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Chapter Text

Ferran doesn't remember how they ended up cuddling on Pedri's sofa, watching some subpar Marvel movie. After the last game of the La Liga season no one had energy to go out. Well, no one from the over-23-years-old part of the team which gradually became the majority in the latest years. He was sure the youngsters had been pulling each other out of dumpsters by this hour of the night. He did not fault them: the domestic treble still seemed huge for them. 

If he was being honest with himself, sometimes he missed the times when world domination wasn't the lowest standard set out for their group. Alas, in their first season since Flick decided to enjoy retirement (read: to coach his grandson's U-10 academy team back in Germany like they were facing PSG every week), they were out of Champions League in the quarterfinals. Their worst result in the last 6 years and the source of never-ending critical pieces on everything from Pedri's playmaking to the way Lamine tied his shoes. So, ridiculous as always. He knew they would come back stronger, he wanted to see Pedri lift the Champions League trophy for the third time, the World Cup and Euros trophies for the second time. He dreamt of revenge for the poorly officiated finale in the 28' Euros against France. There were numerous ideas of how they would make Chelsea of all teams regret the day they put Barcelona down 5:4 in that quarterfinal. Frankly, there were endless possibilities of how they could humiliate Real Madrid in El Clásico once again, especially after those fuckers took his knee out of its place at the start of the past season. 

Ferran came back after four months of rehabilitation, as he was sure he would. But having turned 30, it was not something that he could forget about and move on. Even now Ferran's leg laid on the coffee table stretched out while Pedri made a cute little pretzel out of himself on his chest. He looked lazily at the screen when Pedri giggled at something the characters had said. It was nice having his best friend relaxed for once. These past months it often felt as if the midfielder decided he had to have the whole world on his back all alone: refusing help, being more quiet, working more than he'd ever had (surprisingly still somehow possible). 

"Hey, would you notice if aliens replaced me with some other dude?" Ferran asked. Pedri hummed, burrowing closer into his chest and the blanket.

"Is this the worm thing all over again?" he asked.

"No, the worm thing is completely hypothetical. Aliens, though? It’s possible, it’s terrifying," his friend snorted, "Seriously, tío! Would you know?"

"Of course I would know. No alien could come close to replicating how annoying you are", Pedri pinched his arm to reiterate the point, "Nor your awful jokes, and definitely not your supernatural ability to score goals against the best teams in the world with the elegance of a half fried chicken."

"Hey! You just don't get my groove, Potter!" Ferran started tickling Pedri. For a while their limbs flew all over the place trying to get each other. 

"Stop! Stop! Ferri, madre mia, stop!" Pedri finally grabbed the striker's hands and put them at the sides of his head. Their chests heaved, Pedri now completely in Ferran's lap. Looking in Pedri's lovely eyes, Ferran was thinking for the millionth time in the latest years, 'Is this the moment?'

Then, Pedri quickly pulled off back to his seat, red tingling his ears. He picked up the blanket from the floor, made sure it covered Ferran's leg properly and laid down next to his best friend again. Not today then, that's okay. If there was one thing in the world Ferran could be patient about, it would be this. A couple of minutes passed in silence. 

"I would totally notice if some aliens took you," Ferran said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Like... immediately," Pedri looked up again expecting Ferran's little smirk but he was looking at the screen with such determination that the Canarian felt something flutter inside.

"I... know. Would you go on a rescue mission?"

"Sure. I'd take Gavi with me though, his fury would be enough to take an intergalactic empire down," they laughed a little, remembering how their friend got a red card for accidentally (or so the man himself insisted) biting a Getafe player in the game before the last one. Thank God, they had already won the liga title at that point. 

"No alien in the whole universe could play football like you," there was a pause, Ferran's eyes drooping, "Or laugh like you, or be kind like you, or be my best friend like you."

"You can't know for sure, what if intergalactic football is like crazy good?" 

"Nah, you'd beat aliens' asses," when Pedri smiled up at Ferran, the man was asleep.

* * * 

The offseason went swiftly. Between going back home to Valencia and spending some time with friends in Greece it felt like no time had passed at all before they had to start preseason training once again. His trip to Tenerife was cancelled at the last moment because Fer's wife went into labour a week early and he decided it's best the González family could spend all their time fussing over the newborn and its mom, instead of entertaining a guest. Even though Rosy said he would still be welcomed as always.

