The problem with touching greatness was that normal life stopped feeling real afterward.
Rio noticed it the moment he stepped out of Room 12 the following morning.
The corridors of La Masia looked the same.
The same faded stone walls.
The same smell of detergent, old boots, and cafeteria bread drifting through the halls.
The same sleepy academy boys dragging themselves toward breakfast.
But something inside him had shifted.
Yesterday, he had trained with men.
Not prospects.
Not dreams.
Men.
Players whose bad season could destroy careers.
Players whose salaries could buy his family's apartment building ten times over.
Players who carried pressure like invisible scars.
And somehow—
he had survived.
Not excelled.
Not dominated.
But survived.
That mattered.
Because survival upstairs meant possibility.
And possibility changed everything.
Beside him, Messi walked quietly, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket.
He had barely spoken all morning.
Not unusual for Leo.
But Rio noticed something different.
The Argentine kept glancing sideways.
Small looks.
Measured looks.
Evaluating.
Finally—
"What happened with Ronaldinho?"
Straight to it.
Rio blinked.
"You ask like a jealous girlfriend."
Messi looked offended instantly.
"I am not jealous."
Pause.
"…What happened?"
Rio almost smiled.
Protective instinct.
Interesting.
"Extra training."
Messi narrowed his eyes.
"For how long?"
"About forty minutes."
The look on Leo's face changed.
Subtle.
Barely noticeable.
But Rio saw it.
Displeasure.
Not anger.
Something quieter.
Possessiveness.
The kind born from trust.
Because for three months—
they had become inseparable.
Eat together.
Train together.
Study together.
Think together.
Every tactical conversation happened between them.
Every improvement.
Every dream.
And now—
for the first time—
someone from the world upstairs had taken Rio's attention.
Messi hated it.
Even if he didn't fully understand why.
"You could've woken me," Leo muttered.
Rio raised an eyebrow.
"At ten at night?"
"Yes."
"That sounds terrible."
"I would've come."
The answer came too quickly.
Too honestly.
Rio paused.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Then:
"Next time."
Messi nodded immediately.
Satisfied.
Like a problem had been solved.
Dangerous habit forming.
Rio mentally noted it.
Breakfast at La Masia had changed.
Three months ago?
Invisible.
Ignored.
Background noise.
Now?
The room shifted when Rio entered.
Not dramatically.
Not movie-style.
Subtly.
Conversations lowered.
Eyes tracked him.
Recognition.
Reputation.
Expectation.
He hated how quickly fame normalized itself.
At one table—
younger academy players whispered openly.
"That's him."
"The ghost guy."
"No, they call him 'The Architect' now."
"Messi only scores because of him."
Messi visibly bristled beside him.
Interesting.
Protective again.
Cesc Fàbregas waved them over.
Already halfway through breakfast.
"You're late."
"We're two minutes early," Rio replied.
"Which means late."
Fair enough.
Piqué sat nearby too.
Smirking.
"Hey, superstar."
Rio ignored him.
Piqué grinned wider.
"Oh no, he got first-team training and became mysterious."
"I was already mysterious."
Messi quietly muttered:
"He was already annoying."
Rio looked at him.
Betrayal.
Then—
the room shifted again.
Coach Guillermo entered.
Clipboard in hand.
Serious expression.
Never good.
Players quieted instantly.
"Listen carefully."
His voice cut through the cafeteria.
"This Saturday…"
Pause.
"…Espanyol."
The room immediately changed.
Derby energy.
Hatred.
Rivalry.
Barcelona youth players treated Espanyol like personal insult.
Guillermo continued:
"They've spent the last month talking."
Another pause.
"Saying Messi carries this academy."
Messi looked down.
Uncomfortable immediately.
Typical Leo.
"They've also said…"
Guillermo glanced toward Rio.
"…Fiero is hype."
Silence.
"They think he's overpraised."
Another pause.
"They think his body isn't ready."
Rio stayed calm.
Expected.
