The summer days in Catalonia are extremely long. Even as dusk approaches, the Mediterranean sun still casts a dizzying golden light across the undulating coastline of Castelldefels.
This is a land wrapped in silence and luxury. This stretch of coastline, about 20 kilometers from downtown Barcelona, is a residential area for the wealthy and top football stars of Catalonia. Here, there is no noise from La Rambla, no shutter clicks from tourists, only the monotonous sound of waves crashing against the rocks, and the unique scent in the air—a mixture of sea salt, pine resin, and expensive perfume.
A black audi a8 slowly pulled up in front of a mansion with an independent sea view.
The engine stopped. But Bartomeu in the back seat was in no hurry to get out.
Through the tinted window, he looked at the tightly shut dark brown iron gate before him. In the hearts of Barcelona fans, God lived behind this gate; but in Lin Feng's eyes at this moment, the person living behind this gate was the 'final boss' he had to conquer.
"Hoo..."
Lin Feng let out a long, heavy breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Even though in his previous life he had faced the Federal Reserve Chairman on Wall Street, even though he had managed multi-billion dollar mergers and acquisitions, at this moment, as a die-hard fan about to face Leo Messi in the role of 'Chairman,' the tremor from the depths of his soul was still uncontrollable.
It wasn't just because of admiration, but also because of fear. He knew how disappointed Messi was right now. Neymar's departure was like a knife to the heart of the MSN Trio, and the original weak and incompetent management were the ones who handed over the knife.
"Chairman, do you need me to accompany you inside?" Oscar Grau in the front seat asked softly, still clutching the bank financing documents they had just signed.
"No, Oscar. Wait for me in the car."
Bartomeu straightened his tie, then looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror—the image of a slightly plump, middle-aged man with a receding hairline. He frowned and suddenly made a surprising move.
He untied the silk tie that symbolized power and casually tossed it onto the car seat. Then, he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt collar, exposing his neck. Finally, he took off his expensive Zegna hand-tailored suit jacket, wearing only a slightly loose white shirt, and casually rolled the sleeves up to his elbows.
"Chairman? This is improper etiquette..." Grau said, stunned.
"In this place, a suit and tie represent 'officials,' 'bureaucrats,' and 'liars.' And that's the identity Leo despises the most right now," Bartomeu said, looking at his reflection. Though his body was still overweight, his eyes had become sharp yet relaxed. "I'm not here to negotiate. I'm here as a friend—or rather, as a football-savvy fat guy, to mooch a meal."
He pushed the door open and got out. The moist sea breeze instantly enveloped him, tousling his meticulously combed hair.
Lin Feng, carrying the bottle of 1998 Vega Sicilia he had dug out from his private wine cellar, strode toward the iron gate and pressed the doorbell... The wait seemed exceptionally long. A full minute passed before the screen of the video intercom lit up. The face that appeared wasn't a servant's, nor was it Messi's; it was a face full of wrinkles, stern and full of wariness.
Jorge Messi. The father of the football king, and also one of the most difficult agents in the world.
"Josep?" Jorge's voice was icy, coming through the speaker like a cold, hard stone. "I don't recall us having an appointment today. Leo is very tired today; he doesn't want to talk about a contract renewal, especially when he's in such a bad mood. If you're here with a new contract, please leave. Just send it to the lawyer."
Getting the door slammed in his face already? Lin Feng wasn't surprised. In the eyes of the Messi family right now, Bartomeu's credibility was practically negative.
"I'm not here to talk about a contract, Jorge," Bartomeu said to the camera, raising the dark red wine bottle in his hand with an appropriately helpless and sincere expression. "It's Friday. I just thought that after this damned week, we need a drink. This is a 1998 red. I think Leo will like its taste."
Jorge fell silent, seemingly weighing his options.
"Also," Bartomeu leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as he spoke into the camera, "I'm here to deliver the 'antidote.'"
"Antidote?"
"The antidote for 'Neymar departure anxiety syndrome,'" Bartomeu said, a slight smile curling at the corner of his mouth, his eyes revealing an unprecedented confidence that felt unfamiliar to Jorge. "I didn't bring a contract, just my brain and some wine. If after half an hour you think I'm wasting your time, you can kick me out anytime."
There was another five seconds of silence from behind the iron gate. Only the static buzz of the intercom.
Finally, with a *click*, the heavy lock snapped open... Passing through the meticulously maintained front lawn, skirting the swimming pool filled with children's toys, Bartomeu arrived at the backyard.
The air was filled with the rich, smoky aroma of sizzling fat—the wonderful reaction of charcoal fire and high-quality beef. An Argentine can live without football, but not without barbecue.
