From La Masia: Was Always Destined for Greatness Chapter 88 88: Mateo’s Only Enemy

"Mateo King."

The interviewer's voice carried a hint of awe as he said the na, dragging it slightly, savoring the sound of it — Mateo King.

Across from him, Mateo himself sat comfortably in the studio chair, wearing Barcelona's newest ho kit — the number 9 bold on his chest. It was still surreal, even for him, that he'd traded the academy's simple training shirts for the most iconic number in world football. The young striker chuckled under his breath, one hand resting on his knee, the other rubbing the back of his neck as if the weight of the number still felt fresh on his shoulders.

"Barcelona's number 9… at seventeen years old," the interviewer said with a half-smile, his tone caught sowhere between disbelief and admiration. "This has to be another record, isn't it?"

Mateo laughed — that quiet, boyish laugh of soone who hadn't yet fully realized how extraordinary his life had beco. "I guess so," he said with a grin, then added, "How many is that now?"

The interviewer let out a hearty laugh, leaning back in his chair. "Ha! The kid's bragging already!"

From sowhere off-cara, one of the producers shouted playfully, "As he should!"

That only made the studio burst into light laughter — even the cara operator was grinning now.

"Yes, yes," the interviewer said, shaking his head good-naturedly, "as he should!"

Mateo's laughter joined theirs — the kind that ca easily, honest and bright. Despite the fa, despite the eyes of millions on him, he still had that freshness, that grounded charm that made it hard not to like him.

The interviewer adjusted his mic and straightened up. "Alright, let's begin properly," he said, turning to the cara with a warm broadcaster's smile. "Ladies and gentlen, welco to our special interview segnt here on La Sexta. I'm your host, Jordi Évole, and tonight we have a guest who's taken not just Barcelona but the entire footballing world by storm. The one and only… the child prodigy himself — Mateo Alexander Nicolas King!"

Applause erupted from the studio speakers — artificial cheers layered over light clapping from the small live crew. Mateo looked slightly embarrassed, giving a modest wave toward the cara, trying not to laugh again.

"Speaking of which," Jordi said, raising a brow with mock seriousness, "what a na! I an—co on, that's not a footballer's na, that's a royal decree."

The crew chuckled.

Jordi went on dramatically, gesturing with his hands, "What's the deal with athletes and these epic nas lately, huh? Mateo King, Alexander Nicolas—are you sure you're not secretly leading a country sowhere?"

Mateo laughed again, shaking his head. "No, no, I promise, I'm not plotting world domination yet."

The interviewer smirked. "So what's the story behind it? Was it like—your parents sat down and thought, 'Let's na him sothing fit for a dynasty'? Or—wait—" He leaned in conspiratorially. "Is it true what people say? That you were actually a lab experint from La Masia, genetically engineered to score goals?"

The crew burst out laughing. Even Mateo had to bend forward slightly, trying to keep his composure.

"Well," he said, smiling as he looked back up, "I'm sorry to break it to you, but as far as I know… I'm human." He paused, eyes glinting playfully. "Mostly, I guess."

Laughter again filled the studio — lighthearted, infectious, warm.

When the noise died down, Mateo leaned back, his voice calr now. "No, but seriously—it's just a coincidence really. My grandfather's na was Mateo, so that one's for him. For Alexander—my mom's always had this strange fascination with Greek mythology, so she threw that in. Nicolas ans 'victory for the people,' and the King…"

He chuckled softly, his eyes flicking toward the cara. "Let's just say that's an added bonus. Kind of like… Usain Bolt, right?"

The interviewer grinned, nodding. "That's sothing."

"Yeah," Mateo said with a soft laugh, leaning back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his presence still radiating quiet confidence.

Jordi Évole smiled, leaning forward with that trademark glint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Your parents — they must be extrely proud. Tell , how was it growing up? Were you a rebellious child? There are stories, you know, about your not-so-peaceful ti back then especially your early days at the academy how you broke almost every rule there you are practically a legend there."

Mateo's laughter ca almost instantly — genuine, warm, the kind that made everyone else in the studio chuckle too.