Reasonable criticism.
Actually accurate criticism.
Coach's expression hardened.
"I want to embarrass them."
The room grinned collectively.
Now we were speaking academy language.
Violence through football.
Training began brutally.
No warm atmosphere.
No jokes.
Derby week.
Everything sharper.
Everything harder.
And Rio immediately noticed something else.
The coaches were watching him differently now.
More attention.
Less patience.
Higher expectations.
Mistake during positional drill?
Whistle instantly.
Slow recovery run?
Correction immediately.
Too safe on vertical progression?
Called out.
Not punishment.
Pressure.
The dangerous side of reputation.
People expected more now.
During eleven-versus-eleven—
Rio felt it clearly.
The physical changes were finally paying off.
Three months of late-night work.
Plyometrics.
Core stability.
Strength training disguised carefully so academy staff wouldn't stop him.
His body felt different.
Still lean.
Still elegant.
But stronger.
Sharper.
Explosive.
Minute fifteen—
proof arrived.
Midfield duel.
Older academy defender stepped aggressively.
Same kind of challenge that used to knock Rio off balance.
This time—
Rio absorbed contact.
Pivot.
Turn.
Accelerate.
Gone.
The defender stumbled.
Late.
Surprised.
Rio slipped through-ball instantly.
Messi finished.
Easy.
The pitch quieted briefly.
Recognition.
Something had changed.
Cesc jogged closer.
"Okay."
Pause.
"…That was new."
Rio exhaled lightly.
"Been working."
"No kidding."
Later—
shooting drill.
Normally Rio's weakest category.
Technique elite.
Power disappointing.
Until now.
Ball rolled across edge of box.
Coach whistle.
Strike first touch.
Rio stepped into it.
Clean contact.
Perfect mechanics.
Hips aligned.
Core engaged.
Power transfer improved.
Strike.
The sound alone changed everything.
Different sound.
Violent sound.
The ball screamed into top corner.
Net snapped sharply.
Silence.
Then—
Piqué shouted:
"What the hell?"
Even Coach Guillermo blinked.
Rio stood still.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Because that—
that felt different.
Not lucky.
Not accidental.
Progress.
Real progress.
His body was catching up.
Finally.
After training—
things got annoying.
Again.
Girls.
Always somehow appearing after success.
Outside academy gates—
three waited.
Pretending not to wait.
Obviously waiting.
Messi looked unimpressed.
"Scary."
"You're dramatic."
"They stare."
"Yes."
"Like predators."
"…Still dramatic."
One girl approached carefully.
Confident smile.
Private school uniform.
"You're Rio, right?"
"Yes."
"My friends wanted—"
"No."
She blinked.
"What?"
"No."
Simple.
Polite.
Final.
Messi nearly laughed himself to death beside him.
"You're impossible," Leo whispered.
"Efficient."
"Cruel."
"Focused."
Messi grinned.
"Old man."
Then—
a familiar black car appeared.
Expensive.
Elegant.
Out of place.
Rio recognized it instantly.
Interesting.
The passenger door opened.
And there she was.
Sofia Valera.
Poised.
Beautiful.
Dangerously self-assured.
Dark hair tied back neatly.
Eyes already fixed on him.
Messi immediately frowned.
"Who is that?"
"Problem."
"Bad problem?"
"Rich problem."
Leo looked deeply concerned.
"That sounds worse."
Honestly?
Fair assessment.
Sofia approached calmly.
No hesitation.
Like someone used to entering spaces she owned.
Her eyes flickered briefly toward Messi.
Recognition.
Assessment.
Dismissal.
Then back to Rio.
"You disappeared."
Rio adjusted his bag.
"I train."
"You also ignore people."
"Sometimes."
Messi stood awkwardly nearby.
Clearly uncomfortable.
Clearly protective.
Sofia smiled faintly.
"You're difficult."
"So I've been told."
She tilted her head.
"You free tonight?"
"No."
No hesitation.
Again.
