The week of the Espanyol derby transformed La Masia into something colder.
Something sharper.
Football academies loved to pretend they were schools. Places of development. Discipline. Brotherhood.
But rivalries stripped away the illusion.
During derby week, La Masia became a military camp.
Breakfast conversations quieted.
Training sessions intensified.
Even the coaches walked differently—less patient, more severe.
Because this wasn't just another youth fixture.
This was Espanyol.
The enemy in blue and white.
The club that existed in Barcelona's shadow and hated every second of it.
And this year?
The rivalry carried a new layer.
Because for the first time, FC Barcelona's academy had two names everyone was whispering about:
Messi.
And Rio Fiero.
Tuesday morning.
6:00 AM.
Room 12.
The dormitory still slept under darkness when Rio opened his eyes.
No alarm needed.
Years of adult discipline made waking automatic.
For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling.
The old wooden beams above looked unchanged.
But his body?
His body felt different.
Stronger.
The soreness from yesterday's training sat deeper in his muscles—not painful anymore, just familiar. Functional.
Three months ago, he had relied almost entirely on anticipation and intelligence.
Now?
The body was beginning to catch up.
He sat up slowly.
Across the room, Messi was asleep.
Messy hair everywhere.
Blanket halfway on the floor.
One arm hanging off the bed.
Completely defenseless.
Rio stared for a second.
Future greatest footballer in history.
Sleeps like abandoned laundry.
Tragic.
He stood and grabbed his training clothes.
Then—
without warning—
he kicked lightly at Leo's mattress.
"Wake up."
No response.
Rio tried again.
Harder.
Messi groaned.
"…Five minutes."
"No."
"Three minutes."
"No."
"One minute."
"No."
Messi pulled blanket over his head dramatically.
Rio folded his arms.
"You wanted extra finishing practice."
Silence.
Then blanket lowered immediately.
Messi blinked sleepily.
"…That was manipulative."
"Yes."
"You're evil."
"Efficient."
Leo sighed heavily.
Then sat up.
Hair somehow worse.
"You know," Messi muttered, "normal people don't wake up excited for suffering."
Rio handed him water bottle.
"Good thing neither of us are normal."
The training pitch at sunrise felt sacred.
Quiet.
Cold.
Untouched.
Only the sound of boots against grass and distant city noise in the background.
Messi stretched beside him.
Still half asleep.
Rio placed cones carefully.
Simple drill.
Acceleration.
Short bursts.
Explosive movement.
Messi looked suspicious immediately.
"This looks painful."
"It is painful."
Leo sighed.
"Why are we friends?"
Rio considered.
"Tactical compatibility."
Messi laughed despite himself.
Good.
Relaxed Leo trained better.
For forty minutes—
they worked.
Explosive starts.
Quick directional changes.
First-touch finishing.
Rio constantly adjusting details.
"Plant foot closer."
"Shorter steps."
"Explode through contact."
Again.
Again.
Again.
Messi complained constantly.
But improved constantly.
By sunrise—
Leo was drenched in sweat.
Hands on knees.
Exhausted.
"You're insane," Messi muttered.
Rio nodded.
"Yes."
Then rolled ball forward.
"One more."
Messi looked horrified.
"You said last one fifteen minutes ago."
"And yet here we are."
"I'm reporting you."
"To who?"
Messi paused.
Fair point.
By breakfast—
everyone noticed.
Again.
The whispers.
The looks.
The shift.
Fame at academy level was strange.
Three good performances and suddenly everyone acted like they'd always believed in you.
Rio hated fake admiration.
Preferred honesty.
Even ugly honesty.
At the breakfast table—
Piqué sat first.
Already smirking.
"Hear the rumors?"
Rio sat down.
"No."
"Espanyol want blood."
"Normal."
"No," Piqué continued.
"They've apparently been watching film."
Cesc joined them.
Serious expression.
"Specifically film on you."
Rio looked up.
Interesting.
Messi frowned immediately.
"Why?"
Cesc stabbed fork into eggs.
"Because every team figured something out."
Pause.
"When they stop Rio…"
Another pause.
"…they slow everything."
Messi immediately disagreed.
"No."
Cesc blinked.
"No?"
Leo leaned forward.
"They can't stop him."
Matter-of-fact.
Completely serious.
Absolute certainty.
Rio noticed.
Again.
That growing trust.
Dangerously complete trust.
Cesc noticed too.
Smirked.
"Wow."
Looking at Rio.
"He really likes you."
Messi immediately looked offended.
"That's not—"
Piqué laughed.
"Oh my god, he definitely likes you."
Leo turned red instantly.
"Shut up."
Rio calmly ate toast.
Not involving himself.
Survival instinct.
Then—
Coach Guillermo entered.
And the room changed instantly.
Silence.
Authority.
Pressure.
He looked tired.
Which usually meant angry.
Never good.
He stood near the center.
Hands behind his back.
Eyes sharp.
"Listen carefully."
Nobody moved.
"Espanyol aren't coming to play football."
Pause.
"They're coming to hurt you."
The room tightened immediately.
Good.
Honest speech.