"It's slander, Jordi. Pure slander," he said, putting his hands dramatically over his heart. "I an, look at ! Don't I look peaceful?"

Jordi squinted at him, feigning deep thought, before replying dryly,

"Of course. Clearly."

"Exactly," Mateo shot back, a grin playing at his lips.

Jordi raised his hands in surrender, laughing.

"You don't expect to argue against the current star of FC Barcelona, do you? I still love my life… and my club mbership."

"Oh co on!" Mateo said, bursting into laughter.

The audience followed, and for a brief second, the entire set felt alive with easy, contagious energy. Jordi exaggeratedly raised his arms again like he was waving a white flag.

"Okay, okay," Mateo said finally, still grinning. "There might have been a little fender-bender here and there."

"Oooh," Jordi leaned in with mock suspense. "Do tell."

Mateo shook his head. "I'm not gonna say much. Just know that I love freedom and when you gather a bunch of young very active and vibrant boys in a place well let stop there you should already know," he said softly, his tone easing into sincerity. "And I've been blessed to have really great people beside — everyone back at La Masia, the club staff, my teammates — from the academy all the way to the first team — and of course, my parents. They're the reason I'm even sitting here today."

He paused, his expression thoughtful now, eyes glimring faintly under the studio lights.

"I owe them everything. I'm just… grateful, you know? Football gave a dream, but they gave a life."

For a mont, even Jordi seed disard by the maturity in the boy's words. Then, with perfect timing, he sniffed exaggeratedly and said,

"Wow… a little tear's coming out."

Mateo imdiately laughed, shaking his head. "Oh stop teasing ."

Jordi laughed too, nodding. "Alright, alright. Speaking of your parents your dad's British, right?"

Mateo, who had just taken a sip of water, nearly choked on it as he answered,

"Yes, Manchester born and bred. You know the story — ca to Barcelona, fell in love with a girl, then the city… and never left."

"Wow," Jordi said sarcastically, eyes widening. "So romantic when you say it."

Mateo chuckled, scratching his neck. "What can I say? I tell it better."

Jordi laughed, shaking his head before flipping through his notes.

"So, earlier in your career—"

"Wait hold on Isn't my whole career still early?" Mateo interrupted playfully.

Jordi blinked, then burst into laughter.

"Fair point!"

"I don't think I've even played up to twenty gas," Mateo added, smiling as he leaned back in his chair.

Jordi wagged his pen, grinning. "Fourteen gas, twenty-eight goals, and eleven assists — 885 minutes total, averaging 3.94 goal contributions per ga. But I an, who's counting, right?"

The studio broke into laughter again. Even Mateo had to tilt his head back, laughing fully this ti.

"Okay, let phrase it differently," Jordi said, still smiling as he regained his composure. "Around the start of when you broke into the first team, there were talks about both the FA and the RFEF calling you up. Clearly, you picked Spain. But… why? They're both European giants, you've got family ties to both — and, even though it pains to admit it, England has a much better squad right now, with more potential. So why Spain?"

Mateo looked up at Jordi, his expression calm but his eyes glimring with sothing firr — conviction, maybe even pride.

"I know," he began slowly. "Like, I an… I keep hearing that I had to pick and all that. But honestly, anyone who knows knows there was no choice at all."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. The tone in his voice softened but deepened — the kind of honesty that drew the whole room in.

"Like yes, I get that there was technically a choice — and yeah, the FA sent an invitation. But when I say there was no choice, I sincerely an… there was no choice."

He paused, almost smiling to himself, eyes lowering for a mont as if he was watching old mories play out in front of him.

"Spain… Barcelona… it's my heart," he said quietly. "I grew up here. One of my first real mory of football wasn't watching a Premier League ga or anything never really liked the league to be honest — it was the 2010 World Cup."

His tone brightened with nostalgia.

"I was six. I rember it like it was yesterday. I was in my grandfather's arms when Iniesta scored that goal. You know that goal Every Spaniard knows the goal."

Jordi smiled knowingly. "… Johannesburg." he said very softly.