Ferran would lie if he said he wasn't excited to start the season. Even though his leg was a bitch lately, he felt like there was nothing he couldn't achieve as long as he had his squad, Pedri and the Camp Nou crowd behind him. He woke up 30 minutes earlier than usual to do some stretching in the home gym. Looking in the mirror he saw his usual self: very short hair (for convenience, not because anyone around him preferred it, no) which also covered some unwanted grey on his sideburns, a bit of a longer stubble than in his past years and the laugh lines around his eyes just a bit more prominent. A sign of a life well enjoyed, if you asked him. It was a good day to start a new journey. 

No one to pick him up today as Pedri had some business with the front office prior to the session. He was fresh off of signing a new multi-year contract so it made sense Laporta, Deco and Marcelino, their new manager, wanted to talk with him. Especially with Rafa leaving for Italy, it was unanimously expected that Pedri would be chosen to be the new first captain. The only right choice in Ferran's opinion too. He couldn't wait to hear all the gossip Laporta would undoubtedly share with Pedri. Sometimes Ferran didn't understand how this guy could be so politically tactical but then be the most chatty guy around when it comes to spilling other people's business. Duality of a man, indeed. 

On his way to the Ciutat Esportiva he thought of what role fits and changes could be expected this season. Despite all the hate, Ferran managed to become the starting 9 under Flick. When Lewa decided it was time to go, Laporta made everyone wait for Álvarez and then didn't actually have money to sign him. Who would have thought. Then for a couple of years every season they would get some smaller name for good money, culers would be excited and then... Then Ferran worked his ass off while the other ones just did not stick and by the end of the season he would start. They won both of their Champions League titles with him as a starter. He would not pretend as if having guys like Lamine, Rafa and Rashy (who they had the brains to sign) didn't help. But he proved himself alright too.

At some point Flick had put his foot down: If you can't provide a superstar striker, then find some talented youngsters for him to develop and spend the money on high line monsters. That's how they got Alejandro, a great kid who over the last few years had proved to be exceptional in spacing. Ferran was really proud of him. He wouldn't be surprised if this year their roles would be more equal than before. Ferran didn't mind. He still had some good years left in him but the future of the team was bright and he expected the slow transition to happen over the next few years. In the end of the day their careers were awfully short and guys like LeBron and Curry proved that longevity wasn’t just hard work and talent but also being able to adapt to what the team needed most. Moreover, he knew from back when he was a teenager what kind of strikers Marcelino liked and Alejandro fit that image better than him more and more. 

Pedri wasn't there for their morning ice tub but Ferran thought he'd let it slide for the first day. He still had the whole season of Pepi's grumpy cold faces to laugh at. He started the routine with the guys exchanging what they did during the summer. Gavi made Ana and Fermín go to Antarctica with him, it went as well as you would expect. Eric's daughter walked for the first time. JKey had his first collection presented at the Paris Fashion Week. Joan picked up paddle and threatened to beat the whole team's asses in the tournament. Frankie's wife was pregnant again and the guys had a bet on whether they'd have another “21” baby. Balde and Lamine tried real hard to look like they didn't spend the whole summer break running after their girlfriends like lost puppies instead of partying. Marcus helped with a campaign advocating for a more stable child care law in England. Cuba and Bernal went to the USA for the first time on their own and refused to talk about their time in Vegas. Alejandro was talking about the new recipes he had prepared for FIFA nights when Pedri and Marcelino turned up on the pitch. 

Ferran could tell something was up just by how Pedri walked, his eyes down, jaw a bit open as if he was biting his tongue. He hugged the guys and some of the training stuff and went to stand near Ferran in line for the next exercise. The striker knew that Marcelino was annoyed when players shared information from one-on-one meetings but they were Ferran and Pedri. It was a basic assumption that if you told something to one of them, the other would know all about it by the end of the day, if not the hour. Still, Ferran knew he had to be subtle.

"Everything alright, captain?" he asked close to Pedri's ear.

"Huh?" his friend winced a bit, "Oh yeah, top tier."

Before Ferran could make fun of him for the weird word choice, the midfielder started the exercise and ran forward. Weird. Pedri had his moods though, so he wasn't too nervous. After almost ten years of finishing each other's thoughts he knew that one had to be a bit patient with Pedri and he would share whatever's on his mind when he felt more calm. However, for the rest of the day Ferran still didn't have a chance to exchange more than a couple of phrases with Pedri while in a group. If he didn't know better, he would think Pedri was avoiding him. 

