"Get it!" Pedri yelled out sharply as he launched a through ball that seemed to stretch far wider than expected. To a casual observer, it might have looked like a wild, overshot pass, slipping beyond the reach of any teammate. But Pedri knew better—having watched the match yesterday, he was confident this wasn't a mistake. No, it was deliberate. It was perfect.
And perfect it truly was.
Mateo, sharp and alert, immediately spotted the open space ahead. Without hesitation, he surged forward, unleashing his incredible speed in an instant. His legs pumped powerfully, eating up the ground between him and the advancing ball.
"Nice," Koeman muttered quietly from the sideline, a small smile playing on his lips. Thanks to his instructions earlier, the defense had been especially tough on Mateo today—double-teaming him relentlessly, squeezing all the space he might normally use to maneuver. But Pedri had clearly noticed this. Instead of playing safe passes to Mateo's feet, he had adapted his approach, threading precise through balls into those gaps behind the defense. It was a clever tactic designed to exploit Mateo's blistering pace and leave defenders scrambling.
Koeman watched with satisfaction. This partnership—the connection between Pedri and Mateo—was evolving before his eyes. His mind raced as he started thinking about how he could fully utilize this dynamic duo. While his primary mission was to test Mateo's abilities and evaluate the synergy between Mateo, Dembélé, and Griezmann, he had stumbled upon something unexpected—something fresh and potent. And already, ideas were forming on how to harness this new weapon to its fullest potential.
Meanwhile, on the pitch...
"Shit," Lenglet cursed under his breath as he saw the ball slipping past him on his side. His body reacted instantly, turning sharply as he began to chase after it.
Lenglet was the closest to the ball, and he sprinted toward it as soon as he realized what was happening. But from the perspective of anyone watching, the scene looked almost ridiculous. Despite Lenglet's proximity, Mateo was already closing in fast, rapidly gaining ground. The contrast was stark—it was as if Lenglet was moving in slow motion at half speed while Mateo was on double-time, zooming ahead at twice the pace. The terrifying speed was on full display once again.
And it wasn't just the spectators who noticed.
Lenglet knew exactly how fast Mateo was. That was why his initial reaction had been a curse. But now, as he neared the ball, a lightness filled his chest. I've got it, he thought with relief, stretching his leg out in an attempt to reach the ball first.
Then, suddenly, he felt it—an intense pressure building rapidly from just behind him. Lenglet, having faced another speedster not long ago and been tormented by their pace, instantly recognized what this meant: He's right behind me.
Determined not to be outdone, Lenglet pushed harder, poking his leg out further, desperately trying to maintain control of the ball. The moment his foot made contact, a smile broke across his face. I reached it. Fuck yes, he thought with triumph. It wasn't the same player who had haunted him that night, but the joy of matching a speedster, even briefly, lifted his spirits.
Damn you speedsters, he mused with a mix of frustration and respect, as the top part of his foot connected firmly with the ball.
His heart stabilized he had messed up.
Then, just as Lenglet's foot made contact with the ball—his toe nudging it with all the desperation of a man who'd just outrun fate—Mateo, who had been right behind him, surged forward with a final, explosive burst of speed. His eyes locked on the ball like a hawk targeting prey. His right leg extended, body leaning into the motion with the elegance of a sprinter-turned-dancer, and at the very moment Lenglet touched it… so did Mateo.
But unlike Lenglet's clumsy poke, Mateo's touch was calculated—sharp, soft, and almost disrespectfully precise. He didn't just contest the ball. He took it. The pressure Lenglet had felt before now manifested fully, not just behind him, but between his legs.
Lenglet blinked, confused for a split second. Wait, what— And then it happened.
Pop.
The ball slid through his open legs like silk between fingers. Clean. Smooth. Slick. A nutmeg—vicious and humiliating. Lenglet turned his head just in time to see it rolling away from him on the other side, carried by Mateo's deft foot as if nothing had happened.
Mateo had just nutmegged him.
But not just any nutmeg. A nasty one. Disrespectful. Disgusting. So clean it could've been in a highlight reel with slow-motion, fireworks, and dramatic commentary.
"Hmmm!" came the collective exclamation from the entire training hall. Players gasped, laughed, and hollered all at once. Some clutched their heads, others slapped teammates' shoulders in disbelief. Even a few staff members couldn't help but laugh out loud, their voices mixing with the echo of boots on grass and cries of amusement.
Lenglet stood frozen, still trying to compute what had just happened.
On the sidelines, Koeman raised a brow but chuckled too. It wasn't every day you saw a move like that.
But while most of the group roared with laughter and light-hearted banter, a few players didn't smile. They didn't clap or jeer. They just watched, eyebrows slightly raised, heads tilted in silent recognition. Players like Sergio Busquets, Gerard Piqué, and even Messi—veterans of the game, legends of the club. Their reactions weren't loud. Their thoughts were louder.
Because what they saw... wasn't just a flashy nutmeg.
It was familiar.
It was classic.
It was Iniesta.
That turn. That movement. That pause-and-poke touch. That subtle change of pace that sent Lenglet the wrong way and left him helpless—it wasn't new to them. They had seen it countless times before. Back when they all played alongside a certain quiet genius. A man who wore number 8. Their former captain. Their friend.
Iniesta.
Of course, nutmegs and tight turns were part of football. Ronaldinho had done them. Neymar had danced with the ball in the Camp Nou. Messi himself had made a career of the impossible. But even among that elite class, Iniesta was different.
