The autumn sun of the Mediterranean Sea filtered through the clouds, spilling onto the training ground's turf. The air was filled with the scent of freshly cut grass. For the Barcelona first team players, this was supposed to be an ordinary recovery training day.
But on the third floor of the main building, the atmosphere was as heavy as the sea before a storm.
Bartomeu stood before the huge floor-to-ceiling window, tightly clutching a copy of a medical report in his hand. His knuckles were white from the force, and the shirt on his back was soaked through with cold sweat.
Memories from his past life churned in his mind like a cold dagger. June 12, 2021. Parken Stadium, Copenhagen. European Cup. The 42nd minute. The figure wearing the Danish number 10 jersey, without any physical contact, fell straight and rigid onto the turf. Cardiac arrest. The entire world fell into a fifteen-minute silence and prayer.
Although Eriksen from that past life was resuscitated, he had an ICD (implantable cardioverter-defibrillator) fitted, and his career suffered a massive rupture. In this life, however, Eriksen had come to Barça early. Bartomeu had been worrying: would the butterfly effect cause that ticking time bomb to detonate sooner?
If Eriksen, wearing the red and blue jersey, collapsed at Camp Nou, in front of tens of thousands of fans... No. This absolutely must not be allowed to happen.
"Chairman, I don't understand," said chief team doctor Richard Pruna as he pushed the door open, his face full of confusion and a hint of dissatisfaction. "Christian's physical condition is perfect. He placed first in last week's endurance test, even surpassing Paulinho. Why have you suddenly ordered a deep 'Cardiac Electrophysiology' examination for him? This is a test for patients with a history of heart conditions. Isn't it a bit too... insulting for him?"
Bartomeu turned around, his gaze so cold it was hard to meet. "Richard, am I the boss, or the doctor?"
Pruna was taken aback. "You are the boss."
"Then do as I say," Bartomeu's voice brooked no argument. "I have received some... confidential information from a former Danish national team doctor (this was Bartomeu's fabricated excuse). He said that during Christian's youth team days, his ECG once showed an extremely minor anomaly. Although it was ignored at the time, I am a perfectionist. I need to ensure my two-hundred-million-euro asset is absolutely safe."
"But how do we explain this to the player?"
"Tell him it's for the 'World Cup Biometric Modeling Project'," Bartomeu threw the report onto the table. "Tell him it's to help him reach peak condition for next year's World Cup. Take him to Quirónsalud Hospital (Barcelona's top private hospital). I'm coming too."
[Quirónsalud Hospital, Special Examination Room]
Christian Eriksen, wearing a hospital gown, sat amidst the sophisticated equipment, his chest covered with colorful electrodes. The Danish midfielder still wore his signature gentle smile and was even joking with the nurse beside him.
"Mr. Chairman, is this really necessary?" Eriksen asked, seeing Bartomeu enter, and shrugged helplessly. "I feel like I could run a horse to death. Because of this check-up, I missed today's rondo training. Paulinho is definitely going to tease me for slacking off."
Bartomeu stood outside the one-way glass window, looking at that vibrant life inside, a tumult of emotions in his heart. "Christian, trust me," Bartomeu pressed the intercom button, his voice steady. "This is just to make you run longer. Cooperate with Professor Brugada."
Standing beside Bartomeu was Professor José Brugada, a world-class Cardiac Electrophysiology expert and one of the discoverers of the famous 'Brugada Syndrome'.
"Begin," Professor Brugada ordered.
The treadmill started up. Heart rate rose from 60, to 100, then to 140. The waveform on the screen was steady and regular. Everything looked perfectly normal.
Twenty minutes passed. Doctor Pruna glanced at Bartomeu, a look in his eyes that seemed to say, 'I told you you were worrying too much.' "Chairman, heart rate has reached 180, still Sinus Rhythm, no signs of Premature Beats or Conduction Blocks. Can we stop now?"
Bartomeu didn't speak. He stared fixedly at the screen, a vein on his forehead throbbing slightly. Had he remembered wrong? Or had the butterfly effect made his heart healthier? No, the hidden danger must still be there. If not found, it would lurk like a ghost.
"Continue," Bartomeu said through gritted teeth. "Proceed with the Drug-Induced Stress Test. Administer Isoproterenol. Simulate the extreme state of the final ten minutes of a match."
"Chairman! That's risky!" Pruna exclaimed. "Do it!" Bartomeu's roar echoed in the control room.
Professor Brugada looked at Bartomeu, then nodded, signaling his assistant to administer the drug.
The medication entered Eriksen's vein. His heart rate instantly skyrocketed to 200 beats per minute. Eriksen's face began to pale, his breathing grew rapid, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
"Beep... beep... beep..." The monitor's sound grew increasingly urgent.
