The Manchester City team wasn't the only one having their own unique preparations in Spain. Over at Barcelona's Joan Gamper training center, things were no less lively—just chaotic in their own very Barça way.
"Go, go, go!"
"One more minute, stop him!"
"Don't let him score!"
"Pass back, don't attack!"
Shouts flew from every direction, overlapping, clashing, echoing around the recreational room. It was packed—players, staff, even a few unlucky interns pressed up behind the couches and railings.
At the center of it all stood Antoine Griezmann, controller clenched in both hands, shoulders tense, sweat visibly soaking through the back of his training top. The screen in front of him glowed mercilessly: 1–0, 91st minute.
Behind him, the entire Barcelona squad had formed a semi-circle, all leaning forward as if their collective will alone could defend the lead.
"Just one more minute," Piqué kept saying from right beside him, voice calm but urgent. "One minute. You've got this. Just hold it."
Others joined in.
"Clear it!"
"Waste time!"
"Corner flag, corner flag!"
Griezmann nodded frantically, thumbs working overtime as his on-screen players dropped deep, defending for their lives.
And then there was the unlucky soul sitting right next to him.
Mateo King.
In stark contrast to the roaring support around Griezmann, the space around Mateo was… hostile. Laughing. Teasing. Players nudged each other, glancing at him, shaking their heads like vultures circling.
Sweat dripped from Mateo's forehead, rolling down his temple. His jaw was tight, eyes locked on the screen. He leaned forward just as the ball finally broke loose.
Mateo won it.
He straightened instantly.
A grin flashed across his face as he surged forward, attacking at pace.
The room erupted—but not in joy.
"No, no, no!"
"Block him!"
"Keeper out, bring him out!"
Mateo ignored it all. He shifted left, then right, fingers twitching as if he himself were the ball. He saw it—the keeper slightly off his line.
He pressed O.
Time slowed.
The shot rose, curling—
CLANG.
The ball smashed against the crossbar.
"AHHH!" Mateo shouted, hands flying to his head.
Behind him, the room exploded.
"Shit!"
"That was close!"
"Oh my God!"
Laughter, relief, chaos.
The ball rolled out for a goal kick.
Mateo leaned forward, desperately hammering buttons, trying to skip, to restart, to get one more chance—
And then the screen changed.
FULL TIME.
1–0.
For half a second, Mateo just stared.
Then the room detonated.
Everyone burst into laughter at once, rushing Griezmann from all sides. Players jumped on him, yelling, screaming, hugging.
"I love you!"
"Fuck yes!"
"We beat him!"
Griezmann laughed helplessly under the pile, arms raised in surrender.
As the celebration raged, Piqué suddenly lifted a hand.
"Everyone," he said loudly, voice cutting through the noise. "Let us not forget."
The pile slowly dissolved.
One by one, heads turned.
Sinister smiles spread across faces.
All eyes locked onto Mateo.
Mateo was still frozen, controller loose in his hands, disbelief written all over his face.
"No way…" he muttered.
He felt it—the stares, the silence, the judgment.
He sighed.
Slowly, he stood up.
He placed the controller down gently, almost respectfully. Took a deep breath. Then another.
He looked at his teammates—every single one of them wearing that same look, eyes glinting with intent.
Mateo exhaled sharply, opened his eyes—
And bolted for the door.
"Get himmmmm!"
Boots slapped against the ground as a couple of players burst into a sprint, laughter echoing across the training complex. Mateo was already gone, legs pumping as he took off, glancing back over his shoulder in panic.
"No, no—wait! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he shouted between breaths, half-laughing, half-pleading as he zigzagged across the pathway.
Piqué lunged first, far too slow, laughing as he missed by a mile. Dest tried next, slipping slightly as Mateo cut sharply to the left. Firpo joined the chase, shouting something unintelligible, but Mateo ducked and weaved through them, screaming and laughing like a kid who knew he was absolutely not getting caught today.
He spotted an open doorway and bolted inside, skidding to a stop so suddenly that a couple of Barça staff members inside the room jumped in surprise. One of them opened his mouth to speak—but Mateo instantly threw up a frantic shushing gesture, finger to his lips, eyes wide, then followed it with a pleading look, hands pressed together like he was begging for his life.
From outside, voices echoed down the hallway.
"Check every room!"
"Don't let him escape!"
The staff exchanged a quick glance. Understanding dawned. Without a word, one of them casually pointed toward a back room.