* * *

They went to Asia for the preseason tour once again. Pedri was indeed the new captain. Ferran's leg wasn't giving him as much trouble as he feared even though he had to be more intentional when pressing. After a bit more weirdness Pedri kind of came back to normal even though he never really told Ferran what that meeting was about and spaced out more.

The Valencian had his guess though. Being a leader had always been tougher for Pedri than one could assume. He cared deeply for everyone in the team and supported those of them who needed it. Always there in hospitals, checking up on the training process, keeping the morale strong. That's his Pedri. But at the same time his hermano had a tendency of overthinking his every word and action when it came to being tough with the teammates and saying things that might not be nice but necessary. Flick (and Lamine's teenage days) prepared him well for it but this season was the first time he didn't have Araujo or Raphinha there too. Frenkie and Lamine were great in their place in the locker room but it was clear that even they turned their heads in Pedri's direction in tough moments. 

Ferran was sure Pedri would be great as captain and thought the dinner they were having at Ferran's that evening was the perfect opportunity to reassure him. It was obvious that he wanted to talk about something too. Pedri was the biggest food fan he knew, that's why he took Alejandro under his wing as soon as the kid turned up to the first team meeting with a set of healthy homemade treats. But now, just like before any big game, he was looking at his perfectly fine food as if it offended his whole family. 

"Tío, if you are done sulking, can you just spill? What's up with you?" Ferran asked, having almost finished his own plate. 

"It's all fine. Well, I think that it's going to be fine, you know, for everyone, the team and well... the team," he started off well but by the end of the phrase it was barely audible. Ferran cocked his head to the side. 

But when he was about to say something, his phone rang. 

"Huh, Ruphus is calling," Ferran picked up. He didn't notice Pedri going pale. "Buenas noches, amigo. Cómo está?" 

Silence stretched as Ferran listened to the carefully chosen words of his manager. It felt like the whole world fell away from him, eyes fixed on the plate as a nightmare he hadn't had in years crawled into his kitchen. 

"Si, I understand. I'll process and call you back, okay?" A pause. "Don't worry, Pedri is here, I'll be alright".

It felt like someone stole all the air from the room. God, he should have known life is never this kind to him. He suddenly remembered his grandma wiping his tears away when his parents announced they were getting divorced. She was trying to cheer him up and make it seem like anything other than the end of the world. She said: “Isn’t life exciting? Everything can change all of a sudden, and for no reason at all!”

He thought it was weird back then. But now he knew his gran lived had gone through more than enough life altering things in her time. When life suddenly spat you out on the concrete, you'd suffocate if you were trying to find reason for your suffering. And yet, while his mind was circling back to Ruphus' words again and again, he really didn't have it in him to breathe. 

"Ferri? Please, breathe, you are scaring me!" Pedri's hand was suddenly on his. Ferran looked up and saw his favourite eyes, huge and concerned. He let some air in, "What happened?"

"I... They loaned the last year of my contract out. To Valencia," he zoned out again. Next thing he felt was Pepi´s hands on his shoulder, his stomach against his head. Pedri said something next but Ferran didn't hear, "They just threw me away after years with this team! Just put it as a fact, no choice or headstart. Like I never even deserved that. Fuck."

"Please, breathe. Do you want water? I'll go get water!" 

"No, no, no! Stay right here. I'll go crazy without you right now."

"Okay, I am not going anywhere, Ferri." 

Ferran felt like he was hit with a second bullet. Because Pedri wasn´t going anywhere. No, it was Ferran who wasn't good enough to stay near him. A sob fought its way out. 

* * *

In the next two hours he had an emergency call with his therapist, two more calls with his representatives. A call from Deco which felt as apologetic as Messi making fun of goalkeepers. A call from the new owner of Valencia where he surprisingly wasn't asked to pretend to be happy. A call with his dad. Then with his mom. Dozens of messages from friends and teammates, current and ex. Even Sira left a message. He didn't open any of them. 

Pedri was quiet. They moved to the living room and while Ferran was walking in circles speaking on the phone, Pedri just sat there. Gifting his good-for-nothing friend the reassurance and strength to go through all of this. When the room was finally silent again, Ferran looked closely at him. It seemed like someone shot his dog. Well, in a way that's what happened. 

"Fuck, I am sorry, I didn't even ask how you feel, Pepi," Ferran sat down in front of the Canarian. "Hey, I know this sucks but you and me? Nothing can change that, you know this, right? I'll call everyday, I'll make sure Gavi and Fermín bother you on every training the same way I did. Hell, we'll still have international breaks together, right? They wouldn't take me out of the team, I might be spoiled goods but we haven't got more decent strikers for shit." 

