The only sound was the quiet clinking of cutlery. Forks gently scraped against porcelain. Glasses were lifted. Knives sliced through the tender Milanesa Napolitana. But no one spoke.
The grand dining room, warm and softly sunlit, felt like a cathedral of silence—until a voice broke through the stillness, not aloud but in thought.
"They really do look alike."
Antonela Roccuzzo's eyes lingered on the boy sitting across the long polished table, his dark curls bouncing gently every time he reached for his plate. She tried not to stare. She tried not to let her thoughts run wild. But it was difficult.
Her gaze travelled from the curve of his cheekbones to the line of his jaw. His face had a sharper frame than Leo's, yes. A more defined cut around the eyes and mouth. But the resemblance was undeniable. It wasn't just bone structure—it was the softness of his smile, the half-closed way his eyes bent when he laughed to himself.
"Antonela, stop," she whispered inside her own mind. "It's just a coincidence. You've read online before—sometimes unrelated people look alike. It happens. Don't go too far with this."
She took a breath, trying to center herself, her fingers resting lightly on the stem of her glass. But just as her thoughts began to settle, something else tugged at her awareness.
She looked again. Mateo was smiling—a small, sheepish grin as he took another bite. He chewed with joy, shoulders relaxed, like someone who hadn't eaten this well in months. That small grin tugged the corners of his mouth, almost bashful but filled with quiet satisfaction. His eyes bright, unfocused, simply enjoying the moment.
And then she glanced at her husband.
Messi was in his own world, head slightly bowed, devouring the food in that same exact way—with that same quiet, childlike glee, like the dish unlocked something ancient and warm inside him. They both looked so silly. So real. So human.
"But if the resemblance is a coincidence…" Antonela blinked slowly. "…then what about this?"
She turned again, just a glance—nothing dramatic.
Only this time, Mateo was looking right back at her.
She flinched slightly, caught in the act. He was chewing slowly, fork still in his hand, his eyes gentle but curious.
"Is something wrong, Mrs. Roccuzzo?" he asked, genuinely polite.
"O—oh no! Not at all," she laughed quickly, brushing some hair behind her ear. "I just noticed how much you were enjoying the food."
Mateo chuckled and nodded earnestly. "It's really good. Like, really. I haven't tasted anything like it before. I don't even know what this is called, but it's amazing."
Her smile softened. "I'm glad you liked it. I spent a lot of time on it."
Mateo blinked. "Wait—you cooked this, ma'am?"
Antonela threw her head back with a short laugh. "Yes, yes! I cooked it. It's the grumpy old man's favorite dish," she said, thumbing toward Messi. "And don't call me 'ma'am' or 'Mrs.' anything. Just call me Antonela."
Mateo chuckled shyly. "Ah—so then this must be Milanesa Napolitana. Then Asado must be next. Then maybe…" He was muttering to himself, naming the favorite dishes like a checklist—until he realized what he was doing.
"What was that?" Antonela asked, brow raised.
Mateo froze, then grinned awkwardly. "O-oh nothing! Just saying how it tastes really nice." He stuffed his mouth with food quickly, cheeks full like a squirrel. God, that was close, he thought, chewing in overdrive. They'd have called me a stalker. Why the hell do I know his favorite foods like I memorized a fan wiki?
While the conversation between Mateo and Antonela warmed up, Messi remained blissfully unaware. He was in a trance, eyes focused on his plate like he wasn't even in the same room, let alone seated at the same table. If silence had a king, it was him.
But there was one pair of eyes watching the interaction closely. Not Antonela's. Not even Mateo's.
It was little Mateo.
The seven-year-old troublemaker sat across from his mother, face puckered into a tiny frown. His fork hovered in the air before he finally spoke, voice high and accusing.
"Mummy, you always say we shouldn't talk while eating…" he whined. "But you've been talking, and Mateo has been talking, and you didn't say anything. That's not fair!"
Antonela's eyes snapped to him with that universal motherly glare that didn't need words. Her stare alone was a sharp command—one more word and you'll be washing dishes till Christmas. Little Mateo shrank under it, grumbling something under his breath.
Before he could take another bite, he looked to his older brother Thiago—who sat with a smug grin, clearly enjoying his brother getting shut down.
Antonela exhaled a laugh, turning back to her guest. "Sorry about that," she said with an apologetic smile.