Mateo didn't need to be told twice. He slipped past them and ducked into the room, gently closing the door behind him. The space was small—a cramped storage room stacked with equipment and boxes. He leaned against the wall, chest heaving, trying to control his breathing as his heart pounded like he'd just played ninety minutes.
He froze.
Voices.
Two of them.
He recognized them instantly—Ronald Araújo and Riqui Puig.
The door outside opened, and their voices filled the space beyond.
"Hey," Puig greeted the staff casually. "You haven't seen Mateo, have you?"
Mateo's stomach tightened.
A male voice Mateo didn't recognize replied calmly, "No, we haven't."
"You sure?" Araújo added. "Coach is looking for him. Said he needs to tell him something."
Inside the storage room, Mateo squeezed his eyes shut.
What coach? he cursed silently. This liar…
He held his breath, barely daring to move, until he finally heard footsteps retreating.
"Alright," Araújo said. "Let's go check the café area!"
Mateo exhaled slowly, relief washing over him—but he didn't move. He stayed right where he was, back pressed to the wall, instincts screaming at him not to get comfortable.
Good thing too.
Because only moments later, he heard the door open again.
His lips curled into a smug grin in the darkness.
I'm too smart for this.
Describe how he then heard the voice, soft and careful, almost playful.
"Mateo… Mateo… Mateo?"
It came in a whisper, dragged out like a secret being tested. Mateo stiffened inside the storage room, every muscle freezing. His brows furrowed as he tilted his head slightly.
Is that… Pedri?
He listened again. Same voice. Same tone. His closest friend on the team. The one person who wouldn't sell him out.
Mateo exhaled, relief easing the tension in his shoulders. Okay. It's safe.
Outside the room, the staff were still talking to Pedri.
"We really don't know where he is," one of them said casually.
"Maybe check the café," another added, shrugging. "I heard he might be there earlier."
Pedri nodded along, buying it completely, his expression thoughtful as he rocked slightly on his heels. "Ah… okay," he said, already turning a little, clearly about to step out and continue the search.
That was when the storage room door creaked open just a bit.
Mateo slowly poked his head out, eyes scanning first, then locking onto Pedri. "Pedri… Pedri," he whispered urgently.
Pedri turned, head tilting in confusion. "Mateo?" His eyes widened in surprise.
Mateo pushed the door open a fraction more. "Have they left?"
Behind Pedri, the staff instantly broke—snickering, laughing under their breath. One of them shook his head.
"Ooooh, you shouldn't have come out," someone said, amused.
Another staff member leaned in, curious. "What's happening?"
"I thought the gaffer was really looking for him?" someone else added.
A different voice chimed in, laughing. "I heard from my brother in the dorms that he was mischievous. Seems it wasn't a lie."
"I like this," another said warmly. "The whole building has been lively for weeks now."
Mateo flushed slightly, realizing he'd been completely exposed. He stepped out fully and gave them a small bow, hands pressed together briefly. "Thank you," he said quickly, smiling sheepishly. "Really. Thank you for hiding me."
They waved him off, still laughing, clearly enjoying every second of it.
Mateo immediately tiptoed over to Pedri's side. Pedri opened his mouth to speak—but Mateo didn't give him the chance.
"Thank God you're here, let's go," Mateo said fast.
Pedri blinked. "Wait, I—"
Mateo grabbed his hand and tugged him gently. "Come on."
"Mateo, wait, I was just—"
"Let's go fast," Mateo cut in again, laughing now, buzzing with relief. "They must not catch me."
Pedri tried again. "Mateo—"
"Do you have your car keys?" Mateo asked, already moving toward the door. "There's a restaurant not far from here. Let's go there."
"Mateo, wait—"
Mateo reached the door, hand already on the handle.
"Mateo, wait—" Pedri said again.
But before he could finish his words, describe how Mateo flung the door open.
Show Mateo still talking as he opened the door, words spilling out fast, breathless, confidence way higher than it should've been.
"Fast, let's go before they—"
He was looking back at Pedri while saying it, not even noticing Pedri's expression change, not noticing the way Pedri froze, eyes widening just a little.
Then a voice came from directly in front of the door.
Calm. Clear. Dangerous.
"Before what?"
Mateo's smile died instantly.
It didn't fade. It didn't weaken. It fell.
His face stiffened, lips still half-curved from the laugh that never finished, eyes blinking once as the words registered. Slowly—painfully slowly—he turned his head forward.
Behind him, the staff whispers exploded all at once.
"Fuck… Pedri sold him."
"I knew he shouldn't have gone out."
"Ha, ha, he's toast. This is comedy gold."