No fake motivation.
Guillermo continued:
"They hate this academy."
Another pause.
"They especially hate being told Barcelona has another generation coming."
His gaze moved.
Stopped.
Messi.
Then Rio.
"They've been talking all week."
Silence.
"They think Messi is overrated."
Messi looked uncomfortable immediately.
"And…"
Guillermo's expression sharpened.
"…they think Fiero is media hype."
A few players shifted angrily.
Piqué muttered something violent.
Cesc rolled eyes.
Rio stayed calm.
Predictable.
Every rise created backlash.
People loved doubting fast success.
Guillermo crossed arms.
"Good."
The room blinked.
Coach smiled slightly.
Cold smile.
"I want you angry."
Pause.
"Especially you."
He pointed directly at Rio.
"You've played calm your whole life."
Another pause.
"Saturday?"
Voice lowered.
"Punish them."
The room erupted.
Energy rising instantly.
Messi looked sideways at Rio.
Small grin appearing.
Dangerous grin.
"You heard coach."
Rio stood.
Collected tray.
"Yes."
Pause.
"Let's ruin somebody's weekend."
Later that afternoon—
match film session.
Dim tactical room.
Projector humming.
Espanyol footage rolling across screen.
Aggressive press.
Hard tackles.
Compact defense.
Physical midfield.
Coach Guillermo paused frame suddenly.
Pointed at screen.
"This."
On-screen—
an older Espanyol midfielder.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Aggressive posture.
Captain's armband.
"Adrián Navarro."
The room quieted.
"Seventeen."
Pause.
"Violent."
Another pause.
"Talented."
Longer pause.
"And obsessed with proving Barcelona players are soft."
Messi frowned.
Piqué muttered:
"Idiot."
Guillermo continued.
"He requested specific assignment."
Then looked directly at Rio.
"He wants Fiero."
The room shifted immediately.
Cesc looked interested.
Messi looked annoyed.
Rio stayed expressionless.
Coach continued.
"He called you…"
Pause.
"…'a pretty little newspaper story.'"
Silence.
Then laughter.
Piqué nearly choked.
"Oh, he's dead."
Messi looked genuinely offended.
Rio?
Still calm.
Still unreadable.
Inside?
Already analyzing.
Bigger.
Stronger.
Physical.
Aggressive.
Good.
A useful test.
Coach folded arms.
"Well?"
Rio looked at screen.
At Adrián Navarro.
Then answered quietly:
"He sounds emotional."
Guillermo smiled slowly.
Dangerous smile.
"Exactly."
Saturday arrived carrying the kind of tension that sat heavy in the lungs.
The Mini Estadi was already alive long before kickoff.
Parents.
Academy scouts.
Local journalists.
Former players.
Executives.
Everyone squeezed into the stands beneath the pale Barcelona sky.
The rivalry with Espanyol always mattered.
But today?
Today felt different.
Because whispers had turned into expectation.
People weren't just here for Lionel Messi anymore.
They were here to see if the rumors about Rio Fiero were real.
The boy with impossible composure.
The invisible midfielder who made the entire pitch move to his rhythm.
The ghost.
Inside the dressing room, silence ruled.
Nobody joked.
Nobody laughed.
Boots tapped nervously against tile.
Tape wrapped around wrists.
Laces tightened.
Breathing slowed.
Messi sat beside Rio, elbows resting on knees, head lowered.
Focused.
Quiet.
But Rio noticed the restless movement in Leo's leg.
Nervous energy.
Expected.
Across the room, Piqué cracked his knuckles.
Cesc stared at tactical notes.
Everyone understood something simple:
Lose this match?
People forget your talent.
Win this match?
People remember your name.
Coach Guillermo entered without speaking.
The room straightened instantly.
He stood before the tactical board.
Hands clasped behind his back.
Expression unreadable.
Then:
"Look at me."
Everyone did.
"This is not football today."
Silence.
"This…"
He pointed toward the tunnel.
"…is pride."
Another pause.
"Espanyol believe you're spoiled academy boys."
His voice sharpened.
"They believe Barcelona players fold under pressure."
He looked toward Rio.
Toward Messi.
"They think one boy is overrated."
Messi looked down.
"And they think another…"
His eyes narrowed.
"…is fake."
Rio stayed still.
Guillermo smiled.
Cold.
Dangerous.
"Good."
The room leaned in.
"Make them regret speaking."
The tunnel before kickoff felt strangely quiet.
Too quiet.
Blue-and-white shirts stood opposite them.
Espanyol players looked older.
Harder.
Bigger.
More physical.
Several stared openly toward Messi.
Toward Rio.
Like hunters choosing targets.
Then—
a shadow stopped in front of Rio.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Sharp features.
Captain's armband.
Adrián Navarro.
Seventeen.
Physical.
Confident.
Exactly as promised.
He looked Rio up and down slowly.
Expression halfway between amusement and contempt.
"So…"
Pause.
"You're the miracle boy?"
Rio met his eyes calmly.
No tension.
No emotion.
Just observation.
"You look too pretty to survive ninety minutes."
A few Espanyol players laughed.