Mateo laughed it off. "It's okay. They're funny."
Antonela leaned slightly toward him, elbow on the table, eyes curious. "So… you're 17, right?"
He nodded.
"What about your parents?" she asked gently. "I'm interested in them too."
Mateo blinked, confused. "You're interested in my parents?"
She laughed at his surprised expression. "I just want to know more about the people who raised such a wonderful boy like you."
Mateo didn't quite know what to say to that. His mind fluttered, but he answered. And then the questions kept coming—how his parents met, where he was born, what they were like. Specifics. Details. She didn't write anything down, but it felt like she was remembering everything.
Still, Mateo answered them all.
And that was how the lunch went on—filled with slow bites, warm smiles, and a string of gentle, probing questions—until eventually, the plates were cleared and bellies were full.
"Wow, that was really something," Mateo said, pushing his chair back slightly. "Thank you for the food, Mrs—I mean, Antonela. It was really delicious."
Antonela waved it off. "Oh don't worry."
She turned toward her husband, who had just polished off the last bite of his meal. She gave his arm a little tap.
"Why don't you show him around while we tidy up here?"
Mateo quickly stood up. "Oh! Let me help you with that," he offered, reaching for some plates.
Antonela shook her head, smiling. "Don't worry about it. Me and the kids got it. You're our guest."
Mateo nodded, a little unsure—until he heard a familiar voice call out to him.
"Hey, Mateo. Come. Let's go."
He turned and looked up.
Messi was standing near the doorway, already waiting.
The house was starting to feel less like a home and more like a theme park built for a king.
Every room felt like a secret level Mateo hadn't unlocked before. Just when he thought he'd seen the craziest part, another door would open — and another jaw would drop. The voice guiding him casually listed them out like they were basic features on a rental brochure: an indoor gym and recovery center, a spa-like pool area with natural sunlight filtering in from above, a plush, dim-lit home theater, a polished trophy room glinting like a small museum, custom-designed playrooms that looked straight out of a Pixar animation studio, and then — as if that wasn't enough — a monstrous garage housing cars that made his jaw drop… Ferrari, Range Rover, even a Pagani, matte black.
Mateo was stunned. More stunned with every step. "Bro, what is this life?"
He followed behind Messi, who was quietly giving him a tour, and for a moment, Mateo caught himself observing him instead of the rooms.
At the club, Messi was still that GOAT. Funny, yes. Kind, absolutely. But there was always a distance — a quiet that made him feel untouchable. Something in his eyes that seemed a thousand miles away, like he was always thinking about more than just football.
But here… here, he was home.
Barefoot, relaxed, smiling without filters. There was something soft about him. Something warmer. Messi didn't look like the guy who silenced stadiums and carried nations on his back. He looked like… a dad. A brother. A man in his space. And Mateo couldn't help but respect that.
But as Mateo stared, Messi was staring too — quietly, thoughtfully.
He watched the boy's wide eyes dart from room to room, lit up with that giddy mix of disbelief and admiration. And something about it tugged at a memory. A flash.
Years ago. When he was the kid being shown around. Ronaldinho's house.
How he'd walked those halls wide-eyed and stunned, barely believing what was real. Messi smiled faintly, almost bittersweet. "Ronny… I guess it's my turn now, huh?"
The image of Mateo's gleaming eyes overlapped with one from long ago — his own younger self — and it made the smile deepen.
"Maybe Antonela was right... he really does look like me," Messi thought.
And with that thought still warm in his chest, he spoke.
"Hey, Mateo," he said, voice light, almost playful. "Let me show you my favorite place in the whole house."
Mateo blinked and nodded quickly, snapping out of his awe. "Yes! I mean… sure, yeah."
They walked through a narrow hallway, Mateo noting how the lighting dimmed just slightly, footsteps echoing faintly off the high walls. There were glass-framed jerseys on the walls — some from Barça, some from Argentina, a few even unrecognizable — gifted mementos from legends past. They reached a glass door at the very end of the corridor.
It was see-through, and already Mateo's heart jumped. No way.
Messi flashed a knowing grin, placing his hand on the handle. "Welcome," he said, pulling the door open.
A rush of fresh air kissed Mateo's face as he stepped outside — and there it was.