Mateo didn't hear any of it. Not really.
All he could see were the two figures standing in front of him—two teammates who had clearly lied about going to the café—now looming over him with identical smiles. Calm. Patient. Enjoying this far too much.
He could already feel the sweat starting to bead on his forehead, sliding down the side of his face as they looked down at him like they'd just caught a runaway kid.
For a moment, Mateo's shoulders slumped.
Then he did something unexpected.
He relaxed.
His face softened, eyes closed gently, a small, resigned smile appearing as if he'd made peace with the universe. His arms hung loose by his sides, completely accepting his fate.
The next second, his feet lifted off the ground.
Araujo's grip was effortless as he hoisted him up slightly, like this was routine.
"Let's go," Araujo said simply.
"Okay, okay, let's talk," Mateo blurted out immediately.
Describe how the moment he resigned himself to fate, he instantly decided to rebel.
Piqué—that was the real danger. If he could somehow convince Araujo and Puig, if he could just shift the mood, maybe—just maybe—he could still escape this.
He started talking fast, trying to reason, trying to negotiate, trying everything.
Pedri stepped closer and sighed. "Dude, just give up. If you knew you were going to start begging like this, why did you make the bet in the first place?"
Mateo turned slowly and glared at him, eyes sharp. "Maybe because I believed I had a friend," he said flatly, "and not a backstabbing snitch."
Pedri opened his mouth to respond—
"Guy," Mateo cut in immediately, raising a finger. "I don't talk to snitches. Snitches get stitches."
Araujo and Puig burst out laughing instantly.
"I thought he said he doesn't watch movies," Araujo said between laughs. "What's this?"
Puig was already shaking, laughing hard. Mateo crossed his arms. "It's the rule of the streets. Pedri broke it."
Puig wiped his eyes, still laughing. "Bro, you grew up—" he mocked Mateo, exaggerating his tone, "—in La Masia hostels, eating food from old ladies in the cafeteria. What streets did you grow up in?"
As they were laughing.
Show Mateo still being dragged, feet barely skimming the floor, thinking to himself these young ones don't know anything—even though, somehow, he was still the youngest one there. He shook his head slowly, almost disappointed, like a veteran watching rookies make a mistake.
As they moved, he noticed the direction.
The lockers.
Closer. Closer.
Mateo let out a small laugh, half-nervous, half-hopeful, shaking his head again as if amused by the inevitability of it all.
"Let's leave the Judas behind," he said quickly, laughing, twisting slightly in Araujo's grip. "Araujo, Puig, let's talk. Let's talk. We can make a deal."
Both of them sighed at the same time, shaking their heads like tired parents.
"Guy, give up," Araujo said plainly.
Mateo paused.
Then his eyes lit up.
"I know where they keep the chicken in the café."
They stopped.
Not slowly. Not subtly.
They stopped.
Mateo felt the sudden pause instantly. The pressure on his arms eased just a little. He smiled to himself, lips curling upward, confidence creeping back in.
He leaned into it.
"You see," he continued, voice lowering like he was letting them in on a secret, "recently—thanks to someone I met—I became very close friends with the café women."
Araujo glanced at Puig.
Mateo kept going, encouraged.
"They've got ice cream. Roasted chicken. Proper roasted chicken. And the best part?" He nodded seriously. "They prepare it in a way that doesn't destroy the team diet plan."
That got their attention.
He could feel it.
"They're creative," he added quickly. "Innovative."
Araujo and Puig hesitated, hands loosening just a bit, clearly considering it. From the side, Pedri just shook his head slowly, already knowing this was going nowhere.
"Yes, yes," Mateo said eagerly, laughing now, sensing victory. "Just free me. I promise I'll get you all the stuff anytime you need it."
He laughed again, already imagining himself walking free—
When a voice, not far from them, cut in casually.
"Oo oo… can I also get it?"
Everyone froze.
Everyone except Mateo.
Mateo laughed instinctively, feeling the grip on him loosen even more. He smiled wide, already answering, turning slightly.
"Of course, of course—you—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
The smile froze.
His lips parted slightly as the words slipped out under his breath.
"What fucking déjà vu is this…"
Slowly, he looked back.
When he saw who was standing there, Mateo's expression changed instantly. His face broke into the biggest saddest smile yet as he said,
"Gaffer."
Koeman, standing just beyond the chaos, saw Mateo being firmly held by Araujo and Puig, his grin wide, teeth flashing, eyes dancing with mischief. The smile wasn't small—it was huge, impossible to miss. Training had just ended, and already this kid was causing havoc again.
