it.
That frightened her more than she wanted to admit.
Because fifteen-year-olds weren't supposed to feel inevitable.
Halftime.
Locker room electric.
Heavy breathing.
Sweat.
Adrenaline.
Guillermo entered slowly.
Looked around room.
Then—
straight at Rio.
"You changed shape."
Not accusation.
Evaluation.
Rio nodded.
"They were overcommitting."
Silence.
Then Guillermo smiled slightly.
Rare.
Dangerous smile.
"Good."
Entire room noticed.
Trust confirmed publicly.
Huge moment.
Then coach looked around.
"They're emotional."
Pause.
"So what do we do?"
Messi answered first.
Voice calm now.
Cold now.
"We kill them."
Room went quiet.
Guillermo slowly nodded.
"…Exactly."
The second half began uglier than the first.
Espanyol had abandoned patience.
Now they played with wounded pride.
That made them dangerous.
And desperate players always fouled harder.
Rio felt it immediately.
The first challenge after kickoff came late and high, studs scraping down the side of his ankle. Pain flared sharply up his leg, but he stayed upright, forcing himself not to react.
No weakness.
Not today.
The defender muttered something under his breath as he jogged away.
Something about arrogance.
About "the golden boy."
Rio ignored him.
Emotion cost energy.
And energy won games.
Barcelona struggled through the opening minutes.
Espanyol pressed recklessly, bodies flying into every duel. The crowd sensed desperation and fed it, whistles raining down every time Rio or Messi touched the ball.
Messi got shoved.
Pulled.
Clipped.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the fiftieth minute, frustration had settled into his shoulders.
Rio noticed immediately.
Too tense.
Too emotional.
Bad sign.
During a throw-in, he walked closer.
"You're forcing it."
Messi frowned.
"They keep kicking me."
"Yes."
"And?"
Messi looked annoyed.
Rio lowered his voice.
"You already beat them."
Pause.
"They just haven't accepted it yet."
Messi stared for half a second.
Then exhaled.
Tension loosening slightly.
"…You always say weird things."
"You always listen."
Messi muttered something in Spanish.
Not entirely insulting.
Probably.
Minute fifty-eight.
The match changed.
Again.
Espanyol corner.
Bad clearance.
Second ball recycled.
Cross whipped back inside.
Chaos.
Bodies everywhere.
Shot.
Deflection.
Goal.
2–1.
The stadium exploded.
Suddenly alive again.
Momentum shifted.
Hostility multiplied.
Espanyol players screaming toward supporters.
Arms raised.
Barcelona's younger players looked rattled immediately.
Teenagers.
Normal.
Pressure changed games.
Rio stood near midfield.
Watching.
Measuring.
Something important happened then.
Something small.
Something invisible.
Messi looked at him.
Not Guillermo.
Not Cesc.
Rio.
Waiting.
Trust.
Leadership transfer.
Dangerous.
Important.
Rio pointed once.
Sharp.
Downward.
Calm.
Then motioned shape adjustment.
Messi nodded immediately.
No hesitation.
Good.
Very good.
The next fifteen minutes became tactical warfare.
Rio dropped deeper.
Cesc shifted wider.
Barcelona stopped chasing possession emotionally.
Instead—
they slowed everything.
Controlled tempo.
Killed momentum.
Future football.
The Espanyol players hated it.
Couldn't understand it.
Why weren't Barça panicking?
Why weren't they rushing?
Because Rio already knew something most fifteen-year-olds didn't:
Football wasn't won by urgency.
Football was won by control.
Minute seventy-one.
The moment arrived.
And afterward—
people would remember it.
Not because it was flashy.
Because it felt impossible.
Cesc recovered possession near midfield.
Quick pass.
Rio received under pressure immediately.
One defender at his back.
Another closing fast.
Crowd roaring.
Messi sprinting centrally.
Everyone expecting the pass.
Including Espanyol.
Especially Espanyol.
Rio saw all of it.
Calculated instantly.
Weight distribution.
Defensive shape.
Keeper positioning.
And then—
he did something nobody expected.
Instead of turning forward—
he paused.
Half-second.
Tiny hesitation.
Enough.
The defenders shifted.
Messi moved.
The entire defense collapsed toward the obvious option.
Perfect.
Rio spun opposite direction.
One touch.
Space.
Another touch.
Box edge.
Keeper adjusting late.
Crowd noise blurred.
Time slowed.
Jake Simmons—the analyst—recognized the angle instantly.
Low probability shot.
But perfect positioning.
Technique mattered.
He planted left.
Body slightly over ball.
Strike.
Clean.
Pure.
The ball dipped violently.
Not power.
Precision.
A late, vicious curve toward the far post.