"You are not spoiled goods," Pedri looked in his eyes, "Maybe it will be even better for you there? You know, full minutes and your city..."

"Pepi, that's not... Yeah, maybe you are right," he tried to reassure his friend, taking him into his arms, "I'll miss you terribly though".

"I'll miss you too". 

* * *

Before he knew it, he was back in Valencia, in a house he bought for his dad. Everything felt surreal like he just stepped out of the room and ended up in a universe that went to shit. In the last couple of days Ferran tried to put a brave face on. Yes, the club he thought was his family threw him away and, as it turned out, brought Haaland in as his replacement. Realistically, that sucks as much as things in general can suck. But he was aware football was a rough business. He knew who he was and if God, his whole life before that and Pedri taught him anything about falling to the bottom of the pit, it was that Ferran Torres always got back up and made everyone eat their words. That's what he decided he would do. Unfortunately, rationally deciding he was over it didn't mean his heart truly believed it too. His therapist said the only thing that could fix that was time. Well, he thought time sucked. 

Time sucked because his years in Barcelona ended before he could even realise it. Time sucked because it felt like he would never have a chance to almost kiss his best friend again. Time sucked because a couple of days ago he was one of the best football players in the world, no matter what people wrote on the Internet, and now he was back to square zero, in his childhood club that felt too small for his potential back when he was 19. Suddenly someone decided it was exactly the place for him now. Time sucked because apart from a couple of texts he didn't talk with Pedri for the longest time he could remember. 

Yet, there were some positives too. Valencia C.F. was bought out by an actually competent businessman who worked really hard to bring it back to its past glory. The work on the new stadium resumed, new executives and manager were brought in, the local academy brought back to life too. The team even ended up in the first half of the standings last year. Of course, he followed everything that was happening but never in a million years did it enter his mind that he could be back in a Valencia shirt. There was something sweet about it. 

Even though the local media was still a pain in the ass. They had already printed out papers that screamed from the first page: 'THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON', 'EL TIBURON IS BACK IN OUR PORT BUT DO WE WANT HIM HERE?', 'LIMPING BACK HOME ON ONE LEG'. Marcus sent him his favourite insulting headlines from the Manchester press as a sign of support. It did help a little. 

He went to his introductory press conference in good spirits. No question about Barca made him slip, he was genuinely excited to help out his home team and, above all, prove everyone wrong once again. He did notice, however, that closer to the end of the conference journalists started to stare in their phones looking dumbfounded. His publicist was doing something animated with his arms but Ferran couldn't figure it out. Then, when he finished answering a question about what he'd missed most about home, Vecencio Vega, a journalist he remembered very well and not very fondly, asked the question: 

"Ferran, welcome back! MARCA has just come out with an article stating that it has information from several reliable sources that Pedri González advocated for your loan and purchase of Haaland going as far as calling the striker himself and asking him to team up with him in Barca before the announcement of your loan. How would you comment on that? Did you know about this? How is your friendship affected by this? I know I wouldn't be happy," Ferran looked at his publicist who seemed apologetic. And laughed. 

"This is the funniest thing I've heard in the last few days, man. I would sooner believe that aliens abducted him than that Pedri would do something like this. He is my best friend, he would never go behind my back. If he felt I wasn't what Barca needed, he would definitely talk to me. He was there when I learnt about the loan and, believe me, he was as surprised as I was. These are nothing but baseless accusations," Ferran talked with such conviction as if he was stating that 2+2 was 4.

The journalists who started this press conference like they were the sharks and he their prey, now looked at him with pity. No one had any more questions. Ferran felt it was silly. He spent some more time with the team coach before going back to his house but kept finding those weird glances. 

Absolutely ridiculous. He couldn't wait to call Pepi and laugh about the media going with the most unrealistic narrative they could come up with. If there was one constant in his life, it was Pedri. His best friend who was always on his side, whose laughter was bigger than the world and who, for years now, shared an unspoken understanding with him on what they could be one day when cameras would not be as interested in them and there were no more goals left to score. 

His phone lit up with Pedri’s name. He didn’t hesitate for a second.

Chapter Text

A couple of days had passed since Ferran left for Valencia but he still couldn't get used to his friend's absence. On the first day he was almost late to training because he stopped his car by the entrance of Ferran's house and waited for him to come out. Pedri felt stupid. 