"Yeah," Mateo said, nodding as his eyes flickered with light. "I rember screaming until my throat hurt. My grandpa just lifted up and spun around, my mom crying, everyone outside shouting, fireworks, people hugging strangers in the street… Spain wasn't just a country that night. It was ho. It beca my ho."

He smiled faintly, running a hand through his blond hair.

"So yeah — when people say, 'Oh, you could've chosen England,' I get it. But there really was no choice. The sa way there was no choice when it ca to my club."

Jordi raised an eyebrow. "You an Barça?"

"Exactly," Mateo said. "Before I signed my contract, my agent told about offers here and there — clubs from England, Germany, even one from France. But it was never really a consideration. This—" he tapped the Barça crest embroidered on his chest "—this is where I was ant to be. I don't just play for Barcelona. I belong to it."

Jordi humd, intrigued, tilting his head. "Hmm…"

Mateo smiled. "And who said we don't have the squad or the talent? Spain are, to , a favorite for anything right now — be it the upcoming Euros or the World Cup next year."

"Oh, co on, Mateo," Jordi said, half-laughing, half-challenging. "I love the national squad as much as the next guy, but England are beaming with stars. I an — Harry Kane, Rashford, Mason Mount… apart from France, I don't think there's another national team in such a golden age. Wouldn't you agree?"

Mateo chuckled, shaking his head lightly. "No, no," he said confidently. "I don't think that. I think Spain are just as competitive as either England or France."

He sat up straighter now, his voice picking up montum, the conviction in his tone growing stronger.

"I know it might not look like that at face value, but if you know, you know. We've got the perfect blend of experience and young talent. I an — we've got Jordi Alba, Busquets, David de Gea, seasoned guys who've seen it all. And then you mix that with people like Rodri, Dani Olmo, Pedri…" He grinned proudly at the ntion of his teammate's na. "Not to ntion we've got Luis Enrique — one of the best minds in football — leading us."

He leaned forward slightly, his hands gesturing as he spoke, passion spilling into every word.

"Plus, there are so many young talents just waiting for their chance to burst into the scene. When they do, people are gonna see it. Just wait, Jordi. You'll see. Everyone—" he smiled faintly as he looked pointing to the cara "—don't count Spain out. We're coming."

Jordi laughed, shaking his head as he scribbled sothing down on his notepad.

"Ha-ha, don't worry, don't worry. And I have a feeling — as long as we have you, no one can count Spain out."

Mateo smirked, eyes gleaming.

"You better believe it. As long as I'm on the pitch, I'll do anything possible to make us win. I an…" — he tapped the crest above on his chest as a demonstration — "that star on the badge must be getting lonely, don't you think?"

"OO you heard it, folks," Jordi Évole said, turning toward the cara with that easy charisma he was known for. "Mateo's ultimate dream — the second star on the national badge!"

Mateo smiled, a little shy but certain. "Yes. I an… isn't that every footballer's dream?"

The laughter and studio energy quieted for a second. Jordi, still smiling faintly, leaned forward, his tone softening.

"Mateo…" he said, his voice dropping from playful to sothing more earnest. "How do you do it?"

Mateo blinked, caught off guard. "Do what?" he asked with a short laugh.

Jordi's smile faded, replaced by sothing closer to curiosity — maybe admiration. "All of it," he said. "You're seventeen. You just turned seventeen this year, right?"

Mateo nodded. "Yeah, February."

Jordi nodded too, as if confirming it for himself. "So tell … how do you do it then? The whole thing. The composure, the calm. The records. Starting for FC Barcelona — one of the biggest clubs in the world — at your age. Now talking about representing your country at the highest stage of them all."

His voice softened further.

"What about the pressure, the criticism? I know you must have seen them — the online noise, the comnts. You playing this well for Barça must have brought more eyes, and with that… a lot of hate. You're not just living a dream; you're living inside a storm. So… how do you deal with it? Because most professionals twice your age still crumble under half of that. And sothing tells ," he said, leaning back slightly, studying the boy across from him, "you actually an what you say."

For a mont, there was silence. Mateo just sat there, his fingers brushing lightly along the edge of his chair, a faint smile lingering on his lips. Then, he shook his head.