The scene was exactly as he had imagined, yet more oppressive than he had anticipated.
Under the setting sun, Luis Suárez, wearing an apron with a cartoon print, was busy in front of a large stainless steel grill. The sharpshooter of the pitch now held long tongs, his brow furrowed as if wrestling with a stubborn steak.
And Leo Messi... He wore an oversized white cotton T-shirt and ordinary beach shorts, curled up in a huge wicker armchair. He held his iconic mate tea cup in his hands, his gaze somewhat vacant as it passed through the garden fence, looking at the sparkling golden sea in the distance.
That figure looked so lonely. Neymar's departure had taken away not just a teammate, but also the laughter and joy in the locker room, the soulful dance partner who could understand him perfectly.
Hearing footsteps, Suárez turned around. Seeing Bartomeu's 'disheveled' appearance, he was momentarily stunned, then awkwardly wiped his hands, his eyes shifting between Messi's back and the Chairman. "Hi, Mr. Chairman... Uh... would you like some chorizo? Just off the grill."
Messi didn't turn around; he didn't even change his posture. He just let out a faint, indifferent grunt from his nose: "He's here."
This coldness was more terrifying than anger. Anger meant he still cared; coldness meant numbness born of utter disappointment. In the original history, this sentiment fermented until that famous departure fax three years later.
Lin Feng took a deep breath. He knew that the only way to break the deadlock wasn't through humble flattery, but through integration.
He handed the expensive bottle of wine to the stiff, awkward servant standing nearby and walked straight to the grill. A wave of heat hit his face, but he didn't even frown. He glanced at the sizzling bone-in short ribs on the rack and shook his head.
"Luis, the fire's a bit too high."
Bartomeu suddenly spoke, his tone as natural as if he were an old friend, directly taking the salt shaker from Suárez's hand.
Suárez was stunned, his iconic eyes wide open: "Huh?"
"Argentine-style barbecue emphasizes low and slow cooking, especially for these bone-in cuts," Bartomeu said while skillfully using the tongs to spread the charcoal to the sides, creating a low-temperature zone in the middle. "Your fire is too fierce right now. It will instantly sear the juices on the outside, but the meat near the bone inside will still be raw, and the connective tissue won't break down. It'll be like chewing rubber."
As he spoke, he flicked his wrist lightly. Coarse salt grains fell like snowflakes, evenly sprinkling from about thirty centimeters above the meat, his movements fluid and practiced.
"Before I was in management, I spent a few months in South America, specifically learning barbecue from a Gaucho," Bartomeu said with a smile, handing the tongs back to a dumbfounded Suárez. "I wasn't this fat back then."
Suárez looked at the bald Chairman, who usually only sat in his office signing checks and reading statements, as if he were seeing an alien. "You... really know barbecue?"
"Before becoming Chairman, I was also someone who loved life, Luis," Bartomeu said, patting Suárez on the shoulder, then turned to look at the still silent figure.
"And I know what you're worried about. Neymar is gone. There's one less person at this grill to tell jokes and liven up the atmosphere, and one less dancer on the pitch who can tear open gaps on the left wing."
Mentioning Neymar, the atmosphere in the garden instantly dropped to freezing point. The smile on Suárez's face froze. Messi's fingers tightened slightly around his cup, his knuckles turning white.
"So you're here to tell us who you're going to buy?"
Messi finally turned his head. His deep brown eyes held none of their usual gentleness, only a sharp, knife-like scrutiny. "Coutinho? Or that Dembélé who's only had one good season? The papers say you're planning to spend two hundred million euros on two lottery tickets. If that's the case, I won't ask you to stay for this meal."
"That's what the papers say. And I did have Pep Segura make an offer to Liverpool."
Bartomeu wasn't intimidated by Messi's gaze. He took a chair from a servant but didn't sit opposite Messi. Instead, he pulled it to a diagonal position beside him, sitting down as if for a casual chat with a friend.
He took something out of the old briefcase he had brought with him. It wasn't a check, a contract, or a PowerPoint presentation. It was a portable tactical board with magnetic pieces.
Both Messi and Suárez were taken aback. The Chairman brought a tactical board to their home? That was something a coach should do, even a tactical analyst.
"Leo, Luis, look at this board," Bartomeu said, picking up a black marker pen, pulling off the cap, and pressing it onto the whiteboard with a *click*.
He drew Barcelona's iconic 4-3-3 formation on the board. Then, at the left-wing (LW) position, he firmly drew a red X.