Messi coughed suspiciously hard.
Definitely hiding laughter.
Sofia blinked.
No one said no to her quickly.
Interesting moment.
Then—
instead of getting upset—
she smiled wider.
"Tomorrow?"
"No."
"Weekend?"
"Match."
"After?"
Rio paused.
Thought briefly.
"…Possibly."
Messi looked personally offended.
Sofia noticed.
Smiled.
Dangerous girl.
"Good."
She stepped backward.
"Then don't disappoint me Saturday."
Before leaving—
she leaned slightly closer.
Quiet voice.
"My father says people upstairs are talking about you."
Pause.
"Not all of them like it."
Then she walked away.
Just like that.
Elegant.
Calculated.
Complicated.
Messi stared after the car.
Then at Rio.
Then back at the car.
"…I don't trust her."
Rio blinked.
"You don't even know her."
"Still."
Pause.
"She looks dangerous."
Rio thought briefly.
Again—
fair assessment.
Messi stayed quiet for nearly five minutes after Sofia left.
Which, for Leo, meant he was thinking too hard.
Dangerous.
Because when Messi overthought things, he either became strangely philosophical…
Or weirdly territorial.
Today?
Definitely territorial.
They walked back toward the dormitory in comfortable silence, academy boys passing them with nods of recognition. The late afternoon sun painted the training grounds gold, shadows stretching long across the grass.
Normally, Leo would already be talking football.
Passing angles.
Runs.
Defensive spacing.
Instead—
he looked irritated.
Finally:
"She likes you."
Rio glanced sideways.
"Possibly."
Messi frowned harder.
"That wasn't denial."
"No reason to deny obvious things."
Leo shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie.
"You barely know her."
"Correct."
"She looks like trouble."
Rio thought about that.
Confident.
Connected.
Rich.
Socially dangerous.
Politically connected to the club.
Interested in him.
Yes.
Very likely trouble.
"Probably," Rio admitted.
Messi looked deeply vindicated.
"See?"
Pause.
"Then why talk to her?"
Rio opened the dormitory door.
"Because avoiding powerful people completely is stupid."
Leo stopped walking.
Confused.
"What?"
Rio turned slightly.
"Football isn't only football, Leo."
The younger boy frowned.
Meaning he was listening carefully now.
"Talent matters," Rio continued, voice calm. "But influence matters too. Politics matter. The people upstairs? They decide who gets chances."
Messi hated conversations like this.
Not because he disagreed.
Because he understood instinctively that Rio was right.
And Rio being right usually meant something unpleasant.
Leo kicked lightly at the floor.
"…Still don't like her."
Rio almost smiled.
"Noted."
Dinner at La Masia carried derby tension.
Espanyol week poisoned the atmosphere every year.
Sharper voices.
Harder tackles in training.
Less joking.
Academy football was emotional.
Teenagers loved grudges.
At dinner, Coach Guillermo entered again.
Not alone this time.
Two unfamiliar staff members followed.
Older.
Professional.
Club administration.
That immediately changed the room.
Players straightened subconsciously.
Whispers died.
Guillermo stood near the center.
"Listen carefully."
His expression was serious.
"The Espanyol match will have visitors."
Nobody reacted immediately.
Then:
"First-team scouts."
Pause.
"Club executives."
Longer pause.
"And representatives from the senior tactical department."
The room changed instantly.
Pressure.
Excitement.
Fear.
Future.
All at once.
Guillermo's gaze moved deliberately.
Toward Messi.
Toward Cesc.
Then—
toward Rio.
"Some of you are being watched more closely than usual."
Meaning obvious.
Very obvious.
Piqué leaned sideways.
Whispered:
"No pressure."
Rio ignored him.
Professional habit.
Never react emotionally to pressure.
Pressure was information.
Nothing more.
Later that night—
Room 12.
The ritual had become automatic.
Stretching.
Recovery.
Water.
Tactical review.
Messi sat cross-legged on the floor.