"Your only enemy is yourself," he said quietly.

Jordi tilted his head. "Sorry?"

Mateo lifted his gaze, his hazel eyes clear and unflinching.

"It's sothing my grandfather used to tell growing up," he said, his tone low, steady — almost reverent. "Your only enemy is yourself."

He paused, letting the words settle. Then he smiled faintly.

"The haters? Yeah, I see them. You can't not see them. But like…" he shrugged slightly, a small, almost amused grin forming on his lips, "do they even matter? Like genuinely. I don't an to sound rude, but honestly — do they?"

Jordi chuckled softly, his laughter breaking the tension. "I love that."

Mateo leaned back, resting an elbow on the armrest, voice deepening with calm fire.

"And the records," he continued. "You know, the 'youngest to do this,' 'first teenager to score that.' Yeah, they're nice and all — they make great headlines. But do they really matter?"

Jordi looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Pardon?"

Mateo smiled, a hint of steel behind it now.

"Like I know it's to show what i have done and I'm proud of each and every one of them, let's just say… instead of being the youngest to do sothing, I'd rather be the best to do it."

He sat forward now, both hands clasped, his tone deliberate and heavy with aning.

"I an, what's the point of competing if it's not to be the best? What's the point of waking up every day, going to the gym, putting your body through pain, pushing through the training, the pressure, the noise — if it isn't to chase that feeling of being undeniable?"

His voice steadied, firm, powerful now — a rhythm of belief.

"That's my proof that I'm alive. That's my proof that I'm Mateo King. Winning, striving, improving — that's what defines . Not a birth certificate. Not my age. My talent, my work, my performances — those are the only things that should speak for ."

He leaned back again, quiet for a mont, then added softly, "Everything else is just noise."

...

Mateo had just spoken his truth.

Unaware of what those words truly ant or rather — of how they were being carried far beyond that studio, into living rooms, cafés, locker rooms, and classrooms across Spain — the boy with the dark golden hair had, in that mont, changed sothing.

To the little kids clutching half-inflated footballs in small dusty streets, watching from old TV sets in crowded bars, it wasn't just an interview anymore — it was a declaration that dreams didn't need permission.

To his friends back at La Masia, the ones grinding day and night hoping for their own breakthrough, those words echoed like a quiet promise that it was possible, that one of them had done it.

Even to another young boy, not too far away — a wiry teenager with a tennis racket in hand and a restless heart — it hit differently. A boy nad Carlos Alcaraz, who watched the screen from his ho in Murcia, eyes narrowing with a quiet spark. By the ti the interview would end, he'd already be typing a ssage to his agent:

"Let's give Wimbledon a real shot this year."

But perhaps, most profoundly, back in the hills of Catalonia — in a quiet rural ho where olive trees swayed in the twilight — another dream was stirring.

A girl with a soft face and dark hair sat cross-legged on the dinning table beside her best friend, the sound of Mateo's voice still playing faintly from the TV. She didn't realize she'd stopped eating until he said those last words — "My talent, my work, my performance alone should be what speaks for ."

Aina turned her head slowly, her heart pounding with sudden clarity. Sowhere deep inside, sothing shifted.

And sitting beside her, Olivia Rodrigo — who had been half-listening, half-daydreaming — blinked, realizing that maybe, just maybe, she knew what to do about her own music career now.

Back in the studio, Jordi Évole sat quietly for a few seconds, studying the kid across from him. His playful TV host expression had softened into sothing more real — respect.

"Wow…" he finally said, exhaling softly. "Those are so powerful words. Honestly, the only thing I can really say is — your grandfather sounds like a very wise man."

Mateo smiled, warmth flickering across his face. "He was the best."

Jordi nodded, his tone gentle now. "I'm sure he'd be very proud of you right now."

There was a silence — not awkward, but full. One of those rare TV monts that didn't need music or applause. Just presence.

Then Jordi blinked, catching himself, and turned to the cara.

"Well, while we're all emotional now," he said with a chuckle, "we'll be going on a quick break to lighten the mood. But before we go—one more question for Mateo."

