The private jet, a sleek, silver bird chartered by the club, cut through the clouds with a quiet, almost imperceptible hum.
It was the kind of luxury Mateo still hadn't grown accustomed to, a gilded cage that separated him from the world he knew. He had argued with the team's logistics manager, a stern, unflappable man named Herr Schmidt, insisting he could simply book a seat on a commercial flight.
He missed the anonymity of it, the simple, shared experience of travel.
"Mateo," Schmidt the PR executive had said, his voice a low, firm rumble, "You are a multi-million euro asset. The club does not permit you to risk delays, cancellations, or, frankly, the chaos of a public terminal. You fly private. It is non-negotiable."
Below, the snow-dusted landscape of Germany gave way to the rugged peaks of the Alps, and then, finally, to the deep, azure expanse of the Mediterranean.