Notebook open.
Rio beside him.
Simple diagrams sketched roughly.
Espanyol defensive structure.
Compact midfield.
Physical defenders.
Aggressive press.
Messi tapped the page.
"They overload right side."
"Yes."
"And leave central transition open."
"Yes."
Pause.
"So we punish them?"
Rio nodded.
"Repeatedly."
Leo grinned.
Good.
That expression meant dangerous football tomorrow.
Then Rio looked at him carefully.
"You've been emotional today."
Messi immediately looked offended.
"I am not emotional."
"You absolutely are."
"No."
"Yes."
Leo crossed arms.
"…Fine."
Small silence.
Then quietly:
"I just don't like things changing."
Ah.
There it was.
Honesty.
Rare.
Rio leaned back slightly.
"What exactly changed?"
Messi hesitated.
Then:
"Everyone wants something from you now."
Unexpected answer.
Interesting answer.
Rio stayed quiet.
Leo continued.
"Coaches."
"First team."
"Girls."
"People upstairs."
Another pause.
"…I liked when it was simple."
That landed heavier than expected.
Because underneath all of Messi's awkwardness—
there was fear.
Fear of losing stability.
Fear of losing partnership.
Fear of being left behind.
Again.
Rio understood suddenly.
Messi wasn't possessive because of ego.
He was protective because he trusted very few people.
And Rio had become one of them.
Without meaning to.
Rio sighed softly.
"Leo."
Messi looked up.
"You're my partner."
Simple words.
True words.
"Nothing changes that."
Messi studied his face carefully.
Like checking for lies.
Eventually—
he nodded.
Satisfied.
Good.
Then immediately ruined emotional moment by saying:
"Still don't trust rich girl."
Rio rubbed forehead.
"You're impossible."
"No."
Pause.
"Protective."
The next morning—
war began.
Derby training.
Coach Guillermo had removed all softness.
The session started brutally.
Physical pressure.
Tight spaces.
Hard contact.
Simulated aggression.
Because Espanyol youth teams played ugly football.
Deliberately ugly.
They kicked.
Pressed.
Provoked.
Wanted emotional reactions.
Rio knew the type.
And today—
something strange happened.
The academy started targeting him in drills.
Harder tackles.
Rougher contact.
Testing him.
Jealousy.
Good.
Expected.
Because success created resentment faster than friendship.
During possession work—
one midfielder clipped Rio late.
Intentional.
Rio stayed upright.
Ignored it.
Thirty seconds later—
another challenge.
Hard shoulder.
Again intentional.
Coach noticed.
Did nothing.
Also intentional.
Lesson.
Can he handle pressure?
Then—
Piqué came flying in aggressively.
Hard tackle.
Clean technically.
Violent emotionally.
Rio hit grass.
Entire pitch paused.
Piqué offered hand immediately.
Smirking.
"Testing."
Rio accepted help.
"Congratulations."
"Passed?"
"Barely."
Piqué laughed.
Good.
No real hostility.
Just football hierarchy.
Then came match simulation.
And Rio finally exploded.
Not emotionally.
Football-wise.
Thirty minutes.
Absolute control.
Everything slowed down around him.
Future vision meeting improved body.
The chemistry with Messi becoming unnatural.
One touch.
Movement.
Pass.
Run.
Goal.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Then—
moment.
The moment.
Edge of box.
Ball loose.
Defender backing off.
Old Rio would've passed.
Lacked confidence in shot power.
New Rio?
Planted foot.
Strike.
Pure.
Violent.
The sound cracked through the training ground.
The ball dipped late—
top corner.
No keeper touching that.
Silence.
Real silence.
Coach Guillermo slowly lowered whistle.
"…Again."
Rio blinked.
"What?"
"Do it again."
Ball reset.
Second strike.
Slightly lower.
Still unstoppable.
Long pause.
One assistant muttered quietly:
"When did he learn that?"
Guillermo didn't answer.
Because he was wondering something worse.