Mateo leaned forward, smiling. "Shoot."

Jordi grinned, mischief returning to his tone. "Your third goal against Greece… your first national team match… and I think I speak for everyone when I ask this — was that goal intended? Like, seriously. Everyone wants to know — did you do it on purpose?"

The studio laughed. Jordi waved to the crew. "Can we get the tab over here?"

A staff mber rushed in with a tablet already cued up. The screen showed the replay of the goal — the one that had set the internet on fire.

Jordi held it toward him. "There we go. Look at this. Boom. The world's been arguing for weeks, so clear it up for us."

Mateo laughed as the clip began to play, his face lighting up instantly. "Ohh, this goal…"

(Go to "The Kid" chapter — the goal and the viral video follow from here.)

Mateo just laughed, that effortless, boyish laugh that seed to fill the room with warmth.

"You want to know if that was intentional?" he said, a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes.

Jordi chuckled, leaning forward as if he had been waiting all day for this answer. "Yes! There was a heavy touch you had… was that intentional, or was it really a mistake? It's scattered the internet. So people say it was a mistake — that you took that heavy touch when you didn't need to — while plenty more say it was all planned, leading up to that beautiful goal at the end. So… which is it?"

Mateo laughed hard, shaking his head. "Really?"

"Yes, really!" Jordi replied, unable to hide his excitent.

Mateo laughed again, longer this ti, as if the question itself was a treat. "Well… what do you think it was?"

Jordi froze for a second, caught off guard. "? Ehn… I'm not really sure. I think it was intentional, but… I'm not sure. See, my thoughts don't really matter here. Was it intentional or by mistake?"

Mateo just laughed, that deep, carefree laugh that made even the crew smile. "You said we're going on a break, right?"

Jordi grinned, holding up a hand. "In… like fifteen seconds. So please, answer now."

Mateo looked directly into the cara, leaning forward slightly. His grin widened, almost conspiratorial. "Whether that goal was intentional or not… I can say this—"

Jordi, sensing the mont, interrupted quickly. "Yes, yes?"

Mateo paused for a beat, then let out a quiet chuckle before winking at the cara. "I guess… we would never know."

"Mateooo!" Jordi called out, half-laughing, half-exasperated, as the station went to a comrcial break, the image of Mateo's teasing grin frozen on screens across Spain.

...

When they ca back from the comrcial break, the interview resud seamlessly, as if no pause had ever existed. The next fifteen minutes drifted by in a fluid rhythm of questions and answers, touching on Mateo's work environnt at La Masia, the nuances of his new contract, and lighter, playful inquiries about his hobbies and off-pitch life. Laughter bounced through the studio, blending naturally with Jordi's warm, teasing comntary. Smiles punctuated the conversation, glances between Mateo and Jordi revealing an unspoken camaraderie. The atmosphere was relaxed yet electric, carrying an energy that made everyone in the room feel like they were part of sothing special. The station itself seed to hum with satisfaction; for the crew, this had been more than just an ordinary broadcast—it was a showcase of raw talent eting charisma, and the results reflected it.

For Mateo, the invitation from La Sexta had been carefully considered and cleared in coordination with his uncle, who had been advocating for him to increase his dia presence thoughtfully. He had also cleared the appearance requirent with Barcelona's dia team, who were invested in showcasing their new rising star. Everything had been orchestrated with care, and Mateo's natural ease in front of the cara made it all look effortless.

For the TV station, the interview was nothing short of a triumph. As the segnt wrapped, Jordi rose from his chair, tablet in hand, and scanned the viewership numbers with a mixture of disbelief and satisfaction.

"Jordi… 2.1 million viewership count. This is massive. This is our second-highest ever," Miguel, the station producer, said, practically bouncing in excitent. He had been the mastermind behind this booking, pulling every connection he had at the club to make it happen. Seeing the numbers now, his face lit with the vindication of a plan executed flawlessly. Every late night, every phone call, every negotiation had been worth it.

