The news of Mateo's decision spread quickly through the Bayern training camp.
Though he would only be gone for a few weeks, his teammates treated it like a true send-off.
Müller clapped him hard on the back."Go make your country proud, pequeño!"
Kane grinned."Just don't forget how to score while you're gone."
Even Coach Kompany called him into his office, shook his hand firmly, and said,"Remember — wherever you are, your professionalism speaks louder than any goal."
Mateo packed his bag that night, feeling a warm mix of excitement and nerves.
Argentina awaited him.
His dream — and his father's dream — was finally within reach.
The flight to Buenos Aires was long but uneventful.
Mateo stared out the window as the sprawling city came into view below — vast, chaotic, beautiful.
It had been years since he last set foot in his birth country.
And now, he was back —not as a boy, but as a player the world was beginning to recognize.
He landed, full of hope.
But almost immediately, cracks began to show.
There was no official welcoming party waiting for him at the airport.
No federation representative.No car with his name on a sign.Nothing.
Just dozens of passengers moving around him while he stood awkwardly with his luggage.
After an hour of waiting, he finally received a rushed phone call.
A driver was coming — apparently "caught in traffic."
When the car arrived, it was an old, dented sedan, driven by a man who barely acknowledged him.
The drive to the training center was slow — agonizingly slow.
Every stoplight seemed to take an eternity.
Every minor traffic jam stretched endlessly.
Mateo shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
He hated being late.
He hated feeling unreliable.
When they finally neared the training ground, Mateo noticed something else strange:
Reporters were already gathered at the gates.
Cameras flashed the moment his car pulled in.
Shouts rang out:
"¡Llegó tarde!""¿Ya se cree estrella?""¿Problemas de disciplina?"
Mateo clenched his fists.
He hadn't even stepped onto the training field yet,and already a narrative was being spun against him.
When he finally reached the building, a staff member met him with a clipboard and a tight frown.
"You're late," the man said without looking him in the eye.
Mateo opened his mouth to explain —but realized it wouldn't matter.
Excuses sounded weak.Especially in an environment already hostile to him.
He simply bowed his head and muttered,"Sorry."
Inside the facilities, players were already finishing their warm-ups.
Coach Cárdenas shot him a cold glance but said nothing.
No welcome.No encouragement.
Just silence.
And suspicion.
As Mateo laced up his boots in the locker room — alone in a corner — he reminded himself of his father's words:
"Dreams aren't given.They're fought for."
He closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out the whispers, the flashing cameras, the cold stares.
He hadn't come this far to fold now.
This was just the beginning of a different kind of match.