THWACK!
The sharp echo of the ball striking the net rang across the training ground once again. The net rippled violently as the ball kissed the top corner — another inch-perfect finish.
"Oooooh!" voices erupted from the few players and staff watching on the sideline, unable to hold back their reactions to the relentless display unfolding before them.
Alfred Schreuder, Koeman's assistant, stood near the touchline, arms crossed but body slightly leaning forward, completely absorbed. His eyes lit up like a kid witnessing magic. A wide grin spread across his face as he shook his head in disbelief.
"Stegen is getting demolished out there," Alfred muttered with a mixture of amusement and awe, his voice colored by half-laughter, half-shock.
Another silky exchange unfolded in front of him. Messi, with that supernatural first touch, slipped a perfectly weighted pass between two defenders, threading it like a needle through fabric, right into Mateo's stride.
Oooaaahhh!
Alfred couldn't help but let out another involuntary gasp as Mateo, like a seasoned assassin, dispatched the ball low into the corner, leaving Ter Stegen rooted once again.
"Not just Stegen, even the defense! Messi and Mateo are abusing them out there. This is insane." Alfred was practically geeking out now, talking to himself, caught between admiration and childlike excitement. His eyes danced as he whispered under his breath, barely able to contain it:
"I can't wait for the next match... this is going to be insane."
But even as he mumbled, his focus was immediately ripped back to the pitch — oooaaaahh! — as Messi, in one fluid motion, pulled off an outrageous turn, breaking the defensive lines yet again and releasing Mateo with another surgical through ball.
On the opposite side, standing silently, arms behind his back, Ronald Koeman observed. But while Alfred was captivated by the beauty of the football, Koeman's focus was narrower — his attention locked onto two specific figures: Messi and Mateo.
But even more specifically — Messi.
Throughout the Season, Koeman had seen Messi dominate training countless times. Dribbling past defenders as if they were training cones, scoring from impossible angles, pulling off the extraordinary like it was routine. Messi's genius was constant. Predictably brilliant.
Yet today, something felt… different.
Koeman narrowed his eyes, watching Messi glide across the grass with a certain energy. It wasn't just the brilliance — that had always been there. It was something else.
"Hey, Alfred," Koeman finally spoke up, his tone thoughtful, slightly distant. "Does Messi… seem different to you? Kind of?"
Alfred, still grinning like a fan, barely pulled his gaze away from the pitch. He answered dismissively, almost laughing, "Different? How? He's still great as if he had been playing all along. Insane actually."
As if to reinforce Alfred's words, Messi in that very instant took possession once more, dancing between defenders with effortless balance before slipping yet another through ball that Mateo calmly slotted past Ter Stegen for what felt like the hundredth time that session.
Koeman nodded slightly but stayed fixed on his train of thought.
"Yes... I'm not saying he's not great or anything. He just—" Koeman paused, searching for the right words. "He looks more... how can I put it…"
The words hung in the air.
And then, as if answering for him, a calm voice cut through the moment.
"Sharper."
Koeman turned his head slightly to the right, where an older man now stood. The man wasn't looking at Koeman, but at the pitch, his eyes glinting with a quiet admiration — almost like a master watching a familiar masterpiece being painted once again.
The man continued, his voice low but tinged with reverence, like he was watching something both nostalgic and alive.
"More… fiery. Involved. Restless. Hungry."
Koeman glanced sideways at the older man beside him. He recognized him instantly.
Sergi Barjuán.
Sergi had been part of Barcelona for what felt like a lifetime. A fixture. A ghost of the club's golden years, always lingering quietly in the background. When Koeman had arrived, bringing his own coaching staff — Alfred, Schreuder, and the others — most of the previous regime's staff had been replaced. All except Sergi. The club had insisted. The man was part of Barcelona's DNA. He had been at La Masia since some of the current stars were mere boys. A silent guardian behind the scenes, untouched by managerial changes. He didn't interfere, and Koeman hadn't tried to move him either. They coexisted — the legacy and the present.
Koeman studied him briefly, noticing the fixed intensity in his gaze. Sergi hadn't once taken his eyes off the pitch.
"Sharper?" Koeman muttered back quietly, almost as if testing the word. His voice carried a faint edge of doubt.
Without looking away, Sergi finally responded, his voice low and nostalgic.
"It's been a long time since I've seen him play like this... At least since 2019 — before the night in Liverpool." His eyes remained glued to Messi's every movement, as though watching a rare phenomenon. "He feels... alive."
There was something almost reverent in his tone, like a man witnessing the return of something long thought lost.
Koeman turned his eyes back to the pitch, his mind racing.
Is that it? Is that what I've been sensing? Has Messi not been fully himself until now? If this is him 'awake'... what is an awakened Messi capable of?
As the thought churned in his head, the action on the field escalated once more.
On the pitch, Messi collected the ball near midfield. His head was up, but curiously, his eyes weren't even tracking the ball itself. The ball obeyed him like a living thing, glued to his boots, rotating softly beneath his feet as if magnetized. His stride was slow at first, almost casual, drawing in defenders like prey circling a predator.
Jordi Alba, wide-eyed, instantly sensed the danger. He whipped his head toward Lenglet, yelling urgently, his voice cutting through the training ground air.
"Clément! Clément! Come! Come now!"
Lenglet hesitated. "But what about—"
"It doesn't matter!" Alba barked back. "He has the ball — I can't handle him alone! If we both step up, we stop him together! MOVE!"
Lenglet quickly abandoned his marking, closing in toward Messi as the two defenders locked in, forming a double wall to cut off any space. They positioned themselves carefully — bodies low, arms slightly out, balanced on their toes. Both men breathing heavier already — as if the very presence of Messi demanded more oxygen.