Jordi's mind, however, wasn't just on the numbers. He looked over at Miguel, his eyes narrowing slightly, though his face wore a calm, professional mask. "Miguel… don't you think…"

Miguel, still buzzing with the thrill of the ratings, leaned in eagerly. "It even beat our views when you interviewed Pri Minister Pedro Sánchez! that was just 1.7 million"

Jordi waved him off, a half-smile on his lips, but his mind was elsewhere. "Miguel," he said again, snapping him out of his trance. Miguel blinked rapidly, suddenly aware of the serious tone under Jordi's calm exterior. "Oo… sorry, you wanted to say sothing? What is it?"

Jordi's lips twitched in an unnatural smile, betraying the scrutiny behind his eyes, but he chose to ignore it. He tapped the tablet absentmindedly. "Don't you think… the interview was… too smooth?" His voice softened, carrying a hint of both admiration and suspicion. "The kid is extrely dia-trained, don't you think? Even I felt myself drawn into the conversation at tis… Did anyone, by any chance, give him our questions beforehand?"

The producer's head popped up from behind his laptop, breaking Jordi's thoughts. "Now that you ntion it… yeah. But I don't think we actually gave him our talking points," he said, shrugging casually. "It's probably just the kid's dia training, you know—those major clubs have entire teams dedicated to things like that." He quickly dismissed the thought, returning to his graphs, eyes sparkling as he gushed over the viewership numbers.

Jordi nodded slowly, understanding the reason behind Mateo's poise, yet a nagging feeling told him it went far deeper than just standard dia training. There was sothing inherently confident, sothing natural in the way the boy carried himself—even in conversation, even off the pitch. But before Jordi could dwell further on it, a voice from behind drew his attention.

"Jordi!"

He turned sharply and found himself face-to-face with the object of his thoughts, Mateo King, now out of the iconic Barcelona jersey and dressed in comfortable casual clothes—simple, unassuming, yet sohow magnetic.

"I was just heading back," Mateo said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I wanted to co by and greet you before I left. Really enjoyed the interview—it was… fun."

Jordi's expression softened, his own smile broadening. "The pleasure was entirely mine," he replied, stepping forward. They shook hands firmly, an unspoken acknowledgnt passing between them—respect, admiration, and a mutual understanding of the mont they had just shared.

"I hope we can do this again soti," Jordi added, glancing briefly toward the producer, who had once again popped his head up eagerly. "Yes! Definitely—another one!"

Jordi waved him off, shaking his head with a laugh. "Don't mind him. I just hope that when we do a second one, you'll have so silverware to talk about next."

Mateo laughed, a clear, warm sound that filled the room. "Then I guess we'll see each other soon," he said, his grin unshakable.

"Exactly what I hope for," Jordi replied, chuckling. He held Mateo's gaze for a mont longer, appreciating the young player's humility and presence. "It was great eting you, Mateo. You are quite the person. I can't wait to watch your career go forward."

...

After saying goodbye to Jordi and the La Sexta team, Mateo found himself outside the studio. Unlike last ti, when his uncle had co to pick him up after an interview, this ti the club had arranged for a driver to take him back. Soone was already bringing the car around, ready to chauffeur him back to his dorm room so he could rest properly before training resud the next day.

But none of that was on Mateo's mind right now. His focus was entirely elsewhere, entirely on the call he had just started with his mother—on the news he knew she wouldn't take well.

"Oo, honey, you looked so good on TV! You should have seen your dad—he was so proud of you!" she gushed, her voice full of excitent and pride.

"Thanks, Mom," Mateo said, trying to keep his tone light, even though he already felt the weight of what he had to say.

"And rember this weekend, Friday," his mother continued, barely pausing for breath, "we're going to your uncle's place. Your cousin is back! You were way too busy to go pick them up from the airport, but by Friday, you can finally see them. You two were so close when you were little."

Mateo's eyes twitched slightly, the corners tightening almost imperceptibly. "… close to that devil?" he thought to himself. He couldn't help but smirk a little at the mory, but his mother's excitent didn't waver.

"And your grandma! She's been asking about you constantly," she went on, oblivious to his internal reaction. "So you all can finally et after so long—it's been ages since the whole family has been together. I even got your Uncle Andrew to agree to co, so—"

Mateo let out a long, quiet sigh. Mom… about that, he thought, feeling the words stick in his throat.

