At Enrique's residence.
After Romeo Teixeira's stunning hat-trick of assists, Barcelona's head coach Luis Enrique couldn't sit still.
Pacing restlessly in his living room, he bolted to his study and snatched his phone, urgently dialing his assistant coach.
"I'm Enrique. I need all the data on Romeo Teixeira from the B team. Yes—everything. Right now!"
As Barça's boss, he should've been more aware of the talents bubbling up through the ranks.
But times had changed.
Barcelona was no longer the Triple Crown titan it once was. The Dream Four Dynasty? Just a memory.
The team's defensive line had been reinforced over recent seasons, but the midfield was a different story.
With Xavi gone and Rakitic offering just a passable replacement, Iniesta's aging presence left a vacuum no one had truly filled.
Fabregas? Gone. Turan? Lost in the system.
Barcelona's engine room had stalled.
But Romeo's performance lit a spark.
Yet when the assistant sent over Romeo's full report… Enrique's excitement deflated.
A La Masia product, yes—but until now? A quiet performer, nearly anonymous.
Was this just a flash in the pan?
Enrique rubbed his temples. His instincts said otherwise—Romeo's passes weren't just luck or adrenaline. There was vision. Tempo. Genius.
Still, the data didn't lie. He needed more games to be sure.
---
Meanwhile, in Madrid…
Another bald man stared at a screen, eyebrows raised.
Zinedine Zidane—Real Madrid's manager and midfield legend—had just finished watching the same game.
He hadn't meant to scout anyone. He was checking in on his son.
But Romeo's performance stole the show.
The feel of the ball. The precision. The artistry.
Zidane immediately requested Romeo's scouting report.
If the kid joined Real Madrid? A Modrić–Teixeira dual-core midfield would power Los Blancos like a twin-engine beast.
Champions League domination? Entirely possible.
But the cold reality of data hit him too.
One great game didn't erase a string of mediocre stats. The club wouldn't bite without proof.
Even Zidane had limits. He sighed and shut his laptop.
---
Final whistle: 4–0 victory.
Romeo assisted again on the final goal—his pass led to Traoré's shot, which rebounded for Pujic to clean up.
Athletic Barcelona had secured relegation survival.
There was no post-match press conference. Not for Segunda División.
Coach Herald delivered a fiery speech in the locker room, praised every player, then gave them a well-earned holiday.
Fans exited the stands slowly, still buzzing.
---
Later that night…
Andrés Iniesta left the stadium straight for Enrique's place.
Messi drove alone.
His head wasn't on the road—it was filled with Romeo Teixeira's mesmerizing passes.
SCREEECH—
Messi braked suddenly, pulled over, and grabbed his phone.
"Leo? What's up?" asked Carlos Nieves, head coach of the Argentine national team—also known as the Blue Eagles.
"You've decided, right?" Messi asked, skipping formalities.
"Yeah," Nieves confirmed. "I should be officially announced soon. But I'm already feeling the pressure. If the Copa América goes poorly, I'm gone."
Messi exhaled.
"I have a suggestion. There's a kid—Romeo Teixeira. He's eligible for Argentina. Just played for Atlético Barcelona. You need to convince him to join us."
Carlos paused.
Messi had never once recommended a player. Not publicly. Not privately.
"I watched him today. His passing is world class, Carlos. His vision… incredible. We need that kind of midfield link-up. Someone who can transition from defense to attack instantly."
Carlos nodded, stunned.
"I'll find out everything about him—tonight."
Messi hung up.
He sat back in the driver's seat, eyes firm with conviction.
If Romeo joins… maybe this time, we finally lift a trophy together.
---
Back in the city…
Romeo, freshly showered and changed, was headed home when his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He hesitated… but then remembered what his older brother Alan had said about a manager reaching out.
"Hello, this is Romeo Teixeira."
"Hi! I was entrusted by Mr. Alan Teixeira to meet you. Are you free now?"
"I am."
"Great. I'm waiting in the stadium parking lot. Let's grab a coffee and chat."
Romeo slung on his backpack and made his way out.
As soon as he entered the lot, he heard someone shout.
"Over here!"
He turned—and froze.
There, waving energetically, stood a familiar rotund figure.
In his past life, Romeo had seen this man many times on sports news.
It was him—Mino Raiola.
The infamous football super-agent. A financial monster in the transfer market.
A legend known as both Crouching Dragon and Phoenix Chick, depending on who you asked—and rarely with affection.
But unlike others, Raiola never betrayed his players.
Sure, clubs hated him. But players? They trusted him with their lives.
He was the kind of agent who'd curse out Guardiola if it meant defending his client.
Romeo never expected him to be the one his brother found.
"Hello, Mr. Mino."
"Hello, little genius!"
Raiola beamed.
"My assistant already booked a quiet café. Shall we go talk in comfort?"
He sounded respectful—almost cautious.
Truth be told, Raiola was a little nervous.
He wasn't worried about deals. He was worried about the temper of this young, mysterious heir—who came from money and had a look straight off a European Vogue cover.
Sharp jaw, azure-blue eyes, a blend of Dybala's elegance and Maldini's stoicism—Romeo looked every bit the football prince.
But what Raiola saw now?
A humble, hungry genius.
And the empire was only just beginning.
---