Koeman shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching with a suppressed laugh. "I was thinking," he muttered, shaking his head slowly, "I should mediate things between you and the others… but it seems I was wrong."
Mateo's smile faltered. He opened his mouth to argue, to protest, maybe to bargain, but no words came out. Nothing.
He straightened himself as much as he could in the grip of Araujo and Puig, arms moving slightly as if to brace for the inevitable.
"Let's go," he sighed, resigned.
Araujo and Puig tightened their hold and began carrying him toward the locker room. Mateo's eyes darted everywhere, calculating, scheming, yet there was no escape. Koeman just stood there, arms crossed, shaking his head in amusement, a small laugh escaping him. Who is this kid? he thought, smiling as he watched the scene unfold.
Finally, they reached the locker room. Mateo's chest rose and fell rapidly. He took a deep breath, his mind racing. He straightened his posture slightly, shoulders back, chin up, and muttered to himself, almost like a mantra: I can do this. I can… I can…
His teammates ignored his tiny pep talk as the locker room door swung open, revealing the already rowdy space within. The chaos inside multiplied the moment Mateo was carried in.
"Ha ha! They caught him!" someone shouted, laughter spilling like confetti around the room.
"Damn, I thought he'd get away… f***!" another yelled, shaking his head.
"Where's my money? I told you they'd catch him!" a third added, fists in the air, laughing so hard his shoulders shook.
Other voices joined in:
"See, Piqué, you just knew they were waiting for him!"
"I kinda liked his long hair… it's a pity."
"He deserved it! His mouth is too much, man!"
Mateo's eyes flicked between his laughing teammates. Araujo and Puig, still grinning themselves, began leading him toward a section of the locker room. Mateo's mind raced. He pondered, plotting: No, Mateo… you can't let this happen. You have to think of something.
But before he could form a plan, a booming laugh echoed from the front of the room. Mateo's head snapped up. His face darkened immediately.
And there he was.
Piqué. Standing tall, ominously cheerful, a black apron slung over his training kit. A clipper in his right hand, scissors in the left. His grin stretched impossibly wide at the sight of Mateo.
"Mateo," Piqué said brightly, voice carrying through the locker room. "It's time to get your hair cut."
"Piqué… let's talk about this. You don't want to do this."
Mateo sat down heavily in the chair, hands gripping the sides as if his life depended on it. He gave Piqué a pleading look, trying to reason with him while dapping over him in a nervous attempt at camaraderie. "Come on, man… a bet's a bet, I get it, but think—think about this—my hair!"
Piqué, unbothered, adjusted the clipper in his hand, glancing briefly at Mateo with a shrug. "A bet's a bet," he said firmly.
Mateo's head snapped down, tongue clicking in frustration. His brain kicked into overdrive, racing a hundred miles an hour. Fuck… fuck… I haven't cut my hair in years. No way I'm losing it here. Why did I make that stupid bet? Fuck… now's not the time to be blaming myself. Think… think… think!
The clipper buzzed to life, sending shivers down Mateo's spine. His thoughts accelerated, chaotic and panicked. Fuck… fuck… why did I even make that bet? If only I didn't… if only…
Then, a tiny lightbulb went off in his mind. A plan. A distraction. He smiled, a mix of mischief and desperation flashing in his eyes.
"Waiiitt!" he shouted suddenly.
The entire room froze. Pedri and the others, some recording on their phones, jumped slightly, laughing uncontrollably as they caught the sudden outburst. Even Piqué flinched, clipper mid-air.
"Mateo, why are you still struggling?" Piqué said, raising an eyebrow, trying to calm the chaos. "Don't worry. I cut my kid's hair sometimes. You don't need to be afraid."
Mateo rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself, and said, "It's not that I'm afraid… I'm just confused. Why are you cutting my hair?"
For a second, everyone stared at him like he had just grown another head overnight. Mateo's face flushed bright red with embarrassment. Mateo, bullshit your way through… remember, fake it till you make it, he muttered to himself.
Pedri, standing in front of him recording, raised an eyebrow and muttered under his breath, What is this guy planning?
Mateo caught the glances, the snickers, the barely concealed laughter. Every pair of eyes felt like it was drilling into him. He steeled himself, hands gripping the chair tighter, jaw set.
Dest, standing nearby with a smirk, added, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Mateo… you yourself said you could beat everyone in FIFA. Now that you've lost, accept your defeat… and cut your hair."