"Neymar is gone. That's a fact," Bartomeu's voice was steady and powerful, exuding an undeniable professionalism. "We've lost one of the top three explosive players in the world, a nuclear weapon capable of single-handedly breaking through defenses. If we try to find a 'new Neymar' in the transfer market, we're digging our own grave. Because there is no second Neymar in this world. Dembélé? He has speed, but he doesn't have the brains, much less the awareness to combine with you. Coutinho? Everyone thinks I want to buy him, including Liverpool. But I won't buy him."
"Not buying Coutinho?" Suárez was somewhat surprised, putting down the tongs in his hand. "But his technique is excellent, and I know him well. He's the kind of player who can both pass and shoot."
"But he's too soft, Luis. And he's an artist who needs the ball, not a warrior," Bartomeu said, looking directly at Suárez. "You know best how much defensive protection Coutinho can offer you in the Premier League. In away Champions League matches, when we're being pressed high by opponents, we need madmen who can charge forward carrying explosives, not another number 10 who needs to be protected by Busquets."
A slight ripple passed through Messi's eyes. These were exactly the things he had been pondering in his heart these past few days. The crushing defeat in Turin, the nightmare in Paris—they were all because the midfield lacked steel, the attack was too flashy, and the spine was too soft.
"So what do you plan to do?" Messi asked.
"Since we can't achieve individual brilliance, we'll take 'control' and'strangulation' to the extreme," Bartomeu said, tapping twice heavily on the midfield area of the tactical board. "We need a brain, and a beast."
He wrote a name in the midfield position: Christian Eriksen.
Seeing this name, Suárez, who had been tending to the meat, suddenly exclaimed: "Christian? The one from Tottenham?"
"That's right, Luis. If I remember correctly, you were teammates at Ajax," Bartomeu said, turning to Suárez. "You know his abilities best."
Suárez's expression grew complex, as if memories of his Amsterdam days flooded back. He looked at Messi. "Leo, that kid... he's really something. When I was at Ajax, he had just joined the first team, but his passing... it felt a lot like Andrés. And his stamina is monstrous—he runs all over the pitch. Whenever I made a run, the ball would always find its way to me."
"That's exactly why I want him," Bartomeu interjected, his tone resolute. "Leo, as Iniesta gets older, you're dropping too deep now. You need someone up front who can hold the ball, who can deliver that final through pass. More importantly, Eriksen averages 12 kilometers per game in the Premier League. He's the hardest-running midfielder in the entire league. He can cover all the defensive gaps for you."
"Eriksen..." Messi murmured to himself. He constructed the image in his mind: he wouldn't need to drop back to the center circle to receive the ball; he could hover near the edge of the penalty area, waiting for the Dane to deliver the ball. That would indeed be much more comfortable than carrying a Dembélé who only knew how to run around aimlessly.
"But that's not exciting enough, is it?" Bartomeu suddenly lowered his voice, a flash of fanaticism in his eyes, "We've lost a dagger on the left flank, we must replace it with an axe."
On the tactical board, on the left flank position, he wrote a name that shocked them both.
Sadio Mané.
"Mané from Liverpool?!" Suárez widened his eyes, nearly dropping the clip in his hand, "Josep, are you crazy? Klopp will kill you! Mané is his lifeblood, he would never let him go."
"What Klopp worries about most right now is that I'll snatch Coutinho." Bartomeu revealed a sly smile, a Wall Street conspiracy hidden within that grin, "That's my plan: I'll announce to the whole world that I'm going all out for Coutinho, I'll quote an astronomical price, forcing Liverpool's higher-ups and Klopp to focus all their energy on defending that Brazilian. They'll build a high wall to prevent Coutinho from leaving."
Bartomeu made a "stealing" gesture, his fingers nimbly slicing through the air: "When they think they've stopped me, when they're still smug about keeping Coutinho, I'll slap an €80 million cashier's check right on the table of the Fenway Sports Group owner. Tell them: I'm not buying that untouchable anymore, I only want that Senegalese man. For the American owners, this is an offer they can't refuse."
Messi looked at that name, his eyes lighting up. As an opponent, he knew all too well how formidable Mané was. That dark-skinned guy was like a perpetual motion machine—fast, physically strong, with tireless running and pressing.
"If it's Mané..." Messi said slowly, a touch of warmth entering his voice, "He could take a lot of the physical burden off Luis, and his tracking back can cover the entire left flank corridor. Jordi (Alba) would love having a partner like that."
"Not only that, Leo." Bartomeu added, drawing a few arrows on the tactical board, "Imagine it: the front line is you and Luis, plus this beast Mané wreaking havoc on the left flank, with Eriksen supplying the ammunition from midfield. We'll be tougher, more aggressive than before. We won't be that elegant but fragile ballet troupe anymore; we'll become a heavy metal rock band."