Suddenly. The previously regular waveform on the screen displayed an extremely bizarre 'gap'. It was like a bottomless vortex appearing on a calm sea.
"Stop!!!" Professor Brugada lunged towards the control console, cutting the treadmill's power. "Stop immediately! Administer Atropine to counteract!"
Everyone was stunned. Doctor Pruna's mouth hung open, staring at the screen in disbelief.
Professor Brugada, his finger trembling, replayed the waveform from that critical moment. "My God..." The professor took off his glasses and wiped his sweat. "How did you know, Mr. Chairman?"
"What is it?" Bartomeu's voice was hoarse.
"Paroxysmal Supraventricular Tachycardia triggered by a Concealed Accessory Pathway, with a risk of degenerating into Ventricular Fibrillation," the professor explained, pointing at the tiny peak. "It's like a'short-circuit wire' hidden in the heart's electrical circuitry. Normally, it's completely invisible. It only triggers under extreme fatigue, electrolyte imbalance, or high adrenaline secretion."
"What happens if it triggers?"
"If it happens during a match..." The professor made a gesture. "Cardiac arrest. Without defibrillation within three minutes, death."
A deathly silence fell. Doctor Pruna's legs went weak, and he steadied himself against the table. He was trembling with delayed fear. If not for this examination, if it had happened during the high-intensity match against Atlético Madrid in a few days... it would have been a death broadcast live to the entire world.
Bartomeu closed his eyes and let out a long, deep breath. He felt as if he too had just walked past the gates of the underworld. "Can it be treated?"
"Yes," Professor Brugada regained his professional composure. "It's a physical circuit fault. We just need to perform a minimally invasive Radiofrequency Ablation Procedure to 'burn' that extra 'wire'. The surgical risk is very low, with a 99% cure rate."
"But he'll need time."
"Then give him time," Bartomeu opened his eyes, his gaze resolute. "Even if it costs him this entire season, we must cure him."
[VIP Ward]
Eriksen sat by the bed, looking at the diagnostic report in his hands, his entire being petrified. The doctor's words still echoed in his ears: 'If you don't have the surgery, you're playing football with a bomb.'
The door opened. Bartomeu walked in, holding two cups of hot chocolate. He didn't say anything, just handed one cup to Eriksen and sat down opposite him.
"Chairman..." Eriksen looked up, his eyes reddening. "My career... is it over? I've seen the news. Many players with heart problems retire."
This kind of fear was devastating. For a 25-year-old player at the peak of his career, it was more terrifying than a broken leg.
"Over?" Bartomeu smiled, a reassuring smile. "On the contrary, Christian. Your career has just been saved."
"Professor Brugada said it's not an organic lesion, it's just a circuit problem. Once fixed, you'll only be stronger than before. Because you won't have to worry about that bomb anymore."
"But I heard the surgery takes a long time..."
"Minimally invasive surgery. Discharged in three days. Training resumed in four weeks. In six weeks, you'll be back at Camp Nou." Bartomeu patted his knee. "For these six weeks, you'll watch us play from the TV. Full salary, bonuses included."
"Why?" Eriksen's voice choked up. "Why did you insist I get this check-up? If it weren't for you..."
"Because you're family." Bartomeu stood up and gently hugged the Danish lad. "At Barça, we don't give up on family. Rest well. The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. I'll be waiting outside the whole time."
Leaving the ward, Bartomeu leaned against the corridor wall, feeling completely drained. He took out his phone and dialed Valverde's number.
"Ernesto, come to the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper. We need an emergency meeting." "About the squad list. We have a big problem."
[Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper Tactical Room]
Pre-Match squad list Briefing
This was no ordinary tactical meeting. The entire coaching staff, medical team, and core management were all present. The atmosphere was as oppressive as a funeral.
On the big screen, the complete injury and suspension list for Barça's first team was displayed. The string of red names was shocking.
Bartomeu sat at the head of the table, holding a pointer, his expression grave. "gentlemen, I know many of you are wondering why Eriksen suddenly went to the hospital. Now, I'll tell you the real situation."
Bartomeu pointed to the first name on the screen.
1. Christian Eriksen
Status: Long-term absence (estimated 6-8 weeks)
Reason: Abnormal cardiac conduction system (Concealed Accessory Pathway).
Explanation: "We found a ticking time bomb." Bartomeu briefly described the scare that morning. "Although surgery will cure it, he will miss a series of key upcoming battles, including the away games against Atlético Madrid, Athletic Bilbao, Sevilla, and Juventus. He is our 'brain'. Now the brain is offline."
The meeting room erupted in commotion. The assistant coaches looked at each other, filled with lingering fear.