Mateo silently cursed under his breath as the memory hit him like a brick. After training today… everyone had gathered in the field, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. First it was FIFA cards, who would be the best, what would be their numbers, whose team would dominate, blah blah blah… then, before he knew it, the topic devolved into actual gameplay.
His friends from La Masia knew exactly how heated Mateo got when competition was involved, especially FIFA. The second the "loser drop pad" rule was mentioned, Mateo was gone. He didn't even notice how it happened, but suddenly they were in the break room, the TV fired up, the PS5 connected, controllers in hand.
And then it began.
Mateo demolished everyone. One by one. Araujo? 6–0. Alba? 7–3. Dembélé? 3–1. Pedri? 4–2. Even Busquets dared to challenge him—and left with an embarrassing 11–1. Mateo's pride swelled. He laughed at every missed shot, mocked every failed dribble, even used his keeper to score goals against opponents just for the thrill of it. Trash talk flew like confetti.
"Seriously, you can't even pass the ball?" he shouted at Alba.
"Mateo, your keeper's cheating!" Pedri protested.
"Cheating? This is called skill, my friends!" Mateo cackled, leaning back in his chair, grinning like a man who had conquered the world.
"Skill issue, Skill issue" he shouted at Dembele who was complaining about the pad
The chaos intensified when someone started talking about Griezmann being really good at FIFA. Mateo overheard and let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Oh, adding one more loser to the board, are we? Please, step aside while the master plays!"
And then, somehow, in the frenzy, Mateo found himself making a bet. A ridiculous, stupid, completely avoidable bet. If he lost… Piqué would get to cut his hair.
...
"What bet?" Mateo asked, leaning back smugly, trying to play it cool as everyone turned to him.
Alba frowned. "What's this kid pulling now? Why is anyone even listening to him?"
Piqué, ever serious, just rolled his eyes and muttered, "Resume, please."
Mateo felt sweat start to drip down his temple. Okay… think fast. Bullshit your way out.
"No, no… I'm just lost," he said, waving his hands like he was negotiating a UN peace treaty. "Why would anyone cut my hair? I can't recall agreeing to that!"
Araujo snorted. "Dude… you lost the bet."
Mateo blinked innocently. "Exactly… I'm confused. What bet?"
An uproar of voices exploded. "The FIFA bet! The loser has to…" "Mateo, you literally said it yourself!" "This Mateo!"
Mateo held up his hands, as if warding off an invisible jury. "Evidence? I don't see any evidence! Why should your words be more truthful than mine?"
Busquets laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair. "This guy…" he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. "This guy… unbelievable!"
"No evidence you are all just explaining " Mateo shouted.
The room erupted in chaotic debate. Mateo, meanwhile, smiled to himself, mind racing. No fucking way… this is working. I'm actually about to use this… and escape.
Alba, who had been suspiciously silent, finally spoke up. "Again… why are we even listening to the kid? Hold him down and Piqué, start cutting."
Mateo's eyes widened. His heart skipped a beat. Everyone ignored his frantic protests as Araujo and Roberto gripped his arms tightly.
"Wait! Wait! Wait! Wait! Wait! Wait!" Mateo started shouting, panic rising in his chest, words tumbling out faster than he could think.
Piqué started the clippers again.
Laughter erupted around him. "You said i couldn't play FIFA, right? At least I still have hair!" someone jeered.
Mateo could feel the clippers brushing the back of his head. His stomach sank. He could feel the cold metal buzzing against his scalp. And then—
"Wait."
The single word made the entire room pause.
All eyes swung toward the voice. Mateo, Araujo, Puig, Alba, even Piqué holding the clippers mid-air, froze. And there he was—Messi. Standing there, calm, almost glowing, watching the scene unfold.
Mateo's eyes widened so fast it was almost cartoonish. His heart skipped a beat. A grin split his face like he'd just won the World Cup. "Damn… Messi is stopping it. After all…"
Meanwhile, the rest of the players started murmuring under their breath, already whining. "Look at Mateo… he's grinning like a fool. I wanted to wipe that smug look off his face," one muttered.
Everyone in the room knew the unspoken rule: if Messi spoke on someone's behalf, you stopped. Full stop. Even Piqué had no choice. The clippers wavered in his hands and then slowly, begrudgingly, he pulled them away from Mateo's hair.
Mateo's grin widened, hope bubbling in his voice. "Messi…" he said, almost reverently, like he was calling on a deity. He could feel the tension around him evaporate, replaced with a giddy sort of relief. To Mateo, Messi had never looked more like Jesus.