How fast was this boy improving?
Too fast felt dangerous.
Too fast made people suspicious.
After training—
Rio headed toward recovery room.
Tired.
Satisfied.
Then—
voices nearby.
Not meant for him.
Adult voices.
Staff voices.
He slowed instinctively.
One coach speaking quietly.
"…Messi still bigger talent."
Another voice.
"Yes."
Pause.
"But…"
Long silence.
Then words that changed everything:
"…maybe the wrong kid is getting all the headlines."
Rio stopped walking.
Expression unreadable.
Heart strangely calm.
Because there it was.
The first fracture.
The first dangerous comparison.
Messi.
Or Rio.
Talent.
System.
Narrative.
Football loved rivalries.
Even invented ones.
And suddenly—
Rio understood.
Things were about to get complicated.
Rio stood still in the hallway.
The fluorescent lights above hummed softly, sterile and indifferent, while the conversation around the corner continued without any awareness that its subject stood only a few meters away.
He did not move.
Did not react.
Did not tense.
Years of being Jake Simmons had trained him well.
Emotion distorted information.
And information—
especially ugly information—
was valuable.
The first voice spoke again.
Older.
Measured.
Academy staff.
"Messi is special," the man said quietly. "Everyone knows that. The boy touches the ball and the whole pitch bends around him."
Another voice responded.
"But Fiero…"
Pause.
"He changes the structure of the match."
Rio stayed motionless.
"…Explain."
The second man exhaled.
"When Messi dominates, it's obvious. Dribbles. Goals. Magic."
Pause.
"Fiero is harder to explain."
Another pause.
"The team looks smarter with him."
Silence.
Then:
"And that worries me."
Rio's eyes narrowed slightly.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
The first coach lowered his voice further.
"You know what happens when Barcelona starts comparing players."
Another silence.
"Politics."
"Yes."
"And directors already love stories."
Pause.
"One poor academy kid with a hardworking mother?"
Another pause.
"The media will eat that alive."
Then—
the sentence that mattered most.
"Messi was supposed to be the future."
Quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
"But now?"
Pause.
"People upstairs are asking if Fiero changes the timeline."
Rio walked away before hearing more.
Not because he was emotional.
Because he had heard enough.
Football was beginning to become political.
Too early.
Much too early.
That was dangerous.
Because talent alone never decided careers.
Narratives did.
Power did.
Timing did.
And Barcelona—
especially Barcelona—
loved internal drama.
By the time he returned to Room 12, evening had settled over La Masia.
The old farmhouse breathed differently at night.
Quieter.
Warmer.
The distant hum of television drifted through the hallways, mixed with scattered laughter and arguments over card games.
Teenagers pretending pressure didn't exist.
Messi sat at the desk.
Notebook open.
Half-finished tactical sketches covering the page.
He looked up immediately.
Too immediately.
Like he had been waiting.
Again.
"You're late."
"Recovery room."
Messi narrowed his eyes.
"You look weird."
"Helpful description."
"No seriously."
Leo stood.
"You're thinking."
Rio dropped his bag beside the bed.
"Always."
"More than normal."
Annoying child.
Observant child.
Dangerously observant child.
Rio sat down slowly.
His legs still carried the ache of training.
But his mind?
His mind felt heavier.
Messi waited.
Impatient now.
"What happened?"
Rio debated.
Telling him carried risks.
Not telling him carried different risks.
Eventually—
honesty won.
"I heard coaches talking."
Messi stiffened instantly.
"What coaches?"
"Academy staff."
Silence.
Then quietly:
"…About us?"
Rio nodded.
The room grew still.
Leo hated this kind of conversation.
Because somewhere deep down—
Messi already understood football politics.
He just didn't want to.
Rio leaned back.
"They're starting comparisons."
Messi looked away immediately.
Jaw tightening.
Small movement.
Easy to miss.
Not for Rio.
"…Between us?"
"Yes."
Long silence.