Keeper stretched.
Fingertips close.
Not enough.
Goal.
3–1.
Silence.
Pure silence.
For exactly one second.
Then—
Barcelona bench exploded.
Absolute chaos.
Players screaming.
Guillermo yelling something incomprehensible.
Cesc sprinting.
Messi faster than everyone.
Rio barely had time to breathe before Messi crashed into him.
"You finally scored!"
Rio laughed—
actually laughed—
for maybe the first time in months.
"You sound offended."
"You always pass!"
Messi grabbed his shoulders.
"That was insane!"
And for once—
Rio let himself feel it.
Not fame.
Not attention.
Not pressure.
Just—
joy.
Pure football joy.
Because he had imagined this.
Thousands of times.
In another life.
Behind office screens.
Watching others live the dream.
And now—
he was inside it.
The stadium shifted after that.
Even Espanyol supporters quieted.
Because they had seen it too.
This wasn't just another talented academy player.
Something about Rio Fiero felt different.
Older.
Sharper.
Uncomfortable.
Like watching somebody who already knew what was about to happen.
Final whistle.
3–1 Barcelona.
Messi: 2 goals.
Rio: 1 goal, 2 assists.
But statistics lied.
Because the match belonged to Rio.
Everyone knew it.
The rhythm.
The shape.
The control.
The emotional management.
At fifteen.
Ridiculous.
Tunnel afterward buzzed with adrenaline.
Players exhausted.
Coaches smiling carefully.
But Rio noticed something else.
Adults.
Important adults.
Watching.
Talking quietly.
Scouting eyes.
Professional eyes.
One man stopped Guillermo near tunnel exit.
Older.
Barcelona B staff.
Rio overheard accidentally.
"He's ready."
Guillermo crossed arms.
"Too early."
"No," the scout insisted.
"He thinks faster than half my midfield."
Another voice joined.
Different staff member.
Colder tone.
"No."
Pause.
"He's dangerous."
Silence.
The first scout frowned.
"Dangerous?"
The man glanced toward Rio.
Who stood laughing quietly with Messi nearby.
"He changes hierarchy."
Pause.
"Players like that cause problems."
The sentence settled heavily.
Because Rio understood immediately.
Talent alone never scared organizations.
Disruption did.
Outside the stadium—
night had fallen.
Cold air.
Media waiting.
More cameras than expected.
Rio hated cameras.
Messi tolerated them.
Barely.
They slipped past quickly toward team transport.
But before Rio boarded—
someone stopped him.
Sofia.
Again.
Coat wrapped tightly against cold.
Expression unreadable.
"You ruined them," she said softly.
Rio adjusted bag.
"We played well."
"No."
She shook head.
"You controlled them."
Pause.
Then quieter:
"You make football look unfair."
Interesting sentence.
Rio considered it.
Then:
"Football usually is unfair."
For a moment—
she simply looked at him.
Really looked.
Like she was trying to solve something impossible.
Then—
"People were talking in the VIP section."
Pause.
"My father included."
Rio stayed quiet.
"Some think you're Barcelona's future."
Long pause.
"Others think you're becoming important too quickly."
Rio nodded.
Expected.
Then Sofia said something different.
Something quieter.
"Be careful."
He blinked.
"With what?"
Her expression shifted.
More serious now.
"Barcelona loves geniuses."
Pause.
"…Until they become difficult."
And suddenly—
Rio understood.
The jealousy wasn't ending.
It was evolving.
Back at La Masia—
Room 12 felt calmer.
Messi dropped onto bed immediately.
Exhausted.
Still buzzing.
"You know what's funny?"
Rio loosened boots.
"What?"
Messi pointed lazily.
"You scored one goal and suddenly everyone talks about you."
Rio shrugged.
"You scored twice."
"Yeah."
Messi grinned slightly.
"But your goal was stupid."
High praise.
From Messi?
Very high praise.
Rio sat on edge of bed.
Body aching.
Legs heavy.
Mind exhausted.
Then—
a knock.
Late.
Strange.
Messi frowned.
"Who visits at this hour?"
Rio opened door.
Staff member.
Serious expression.
Envelope in hand.
"For Rio Fiero."
The man left immediately.
No explanation.
No smile.
Nothing.
Rio looked down slowly.
Barcelona crest.
Official seal.
Messi leaned closer.
"What is it?"
Rio opened envelope carefully.
Read once.
Then again.
Silence.
Messi stood immediately.
"What?"
Rio looked up.
Expression unreadable.
Then quietly:
"…Closed first-team training."
Pause.
"Invitation."
Messi froze.
Completely froze.
Because suddenly—
everything had changed.
Again.
And faster than either of them expected.