"And here." Bartomeu finally wrote a name on the defensive line: Iñigo Martínez.
"Activate the release clause directly, €32 million. No negotiations needed, he can have his medical this week. We need a left-footed center-back to free up Umtiti and put some pressure on Piqué."
"Eriksen, Mané, Iñigo..." Messi stared at the tactical board, remaining silent for a long time. But the picture in his mind grew clearer and clearer. This squad, while not as star-studded as when Neymar was here, gained a suffocating practicality and iron will. This was exactly what they lacked most when facing Juventus, facing Atlético Madrid.
"But Chairman, what about the money?"
An abrupt voice broke the contemplation. Jorge had walked over at some point, arms crossed, brows furrowed, his eyes still filled with doubt, "Those three alone will cost at least €200 million. Plus the stadium renovation budget... I've seen the financial reports; apart from the Neymar money, Barça's books aren't exactly flush right now. The wage cap is almost busted too."
This was the most practical issue. Without money, all blueprints were worthless paper.
"About the money," Bartomeu turned to face Jorge, his expression instantly switching from "football expert" back to "Wolf of Wall Street," "Jorge, you're a meticulous man, that's good. But you only see the Barça of the past."
Bartomeu pulled out a document, now slightly warm, from the pocket of his removed jacket—a copy of the memorandum signed just that afternoon at CaixaBank.
He handed the document to Jorge, his tone as casual as if passing a napkin: "This is what I signed with Chairman Fainé this afternoon. Barça just leveraged the Neymar transfer fee to secure a €600 million long-term, low-interest line of credit. Annual interest rate 1.9%, 30-year term."
Jorge took the document and quickly scanned it under the garden lights. As the helmsman of Messi's commercial empire, he understood finance. When he saw phrases like "1.9% interest," "30-year term," "initial funds already available," his pupils constricted sharply.
How was this possible? Financing with these terms, in the current economic climate, was practically the bank begging to give money away! This wasn't just luck; this was top-tier capital maneuvering ability.
"This..." Jorge looked up, his gaze towards Bartomeu completely changed, that hint of disdain gone, replaced by shock and awe, "How did you pull this off? Even Florentino might not get terms like this."
"That's a trade secret, Jorge." Bartomeu smiled faintly, "I just want you to know, Barcelona will not go bankrupt. We are now the club with the healthiest cash flow in all of Europe. Leo's renewal contract, we can sign it anytime, the signing bonus I'll pay in one lump sum, no need for installments like before."
Finished, Bartomeu turned back to face Messi. He put away his smile, his expression becoming extremely serious. He knew it was time for the final showdown.
"Leo, I don't need you to sign right now. I know that just a tactical board and a bank document aren't enough to completely erase your doubts about me. That's normal."
"So, let's make a 'gentleman's agreement.'"
Messi raised an eyebrow: "What agreement?"
"Give me half a season. Until next January." Bartomeu held up one finger, his gaze burning, "During this time, you'll see Eriksen orchestrating the midfield at Camp Nou, you'll see Mané tearing opponents apart like a beast on the left flank, you'll see Iñigo solidifying our defense. If by January, you feel this Barça still has no hope, is still a sinking ship..."
Bartomeu paused, his tone becoming resolute: "Then, you can refuse to renew. You can even leave on a free next summer. I will not stop you, I'll even personally drive you to the airport."
"Chairman!" Suárez beside him was startled, the clip in his hand falling to the ground, "You can't say things like that!"
Let Messi leave for free? That wasn't just political suicide; it was something you'd be nailed to the historical pillory for!
But Bartomeu's gaze didn't waver in the slightest, staring straight into Messi's eyes: "But I bet you won't leave. Because I will prove to you that I am the one who can help you win your fifth Champions League trophy. I am the one who can let you play happily at Camp Nou."
The wind stopped. The sound of the waves seemed to fade away. The garden fell into silence, all eyes focused on Messi.
The king of Camp Nou put down his mate tea cup and slowly stood up. He wasn't tall, but the pressure he emanated at this moment was suffocating. He looked at Bartomeu, trying to find a trace of a lie, a hint of a politician's cunning in the other's eyes.
But all he saw was sincerity. And a kind of fanaticism almost like a gambler's.
It was the same look he had when dribbling past opponents on the pitch—absolute focus on the goal, an extreme thirst for victory.
Finally, the tense lines on Messi's face softened. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, revealing that slightly shy smile that drove fans worldwide crazy.
"Half a season, Mr. Chairman."