The fan hummed softly.
Outside—
someone laughed in the hallway.
Inside Room 12—
everything felt strangely serious.
Finally—
Messi asked quietly:
"What did they say?"
Rio answered honestly.
"That you're still the bigger talent."
Leo relaxed slightly.
Then Rio continued:
"But they think I'm changing how the team functions."
Messi said nothing.
Which worried Rio more than any emotional reaction.
Because silence from Leo meant thinking.
And thinking often meant insecurity.
Eventually—
Messi spoke.
Quiet voice.
Almost too quiet.
"…Do you think they're right?"
Unexpected question.
Dangerous question.
Rio looked at him carefully.
At fifteen—
Messi still carried insecurity like hidden bruises.
Small body.
Medical problems.
People doubting him constantly.
Every compliment came attached to skepticism.
Too small.
Too fragile.
Too quiet.
Too shy.
Rio understood suddenly:
This conversation mattered.
More than football.
He leaned forward slightly.
"They're idiots."
Messi blinked.
"What?"
Rio exhaled.
"Leo."
Pause.
"You're going to become something football has never seen before."
Messi looked confused immediately.
"You always say things like you already know."
Rio ignored that.
"The only reason people compare us now…"
Pause.
"…is because they don't understand football."
Messi listened carefully.
Rio continued.
"You make impossible things happen."
Another pause.
"I make systems work."
Simple truth.
Not complete truth.
But enough.
"We're not rivals."
Rio held his gaze.
"We're weapons."
Silence.
Then—
slowly—
Leo smiled.
Small.
Private.
The kind he only showed when he trusted someone completely.
"That's dramatic."
"You like dramatic."
"No."
Pause.
"…A little."
Good.
Mood restored.
Mostly.
Then Messi looked serious again.
"What if people try to separate us?"
Rio didn't hesitate.
"They won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because winning solves politics."
Simple.
Cold.
True.
"We win enough…"
Pause.
"…they stop asking stupid questions."
Messi considered that.
Then nodded slowly.
Satisfied.
Again.
Strangely dependent on Rio's certainty.
That dependence was growing.
Rio noticed.
Didn't fully understand what to do about it yet.
But noticed.
Saturday arrived faster than expected.
Derby day.
Espanyol.
The atmosphere around La Masia felt poisonous.
Tense.
Sharp.
Even breakfast conversations sounded aggressive.
Nobody smiled much.
Nobody joked.
Because derby matches mattered differently.
You could lose league points.
You could not lose pride.
Outside the locker room—
Rio adjusted his boots quietly.
Focus narrowing.
Body calmer than mind.
The new strength in his legs felt stable now.
Reliable.
Finally.
Nearby—
Messi bounced nervously on his heels.
Classic Leo.
Silent anxiety.
Too much energy.
Rio glanced sideways.
"Nervous?"
"No."
"You're vibrating."
Messi frowned.
"Shut up."
Fair.
Then—
Coach Guillermo entered.
And immediately—
the room went silent.
His expression looked dangerous.
Good sign.
Usually meant motivation speech.
He stood in front of the tactical board.
Hands behind his back.
Eyes scanning every player.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Then—
his gaze stopped on Rio.
Stopped on Messi.
And he smiled.
Not warm.
Sharp.
Predatory.
"Today," Guillermo said quietly,
"…we send a message."
He pointed toward the board.
"Espanyol thinks Messi carries this team."
Then toward Rio.
"They think Fiero is media hype."
Long pause.
His voice lowered.
Cold now.
"Embarrass them."
The room erupted instantly.
Energy exploding.
Piqué grinning.
Cesc cracking knuckles.
Messi suddenly focused.
Dangerously focused.
And Rio?
Rio felt calm.
Terrifyingly calm.
Because somewhere deep inside—
Jake Simmons already knew something.
Football stories changed quickly.
Heroes changed quickly.
Narratives changed quickly.
And today—
whether Barcelona liked it or not—
another chapter was beginning.