He was never the flashiest. He didn't rely on tricks or flamboyant flair. What Iniesta brought to the pitch was something else—something far more dangerous: subtlety, balance, grace, and absolute control. His dribbling wasn't loud; it was efficient, tactical, and impossibly fluid. He didn't need ten stepovers. He needed one shift of his body. One faint feint. And suddenly, he was gone.
Mateo had just done that.
And he wasn't done.
As Piqué and Jordi Alba stepped in, trying to close him down, Mateo kept going. The space was tight—claustrophobically tight. Grass kicked up beneath their boots as bodies pressed close. But Mateo didn't panic. He shifted left, then right, dipped his shoulder, and rolled the ball just past Piqué's outstretched boot. Then came a lightning-fast touch past Alba's shin. Shoulders brushing, elbows raised, he squeezed through the smallest of gaps, using close body control that left even the veterans off-balance.
"WHOA!" shouted someone in the background. The whole training hall erupted again.
Mateo was still going.
One-on-one with Ter Stegen now. Koeman had put the goalkeeper on the white team specifically to test Mateo under real pressure. But the boy made it look easy. One glance. One quick fake. Then—bang. A low shot, cleanly struck, slipping right under the keeper's hand and into the back of the net.
Goal.
The training ground simmered with stunned noise. But one figure on the sideline stood still, eyes wide, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Messi.
He had watched the entire thing unfold from start to finish. If before, there had been any sliver of doubt in his mind, it was gone now. No, this wasn't just a good youngster.
This… was Iniesta.
The movement, the feel, the IQ—it was all there.
Messi's heart thumped in his chest, not just in surprise, but in excitement. His eyes lit up. Because what he had just seen was a memory come to life.
Mateo, meanwhile, walked back toward the center, his grin wide—childlike and overflowing with disbelief.
"Nah, this is insane," he thought, unable to stop smiling.
He had known he would get attention the moment he downloaded Iniesta's entire dribbling package into his muscle memory. But this? This was something else. Most people rated Iniesta high, sure—but not many knew just how high.
But Mateo knew.
He knew Iniesta wasn't just good. He was easily top ten in dribbling history. Maybe even top five. With more successful take-ons in his prime and history than even Eden Hazard. Yes, Hazard had the flair, the burst, but Iniesta had something else—something surgical.
And while the Belgian star was still at Real Madrid with his legend getting dulled by the minute, Iniesta had left Europe with his numbers intact, untouched, and deeply respected.
What made it crazier? For several seasons at Barcelona, Iniesta held the highest dribble success rate percentage in the team. Higher than Neymar. Higher than Messi. Not just because he attempted less. But because he failed less.
He was efficient. Ridiculously so.
And now all that balance, that vision, that calm chaos—was flowing through Mateo.
And Mateo, still smiling like a boy who had just discovered he could fly, jogged back into position.
"Hey Mateo," a familiar voice called out, casual yet warm.
Mateo turned swiftly to the side, his pulse still racing from the goal, only to see Lionel Messi approaching him with a smile on his face. For a split second, Mateo blinked, unsure if this was real. But it was. The Lionel Messi was walking toward him, eyes gleaming with the kind of recognition every footballer on Earth dreamed of. Mateo, who had thought that, quickly shook his head and told himself, "Mateo, calm down. Ease up with the glazing—he is your teammates now." he sais to calm himself even Tho he still quickly jogged over to meet him.
Trying to play it cool but unable to hide the grin spreading across his face. "Yeah?" he answered, his voice slightly breathless but eager.
Messi chuckled, a light sound that still somehow made Mateo feel a daze causing him to know 'yeah I'm never getting over this'. "That was something there," Messi said, his gaze steady. "I didn't know you could dribble like that."
Mateo's face flushed slightly. He scratched the back of his head, a small, sheepish laugh escaping him as he replied, "I didn't know I could do it too." He grinned, clearly a bit embarrassed, but also proud.
Messi laughed more openly now, patting him lightly on the back. "Well, keep it up."
"Of course," Mateo replied with a nod, still smiling, still trying to process what had just happened.
They both turned and jogged back to their positions on the pitch as the game restarted.
The match resumed with renewed energy.
Koeman, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in focus, stood on the sideline watching every play with the intensity of a man studying for a final exam. The training session had been designed with precision, crafted specifically to put pressure on Mateo—to test his limits, to observe his chemistry with fellow attackers, and most importantly, to see if the boy could keep up with top-tier football.
So far, Mateo had answered all those questions with flair.
The two sides were surprisingly well matched. The white side—led by Messi and filled with seasoned substitutes and solid defenders—looked even more threatening on paper. They moved with cohesion, sharp passing and dangerous movement up front. Goals came for them with ease.
But the yellow side—the supposed underdogs—held their own.
And at the heart of it all was Mateo.
Time and again, he slipped through tight spaces, played intelligent one-twos with Pedri and the others, and made sharp turns that left defenders grasping at air. Koeman was watching closely, and he didn't miss a thing. Yes, training could never quite replicate the speed and stakes of a real match. But this? This was as good a sign as any. Barcelona's main defense wasn't world-class anymore, sure—they didn't have the ruthlessness of peak Juventus or the discipline of Atlético—but they were still no joke.
The fact that Mateo was weaving through them, evading pressure, and playing so seamlessly had sparked something in Koeman.
Hope.
But he knew better than to get carried away. The next match would be even harder. Much harder.
Their next opponent? Sevilla.
A team known for their grit, organization, and defensive steel. Statistically, they had the second-best defense in La Liga—just behind the league leaders Atlético Madrid in terms of goals conceded.
Tough. Tenacious. Disciplined.
If Barcelona's defense had been Mateo's introduction…
Then Sevilla would be his real test.
A/N
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