Messi extended his hand, the hand that had created countless miracles, now reaching out towards Bartomeu.
"And," Messi grasped Bartomeu's hand, increasing the pressure, "if you can really steal Mané from Klopp's hands... then I'll truly admire you. That guy is practically a tireless monster; I hate playing against him."
The two hands clasped tightly together.
"Deal." Feeling the strength from the handshake, Bartomeu's heart, which had been in his throat, finally settled. That feeling was more exhilarating than making a hundred million on Wall Street.
"Alright, alright! The meat's about to burn!" Suárez loudly broke the tense atmosphere, bringing a large platter of perfectly grilled steak to the table, "Since we're done talking, let's eat! Chairman, since you're such a connoisseur, this best cut of Tira is for you. How do you want it done?"
"Medium rare, the bloody kind." Bartomeu laughed, taking off his shirt cufflinks and casually tossing them on the table, picking up a knife and fork, "Tonight, no more work talk, only football and good food."
...The meal was enjoyed by host and guests alike. Bartomeu displayed astonishing affinity. He didn't put on his presidential airs anymore; instead, using memories from his past life, he talked about how Mané was so poor as a child in Senegal he couldn't even afford football boots, going to trials in worn-out shoes. This deeply moved Suárez, who also came from a poor background, having played on the streets of Uruguay, even bringing tears to his eyes.
He also chatted about the amusing story of Messi crying from homesickness during his La Masia days (gossip he'd heard from Piqué). Although Messi verbally denied it with "no way," the smile never left his face.
This made Messi and Suárez feel for the first time that this bald, slightly overweight middle-aged man before them was not just a cold administrator, but a flesh-and-blood, genuine 'fan' who truly understood players' hearts.
At 9 PM, Bartomeu bid farewell and left.
Jorge personally saw him to the door, a world of difference from the cold reception upon arrival.
Just before getting in the car, Jorge suddenly held the car door, lowered his voice, and said with a complex tone: "Josep, if everything you said today comes true... then you'll be one of the greatest Chairmans in Barça's history."
"I will make it happen, Jorge." Bartomeu patted the old man's hand, "This is just the beginning."
Watching the audi a8 disappear into the night, Jorge returned to the courtyard.
Messi was lying on the lawn, looking up at the brilliant starry sky, still holding his mate tea cup.
"So? Leo, do you believe him?" Suárez asked while clearing plates, humming a little tune.
Messi was silent for a moment, then raised his hand, making a grasping motion towards the starry sky, as if catching an elusive hope.
"At least he got one thing right." Messi said softly, "We don't need a second Neymar. We need beasts like Mané to help us win back the ball we lose. If Eriksen can come, I might really be able to run a bit less and focus on scoring."
"I think it sounds solid too." Suárez chewed on the last piece of meat, "And that fat guy today seemed... a bit like a real boss. Much better than that grinning mascot from before."
"I think so too." Messi closed his eyes, feeling the sea breeze, "As long as we win, I don't mind cooperating with a gambler."
...In the car returning to downtown Barcelona.
Only after the car drove out of the Castelldefels area did Bartomeu, like a deflated balloon, slump into the back seat. His shirt was soaked through with cold sweat, clinging uncomfortably to his back.
The negotiation just now had consumed mental energy no less than orchestrating a life-or-death, billion-dollar merger. Every look, every word, even every motion of cutting the meat, had been rehearsed countless times in his mind.
"Chairman, did we succeed?" Grau cautiously asked from the front passenger seat, observing his boss's expression through the rearview mirror.
"Temporarily succeeded." Bartomeu rubbed his throbbing temples, his voice tired but tinged with excitement, "Stabilizing Messi stabilizes Barça's foundation. But this is only the first step."
He opened his eyes, looking out at the bustling Barcelona nightscape, neon lights streaking across the car window.
"Óscar, book tickets for tomorrow. To London."
"London?" Grau was taken aback, "To see Levy about Eriksen?"
"Yes. First, deal with that greedy Jew, bring Eriksen back." A glint flashed in Bartomeu's eyes, a cruel smile curling at the corner of his mouth, "Then... we fly straight to Liverpool."
"To see Fenway Sports Group?"
"Exactly. I want Klopp to taste the feeling of being 'backdoored.'" Bartomeu clenched his fist, "When everyone is watching Coutinho, I will silently pull out his fangs."
The night was deep, but Bartomeu's eyes grew brighter. Mané on the left, Eriksen in the middle, Iñigo in defense. Plus Messi and Suárez. This new Barça would be the perfect blend of technique and power.
"Let the storm rage even fiercer."