A full-sized, private pitch. Perfectly trimmed, enclosed by a tall hedge, the grass greener than anything he'd ever seen. There was a goalpost at each end. Nets clean and crisp. A rack of training cones to the side. A small bench. Even a digital scoreboard. The type of place you'd expect to see in some elite academy, not someone's backyard.
Mateo's mouth parted, but no words came. Just a stunned breath.
He turned slowly, taking it all in. Then looked at Messi, who stood beside him, arms folded, smiling with soft pride.
"Mateo," he called again.
The teenager looked back at him quickly. "Yes?"
Messi's face was serious now. Calm, but different. "Do you know why I invited you over?"
The change in tone caught Mateo off guard. He straightened a little. "Uhm… I'm not sure."
Messi nodded slowly, turning his gaze back to the field.
"This season… what do you think our chances are? League. Champions League."
Mateo blinked. The question landed like a weight. He looked up, searching Messi's face, expecting to see a smirk or playful nudge. But it wasn't there. Messi was serious.
The kind of serious that made your stomach clench.
"I mean…" Mateo began, "I think we have a great squad. Honestly. The players, the mix of youth and experience… we're Barça. When we're at our best, no one can stop us. I really believe that. The Champions League is ours if we want it bad enough—"
"I'm serious, Mateo," Messi interrupted gently, not unkind, but firm. "I want to win the Champions League this season. Really. What do you think our chances are?"
Silence.
Mateo's throat tightened. His heart skipped. He had never seen Messi like this — not in training, not in matches, not ever. There was something in his tone. Something in the way the wind moved around them. The field, the sky, the stillness.
Like it wasn't just a question. It was a mission.
And just as he opened his mouth to answer again—
"HEY!! BIG MATEO'S ON MY TEAM!"
The sudden shriek shattered the moment. A football flew across the field and bounced right at Mateo's feet.
He looked over — wide-eyed — and saw a little whirlwind charging toward him.
It was the younger Mateo, laughing wildly, pointing. "It's me and him! Thiago, go get Dad!"
Thiago rolled his eyes with a smile, jogging over to Messi. "Come on, Papa. You're with me."
Before long, all five of them — Lionel, Thiago, Mateo (the kid), Ciro running and falling, and Mateo King — were on the field.
The tension vanished.
Laughter spilled. Shoes kicked off. Shouts echoed.
And for that moment, they weren't teammates, or legends, or future stars.
Just a father. His boys. Teh Mother cheering
And a 17-year-old kid… who was starting to feel like part of the family.
Mateo lay on his back on the warm marble floor, chest rising and falling, the edges of his lips curled into a tired smile. He was laughing — quietly, breathlessly — the kind of laugh that came not from something funny, but from release. From the echo of joy still bouncing around in his ribcage after one of the best days he'd had in… who even knows how long?
Then, a voice — soft, but clear.
"Take."
Mateo's eyes opened.
Above him, silhouetted by the faint silvery light drifting in from the tall glass walls, was Messi. His figure was backlit by the faint moonlight, the glow of the hallway casting a soft frame around him. In his hand, a cold bottle of water.
Mateo sat up slowly, reached forward, and took it. "Thanks," he muttered, unscrewing the cap and drinking.
The garden lights had long since dimmed. The soft sounds of laughter and running footsteps were gone. The kids had finally gone to sleep after hours of playing, running barefoot around the backyard, giggling like they were the kings of the world. And for a moment, Mateo had felt like one of them — free, light, welcome.
Messi sat down beside him, letting out a long exhale as he stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands. The night was still. The kind of still that made time feel slower, more fragile.
Mateo spoke first. "I had a good day today."
Messi nodded, his gaze fixed somewhere in the dark. "I figured," he said. "You've been having a tough time lately haven't you."
There was something in the way he said it. Not probing. Not forceful. Just… known. Understood.
Messi continued, voice low. "I didn't know how to talk to you about it. I've seen the way you move. The pressure. The weight. I know it, Mateo. I've lived with it for most of my life."
Mateo stayed quiet. His fingers rubbed along the ridges of the plastic bottle in his hands. His mind wandered.
He's right.
I'm not the first to go through this. Not even close.
Had he really faced more pressure than this man beside him? This man who carried an entire nation on his back. Who was expected to be a god every time he touched a ball. And yet… still stood.