But Messi remained eerily calm. His gaze still wasn't on the ball. Instead, his peripheral vision calculated every inch of space.
And then—
he exploded.
In one blink, Messi accelerated with a devastating burst. The ball stuck to his foot like it was sewn there, dancing as he performed a rapid sequence of body feints. His shoulders twitched left — Alba bit. Then right — Lenglet stepped. Messi squeezed between them, his center of gravity impossibly low, slipping through the narrowest of gaps like liquid gold.
"Shit!" Alba cursed under his breath, spinning around in desperation as he lunged, trying to grab Messi's shirt — but Messi was already gone. His momentum never broke.
Without ever looking back, Messi swung his foot, delivering a blistering cross into the penalty area. The ball sliced through the air — fast, low, and perfectly curved, landing exactly where only one man could reach it.
Mateo.
The young prodigy had read the entire sequence before the ball was even struck. He had positioned himself on the blindside of Piqué, ghosting into space. As the ball screamed toward him, he planted his right foot firmly and leaned his shoulder subtly into Piqué's chest — not enough for a foul, but enough to nudge the veteran off-balance and create just the yard of separation he needed.
In one smooth motion, Mateo let the ball drop perfectly into his stride. His right foot snapped through it violently, volleying it first-time.
CRACK!
The ball cannoned toward the near post, so fast that Ter Stegen barely flinched. The net bulged viciously as the ball ricocheted in, leaving everyone stunned. Another one.
The training ground erupted in more cheers, gasps, and laughter.
"Goooaaal!!" Mateo shouted, grinning from ear to ear, his voice filled with boyish joy.
Laughing breathlessly, he spun on his heels and sprinted toward Messi, shouting, "That was insane!"
Messi, breaking into laughter himself, welcomed Mateo with a light embrace, shaking his head in amusement.
"You kidding?" Messi replied between chuckles. "That was your finish — all I did was send the ball your way."
Mateo laughed shyly, the adrenaline still surging in his veins. Today's training had been utterly absurd. By his own rough count, this was already his 23rd goal of the session.
As Mateo was laughing and chatting with Messi, the entire team couldn't help but glance in their direction. Many wore smiles — soft, genuine looks of fondness. There was a warmth among most of them, watching the young rising star and the club's eternal legend bond so seamlessly. It felt like a torch quietly passing hands.
But not every gaze carried that same warmth.
A few meters away, standing stiff and still, one pair of eyes studied them with a hollow, unreadable stare. His hands rested on his hips, but his chest barely rose. The air around him felt heavier, as if pressing down.
It was Ousmane Dembélé.
Unlike the others, there was no joy behind his gaze. Instead, he stood frozen, detached, staring at the two players with a strange tightness creeping up from his gut. Slowly, instinctively, he reached for the edge of his training jersey and wiped a thin film of sweat off his face. But as the fabric passed across his brow, his eyes fell to the jersey itself.
He paused.
The pure white color stared back at him — plain, clean, untouched.
A substitute's jersey.
For a moment, the world seemed to blur around him, the sounds fading into a quiet hum as his mind slipped inward. There was an emptiness that clung to him as he stared at the jersey's blank canvas. It wasn't just fabric—it was a symbol.
White. Like an empty page. Like being erased. Forgotten. Pushed aside.
His stomach churned harder, tightening into knots. He cast his gaze again towards Mateo, who still laughed alongside Messi, glowing in his bright yellow starter's kit. The yellow shimmered under the training ground lights — the color of importance. Of trust. Of belonging.
A strange, bitter melancholy pressed on Dembélé's chest.
This season had felt different for him. Not his best statistically — the goals, the assists hadn't fully come — but physically, he had finally begun to feel right. The old ghosts of injury that had haunted him since his €105 million move — the hamstrings, the setbacks, the endless rehab rooms — they had finally loosened their grip. His body moved freer, stronger. For the first time in years, he believed the breakthrough was coming. He just needed a little more time. Just a few more chances.
But fate had moved quicker than him.
Pure white.
The color now whispered of replacement. Of how quickly the world forgets. Of a promise interrupted.
He swallowed, his breath short and uneven as the knot in his stomach twisted deeper. He tried to suppress it, but self-doubt has sharp claws. The more he stared, the more the contrast burned in his chest — Mateo glowing in yellow, rising, adored. While he remained on the outside looking in.
The young Frenchman blinked, trying to steady his breathing — but the ache didn't leave.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle sliced through the air, snapping him out of the trance.
"Alright, team!" Koeman's voice echoed through the training pitch, carrying that usual mixture of firmness and casual authority. "That's excellent for today. Really good work! Go freshen up, get something to eat, and then I want everyone back in the tactics room sharp — we'll go over tactical adjustments for the next match."
As the players began to scatter, stretching and joking among themselves, Koeman's voice rang again, this time directed toward one player specifically.
"Mateo! Mateo, can you come here a moment?"
Mateo, still laughing softly with Messi as they walked off the pitch, turned around with a light skip in his step. His face was glowing, the kind of wide, effortless smile that only comes from feeling like you finally belong.
He jogged toward Koeman, his voice light and easy. "Hey, gaffer! What's up? Did I do something wrong?"
Koeman chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no, you were great out there, lad." His tone softened slightly as he continued, "I just spoke with the team manager. They've been gathering everyone's documents for tonight's trip. We're heading to Paris as you know… but it seems your passport isn't with the rest. We need it sorted before we fly out."
Mateo's eyes widened slightly. The realization hit instantly.
"Oh! That's true." He muttered to himself, nodding. "It's at home."
A/N
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