Piqué, of course, wasn't ready to surrender. He had to honor the bet, teach this brat a lesson. He had been destroyed by Mateo 5–1 in their FIFA game earlier, laughed at mercilessly, and this was his chance for revenge—or at least a symbolic one. He stepped forward, trying to salvage the situation.
"Messi, you know—" Piqué began, hands raised in a half-apologetic, half-pleading gesture. "I can do this carefully, … it'll look good! Beautiful! No one's hair has ever been cut better… I swear!"
Messi tilted his head, smiling calmly. "No. We can't do this."
The room groaned collectively. Piqué sighed, defeated. Mateo's grin reached ear to ear, practically glowing with disbelief and happiness. The tension broke, laughter bubbled, and the players started shuffling back toward their lockers, still chuckling. Even Pedri put his phone down, realizing there was no need to record chaos—it had been prevented.
Piqué started packing the clippers, still muttering under his breath.
Messi grinned, eyes twinkling. Then, in that perfectly casual, teasing way only he could pull off, he said, "Without doing it the proper way," and revealed the black hairdressing overall tucked behind his back.
The room erupted into laughter again. "Ha ha! No way!" someone shouted. "Messi, you're evil!" Others doubled over, pointing at Mateo as he froze in shock, broken and speechless.
Mateo's grin faltered, then vanished. He just stood there, frozen as Messi passed the black cloth over to drape around him. Pedri, laughing but ready, immediately started filming again. The room was in hysterics.
Piqué stepped closer, holding Mateo's head gently in his hands, trying to make it look like reassurance. "Don't worry… when I'm done, you're going to look beautiful," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Mateo sat there, utterly defeated. Betrayed. Frozen. Numb. The laughter, the teasing, the chaos—it all blurred into white noise. He just let himself sink into the seat as the black cloth draped over him, the clippers poised above his head.
And then… the first buzz of metal against hair began.
...
"Okay, everyone."
Koeman's voice carried across the locker room, calm but firm, as he gathered the players' attention one last time before the day ended. "I just want to say… I'm proud of all of you. You've trained hard this week, you've worked on every drill, every pass, every tactical movement. Tomorrow there will be no training, so I want you all to rest, recover, and get your bodies ready for the match against City. But even though there won't be formal practice, keep yourself fit—stretch, jog, keep the mind and body sharp. We need every ounce of focus tomorrow. Remember, every detail counts."
The players nodded and murmured in agreement. It was the kind of speech that made everyone feel appreciated yet reminded them the work was never done—normal, coach-level motivation two days before a big match.
Mateo, still seated, listened as the rest of the squad began moving toward the exits. The locker room buzzed with the clatter of boots, laughter, and casual chatter. Griezmann lingered for a moment, a playful glint in his eye.
"Gaffer," he said, half-smiling as he approached Koeman, "don't stress yourself too much."
The others quickly joined in. "Yeah, coach, we know what we're doing!" "Relax, Gaffer, trust us!" "Don't worry, we've got it!"
Griezmann leaned in a little, finishing his line with perfect comedic timing: "Yes, Gaffer… you don't want to start losing your hair."
Mateo shuddered as a strange breeze seemed to blow over his head—something he had never felt before. He could practically feel every follicle shiver in solidarity. The entire locker room erupted in laughter. Even Dembele couldn't resist adding his two cents.
"Well, it doesn't matter, Coach," he called out, laughing, "we've got a couple of extra hairs on the floor if you feel like you're losing any!"
The laughter grew louder, shaking the walls of the locker room. Even Koeman chuckled, his eyes twinkling as he shook his head.
Mateo, still reeling from the humiliation and amusement all at once, felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Piqué standing there, grinning. Without a word, Piqué made a hand-kiss gesture toward Mateo.
"Muahh… this is beautiful. I really outdid myself," Piqué said, laughing as he walked away, leaving Mateo blinking in disbelief.
Mateo slowly reached for his phone, hands trembling slightly. He opened the camera app and stared at his reflection, his fingers brushing over the newly trimmed hair as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
"My… beautiful hair," he muttered, barely above a whisper, voice heavy with mock sorrow and disbelief.
As he sat there, processing the chaos of the day, his phone buzzed again. This time, it was a call from his mom. Mateo sighed, letting out a long breath, and tried to push the embarrassment and laughter from earlier out of his mind.
He pressed the screen and said, soft but steady, "Hey, Mom."
500 meter from each other
A/N:
I want to apologize for the delayed chapters and the slow progression. Don't worry — after one more chapter, the match will finally start.