Messi immediately stepped closer.
Protective instinct again.
Rio barely glanced at him.
Handled.
Then calmly:
"Then stop me."
Simple.
Flat.
Final.
Adrián smirked.
"Oh, I will."
The whistle blew.
And war started immediately.
Espanyol pressed like angry dogs.
No patience.
No caution.
Every tackle hard.
Every challenge personal.
Within three minutes—
Messi had already been kicked twice.
Rio once.
Referee barely reacted.
Expected.
Derby rules.
Physicality rewarded.
Rio adjusted instantly.
Future knowledge taking over.
If match became emotional—
Espanyol won.
If match became structured—
Barcelona won.
So Rio slowed everything.
Short passes.
Tempo control.
Positional movement.
Quiet manipulation.
Minute ten—
first chance.
Rio drifted unnoticed between midfield lines.
Cesc found him instantly.
One touch.
Turn.
Messi already moving.
Of course he was.
Rio didn't even need to look.
Outside-foot pass.
Perfect weight.
Perfect angle.
Messi burst through gap.
Keeper rushed.
Goal.
1–0.
The stadium exploded.
Messi turned instantly—
pointing directly toward Rio.
No hesitation.
No celebration first.
Straight recognition.
Rio simply nodded.
Like expected result.
Because it was.
Espanyol responded violently.
Literally.
Minute twenty-five—
Adrián crashed into Rio shoulder-first.
Late.
Deliberate.
Rio hit grass hard.
Crowd booed.
Messi immediately marched over.
Angry.
Rarely angry.
"You touched him late."
Adrián laughed.
"What are you?"
Looking Messi up and down.
"His bodyguard?"
Rio stood calmly.
Pulled Messi back.
Not worth it.
Adrián leaned closer.
Quiet voice.
"You disappear when games get ugly."
Rio brushed dirt from shorts.
Then answered softly:
"No."
Pause.
"You do."
Second half.
1–0.
Tense.
Ugly.
Physical.
Exactly how Espanyol wanted it.
Until minute fifty-eight.
The moment everything changed.
Messi trapped difficult ball under pressure.
Three defenders collapsing.
No passing lane.
Chaos.
Then—
he glanced once.
Just once.
And Rio already moved.
No signal.
No words.
No eye contact needed.
He was simply there.
Pocket of space.
Waiting.
Messi slipped impossible pass through bodies.
Rio received outside the box.
Adrián backed off.
Expected pass.
Everyone expected pass.
Three months ago—
Rio would've passed.
Because technique existed.
Power didn't.
But not anymore.
Rio planted.
Rotated hips.
Struck.
Clean.
Violent.
The sound cracked across the stadium.
A different sound.
Senior-level sound.
The ball rose—
then dipped viciously.
Top corner.
No keeper in Spain saving it.
Silence.
One second.
Two.
Then—
explosion.
Absolute explosion.
The stadium lost its mind.
Coach Guillermo stood frozen.
Scout beside him whispered:
"Three months ago…"
Pause.
"…that shot dies in the keeper's hands."
Another scout shook head slowly.
"What the hell happened to this kid?"
Rio stood motionless.
Breathing hard.
No wild celebration.
Just calm.
Cold.
Focused.
Adrián stared.
Confused.
Threatened.
Because suddenly—
the "pretty story" looked terrifying.
By minute seventy—
Espanyol had broken mentally.
Rio controlled tempo completely.
Messi moved like lightning.
Everything connected.
Everything effortless.
One sequence lasted eighteen uninterrupted passes.
Rio pointing.
Messi already running.
Goal.
3–0.
Again—
coach whispered from sideline:
"They aren't communicating anymore."
Assistant answered quietly:
"They already know."
Messi finished with two goals.
Rio with one goal.
Three assists.
Total domination.
Statement made.
High above—
in the VIP section—
Sofia Valera sat impossibly still.
She had stopped pretending curiosity.
This wasn't curiosity anymore.
This was fascination.
Maybe obsession.
Beside her, her father adjusted glasses.
"Messi is extraordinary."
Sofia nodded once.
"But Rio…"
She never looked away from the pitch.
"Rio feels dangerous."
Her father chuckled.
"Dangerous?"
Slowly—
she answered:
"He plays like he already knows the ending."
Final whistle.
4–0.
Demolition.
Espanyol humiliated.
Adrián left without handshake.
Messi practically glowing.
Rio exhausted but composed.
Inside locker room—
chaos.
Celebration.
Shouting.
Water bottles flying.
Piqué screaming nonsense.
Cesc laughing.
Coach Guillermo smiling openly for once.
Then—
the door opened.
Silence followed instantly.
A man entered.
Older.
Professional.
Barcelona training staff.
Not academy.
Senior staff.
Everyone noticed immediately.
The man scanned the room.
Slowly.
Then stopped.
On Messi.
On Rio.
He folded his arms.
"The first team has injuries."
Silence.
Nobody breathed.
His expression remained unreadable.
"One of you…"
Pause.
"…may be needed sooner than expected."
The room froze.
Rio felt Messi glance toward him.
History—
quietly—
was beginning to move.