Bartomeu tapped the blackboard and pointed to the second name.
2. Andrés Iniesta
Status: Injured (estimated 3-4 weeks)
Reason: Left soleus muscle strain.
Explanation: "A recurring old injury. Iniesta's muscles can hardly handle the intensity of two matches a week anymore. With Eriksen down, our second brain has also overloaded due to fatigue. This means—we've lost all our playmakers."
3. Luis Suárez
Status: Doubtful (playing through injury)
Reason: Fluid-filled cyst in the right knee.
Explanation: "Dr. Pruna's recommendation was immediate surgery, but that would cause Suárez to miss half the season. Luis refused. He chose conservative treatment for the World Cup. He can play, but his current explosive power and ability to change direction are only at 70% of his peak. He's no longer that striker who can single-handedly breach defenses."
4. Gerard Piqué
Status: Extremely poor mental state (not recommended to start)
Reason: Political and public opinion pressure.
Explanation: "Since the referendum day, Gerard gets booed by the entire stadium every time he touches the ball. It's hard for him to concentrate. Starting him in a hostile environment like the Wanda Metropolitano is too big a risk."
"This is our current situation." Bartomeu put down the pointer and looked at Valverde. "Ernesto, in two days we go to Madrid to face Simeone's iron-blooded army. No Iniesta, no Eriksen. Suárez is half-crippled. Piqué's mentality is shattered. Our midfield now only has Busquets, Rakitić, Paulinho, and that Gomes who's been booed for half a year."
Valverde rubbed his temples painfully. This was hellish difficulty. Against Atlético's meat grinder midfield, if no one can hold the ball, no one can make threatening passes, Barça would be strangled to death.
"Chairman, if we set up with the few we have now..." Valverde sketched on the tactical board, "Busquets, Rakitić, Paulinho... These three have enough toughness, but who will deliver the ammunition? If Messi drops back too deep, there's no one in the penalty area."
"Then don't deliver ammunition." Bartomeu suddenly spoke.
"What?"
"Since we have no 'brain', we'll grow 'muscle'." Bartomeu walked to the tactical board, picked up a pen, and wrote a name in the left midfield position that made everyone frown.
André Gomes.
"Gomes?" an assistant coach exclaimed. "He can't even control the ball at Camp Nou anymore!"
"That's a mentality problem, not an ability problem." Bartomeu stared at the name. "He's 1.88 meters tall, with top-tier physical attributes. What is Atlético best at? Close combat, set pieces, aerial bombardment."
"This weekend, I want you to field a 4-4-2 'Giant Formation'." Bartomeu drew the positions on the whiteboard:
Goalkeeper: Marc-André ter Stegen
Defenders: Semedo, Iñigo (replacing Piqué), Umtiti, Alba
Midfielders: Gomes (left), Paulinho (center), Busquets (center), Rakitić (right)
Forwards: Messi, Suárez (injured)
"Look at this midfield." Bartomeu pointed at the four. "Average height over 1.85 meters. All muscle men." "We'll use height to counter height, body to fight body. Since we can't make intricate through passes, we'll loft the ball into the box, let Paulinho and Gomes crash in, create chaos."
"Ernesto, tell the players." Bartomeu's gaze turned fierce. "For this match, I'm not asking for tiki-taka. I want survival. Even if we play like Stoke City (the Premier League's famous long-ball team), as long as we take points from the Wanda Metropolitano, it's a victory."
Valverde looked at the tactical board, silent for a long time. Finally, he nodded. "Understood, Chairman. Since there's no art, we'll fix bayonets."
[Surgery Day]
10 AM. The operating room light turned on. Bartomeu sat on a bench outside, holding a magazine he wasn't reading. Messi also came, bringing mate tea, sitting quietly beside him. Paulinho paced back and forth in the corridor, praying. The whole team was focused on this surgery.
Two hours later. Professor Brugada walked out of the operating room, removed his mask, revealing a tired but relieved smile. "Success." "That extra 'wire' has been cut. His heart is now perfect, like a Swiss watch."
Bartomeu stood up, his legs feeling a bit weak. He had not only changed the lineup for this match, but also changed a person's fate. The tragedy of that man collapsing during the European Cup in the previous timeline had completely vanished in this one.
"Thank you, Doctor." Bartomeu shook the professor's hand.
Then, he turned to the players behind him. "Did you hear? He's fine." "Now, it's your turn." Bartomeu's gaze sharpened. "Tomorrow, go to Madrid. Fight with Christian's share as well. Bring the victory back as his get-well gift."
"YES!!!" A unified, low roar echoed in the corridor. This depleted Barça squad, forged by this life-saving rescue, had coalesced an unprecedented team spirit.