Mateo thought of the medals. Of the trophies he had seen earlier he had just been admiring not know of, The weight behind them. The scars no one saw.
And still… Messi had won. Again and again.
His thoughts scattered when Messi's voice broke through the quiet again.
"I'm sorry about today," he said. "If I added to the pressure, even a little."
Mateo blinked. Then shook his head. "No."
Messi turned to look at him, brow faintly raised.
Mateo looked ahead, his voice more certain now. "The pressure… I want it."
Messi blinked.
"I want to win the Champions League," Mateo said, his voice sharpening like a blade drawn clean. "I want to win everything. I want the weight. I want what comes with it."
The silence that followed was different. Not heavy. Not suffocating. But charged — alive.
Messi stared at him — really looked — and for a moment, another face flickered over Mateo's.
A younger face. That same flame in the eyes. That same fearless hunger.
Not his own this time.
Neymar.
Messi's smile was soft. Pained.
"You remind me of someone…" he said, voice low.
"When Neymar came, I told him I'd help him become the best in the world. I meant it. But things don't always go the way we want. Sometimes… they leave."
His eyes drifted to the flickering candlelight that still burned faintly on the dinner table. The plates had been cleared. The silverware silenced. But that little flame lingered, like a stubborn hope.
Mateo sat up straighter, then asked quietly, "Did it… hurt? When he left?"
Messi's smile flickered — there, then gone. It didn't reach his eyes.
"More than I thought it would," he whispered. "We weren't just teammates. We understood each other on the pitch like few ever do. Like magic."
He leaned back, lost in thought. His hand touched the rim of his glass without lifting it.
"I used to look to my right and see him there — always smiling, always ready. And then one day… he was just gone. No goodbye on the field. Just… headlines."
Mateo's throat tightened. He could feel something in his chest — blooming and breaking all at once.
"You carry that same spark," Messi said softly. "That same recklessness. That same fearless joy. I don't know if it's a blessing or a curse."
Mateo's voice was barely there. "Do you ever wish you had stopped him?"
Messi exhaled. It wasn't quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Something in between. "Every day."
Stillness returned.
Then Messi added, barely louder than the breeze, "But you can't chain someone's dream. Even if it breaks yours in the process."
He turned, eyes on Mateo again. "So when I see you now… when I play with you… maybe it's selfish, but I think — just maybe — I get a second chance."
Mateo didn't move. Couldn't. His chest ached — not from sadness, but something else. Something heavier.
Messi stood. The scrape of the chair against the floor echoed softly.
He put a hand on Mateo's shoulder.
"Don't run away from what's real. Talent fades. Time passes. But the ones who stay?"
He nodded toward the hallway, where the dim light fell on framed photographs of his family — smiling, laughing, full of life.
"They matter more than all the trophies."
He paused.
"I wasn't even able to fulfill my promise to him."
Mateo looked up. The moonlight filtered down through the tall windows, casting a soft glow over Messi's frame. He stood like a monument, quietly radiant in the night — a legend made human.
Messi's voice dropped to a whisper, but it landed like thunder.
"I wasn't able to fulfill that promise the first time I made it."
He looked down at Mateo, eyes gleaming with quiet fire.
"But I promise you this."
Mateo's breath caught.
"I will make you the best footballer in the world."
A/N
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Authors Note
I want to start by deeply apologizing for how long it has been since I last reached out.
Yesterday, I was honestly shocked — and incredibly grateful — to see that some of you were still Replying and commenting some still even voting for the book. Your patience and loyalty mean more than I can express.
The truth is, my illness took a serious turn for the worse after it relapsed. I was forced to travel for treatment, and it was a harsh reminder of how fragile I've always known I am due to my SC genotype. But this crisis was bigger than anything I could have anticipated.
I'm deeply sorry for disappearing during such a critical time.
I only returned last week, and I had to take time to get my affairs in order. That's why it took so long to reconnect.
Unfortunately for me — but fortunately for you — the illness and the time off led to the loss of my job. So now I'm fully here and ready to dedicate myself to writing.
I also want to apologize for the chapter. It was my way of recapping everything for everyone and getting us all back on track.
I'm genuinely thrilled to be typing again and to have the chance to continue sharing our work.
Thank you for your patience, understanding, and continued support.I can't wait to dive back in with all of you.