"Yes, baby?" his mother prompted, cheerfully unaware of his hesitation.

He hesitated for a mont, gathering courage. Just say it.

"Mom… I don't think I can make it," he finally admitted, his voice low but firm.

There was a pause on the line. "No, no, Mateo, we already talked about this," she replied, a gentle insistence in her tone.

"I know, Mom, I know," he said, exhaling heavily. "But I'm really busy. By Wednesday, I have a match. Then by Sunday, another match. And in between, I have training sessions, recovery sessions… it's just a lot." He trailed off for a beat, letting the weight of it sink in.

"What about your cousin and your grandma?" his mother asked, her voice soft but pleading. "They're going to be expecting you…"

Mateo sighed again, running a hand through his hair as he looked ahead. There, waving him over, was the club's chauffeur, standing by the car with a polite smile.

"If it's Aina," Mateo said slowly, "I can text her and wont she be here for a while im sure we can et. As for grandma… I'll make sure to call her tomorrow. I'm really sorry, Mom, but I'm just… I'm swamped."

His mother's voice softened, tinged with worry. "I know you're busy, Mateo. I wouldn't want to disturb you, but… even if it's just for a few hours…"

"Mom," Mateo interrupted gently but firmly, "the car is waiting. I have to go now. I really can't make it, but don't worry—I'll call Abuela tomorrow."

"Wait—" she started, a hint of disappointnt in her tone.

"Bye, Mom," Mateo said quickly, pressing a hand to his phone. "I'll text you when I reach the dorm. Love you. Help greet Dad and Uncle Andrew."

And with that, he cut the call, leaving his mother's last words hanging in the line, unfinished, like the echo of sothing left unsaid.

Mateo waved back at the person who had brought the car around, a small smile playing on his lips as he started to move toward it. But just as he was about to take another step, a hand shot out and grabbed him, the sudden contact making him freeze.

He turned sharply, heart hamring, eyes wide with shock and confusion, a flicker of fear running through him. Standing in front of him was a man, chest heaving, clearly out of breath, gripping his arm tightly.

"What—please! Leave alone!" Mateo demanded, trying to jerk free.

The man's voice ca back, harsh and strained, between deep breaths. "No… sorry."

Mateo's body tensed as the grip loosened, the man finally letting go. He stumbled back instinctively, fists clenched, scanning his surroundings, every instinct on alert.

"I'm not… soone weird," the man added quickly, almost pleading, and Mateo raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Clearly."

"Wait—no, listen, I'm a journalist," the man panted, as Mateo instinctively stepped back, noticing the club assistant who had been assigned to him had dashed over in a rush.

"I'm working for Fabrizio Romano," the journalist continued, fumbling into his pocket. Mateo's eyes narrowed instantly. "Woah, woah, woah!" he interrupted, raising his hands defensively.

The man pulled out a card, holding it up. "I work with journalist Fabrizio Romano you should know him. There's sothing we'd like to talk to you about… sothing we think could really benefit you—both of you."

Mateo's club guardian had reached him in an instant, concern etched across his face. "Are you alright? Are you okay?" he asked, gently guiding Mateo back.

"Yeah, yeah," Mateo replied, still glancing warily at the man. "I'm listening."

The club person turned sharply, voice rising. "Leave. Now. Don't make call the cops. Get out."

The journalist, unfazed, shoved the card into Mateo's hand with a quiet, insistent force. "Just give us a call," he said, before finally turning and disappearing down the street.

Mateo looked down at the card, the na on it glowing faintly in the evening light. His guardian guided him toward the car, muttering, "Let's get inside quickly… don't mind them. That's just how they are. You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Mateo said, slipping into the car, his pulse still racing.

The car door closed behind him, muffling the distant sounds of the city. For a mont, the only sound was the quiet hum of the engine. Mateo leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing as he turned the card over in his hand.

Only one thought ran through his mind, pulsing louder than everything else: What was that all about?

11.22 kilotres from each other

A/N

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