Then, when he got to the locker room the whole team looked at him cautiously asking how he was and if he was sure there were no more details to the abrupt loan than what they had been told by Deco. He explained to them that sure, it sucked to lose Ferran but their team was strong and it would work out in the end, he even put on a reassuring smile. No one seemed convinced, doubling down on questions about his personal well-being. 

Pedri felt annoyed. He wasn't some baby that needed coddling, he was their captain. He walked out on the pitch and looked back because his left felt too exposed. But there was nobody there apart from Gavi and Eric a couple of steps back who thought they were subtle in their whispering: "How is this guy always so aware?!" 

Thankfully he didn´t have to pair up with either of them for exercises as Alejandro asked to examine his form. Pedri felt grateful that the kid, who was still only nineteen, decided to shield him from all the questions and didn't ask any of his own. Yet, Pedri knew how it felt when sudden moves happened while you were young and expected to perform. So when they had a break in repetitions he sat down next to him on the ground.

"Hey, don't worry. Don't tell anyone but I heard the club is preparing a big signing," he looked reassuringly at the Brazilian.  

"Oh... that's great," the boy said not very convincingly, "I kind of expected that. It's just that..."

"What is it, angelito?" The striker's ears reddened, his blotchy attempt at a beard not covering up the blush.

"It's too quiet without Ferran. And, well, he taught me so much and any time I had a question he was always there with an answer, sometimes even before I figured out there was an issue in the first place," he toyed with the elastic band, "Don't get me wrong, everyone in the team is great but I just... I don't know." 

"I understand, hermanito. I felt so lost when Messi left. Not like Ferran is Leo but you get the idea. Losing your mentors is part of growing up, you know."

"Like Peter Parker," Alejandro nodded, not looking up.

"Huh, well, kinda of. But it's a bit better because you still have the whole team around you. I am sure Marcus would help you out too. It's important to learn from different people. And it's not like anybody shot Ferran in an alley, you can always call him."

"I don't want to bother him, he's got a lot on his plate already. It must hurt a lot to be... well, what's the polite word? Be left aboard?" Pedri smiled at him. Such a good kid they had. 

"It's overboard, bebé. Ferran is very strong, he can handle it. You, however, have the advantage of youth and baby fat on your face. Nobody can fault you for looking for support and nobody is able to say no to those big sad eyes of yours," Pedri ruffled his brown hair, "Ferri would still be happy to help you, believe me."

"Okay. Thank you, Pedri," the new exercise was starting, "Please tell him I said hi."

"Of course."

It felt good to reassure Alejandro. In all of his own worry for the season ahead he hadn’t realized that he wouldn't be the only one affected by Ferran going away. It struck him for the first time that Ferran grew into his own role as a leader, his stable support and lighthearted comfort treasured by many in the team. The time flew by so quickly he didn't notice how the boy that had charmed him on the beach of Valencia grew into this glorious gladiator fighting on the last grains of his prime. God, Alejandro was the same age Ferran was when they met, talk about feeling old.

* * *

As planned, Barca broke the news on Haaland's acquisition in principle late in the evening so everything was going according to plan. Pedri had arrived at his management's office the next morning for a meeting on his new big campaign with Adidas. Their management firm grew over the years so now there was a whole PR and Marketing department representing him. They'd worked with Adidas for years now but this next stage of his career had everyone buzzing with excitement. Over the summer they developed several concepts on the directions to take for his image. When he was younger, talks about perception made him feel uneasy. Back then he thought that his game spoke for itself. Now, after being slandered in the media for the way his defenders were unfocused, his strikers - inexcusable, he knew that an athlete like him was required to control not just the pitch but public opinion too. He was not a showbiz guy like Lamine who had to explain to numerous streaming companies and studios that he still had football to play before becoming the star of their shows. Yet, Pedri's image of an elegant magician who dictated the flow of any game was still highly marketable. At the same time his team pushed for progression. Laura, head of Marketing, put it like this: "Everyone loves Harry Potter, you know. But he can't be the Boy-Who-Lived for the rest of his life, it's important he takes the Wizarding World in his hands and becomes the Head Auror. You see what I mean?"

He guessed she was right even though Ferran didn't like the reference as he pointed out on their way home later that day: "It never made sense to me that this guy who hates authority becomes a fucking cop. He should be teaching kids at Hogwarts where his home is!" Pedri didn't argue but he didn't feel like peaking at 17 and retreating to be a teacher for the rest of your life was very promising or fair to the guy.

They would be launching his signature boots this year, stepping away from the Predators. He loved the model and colourways they came up with. Simple but clean: Tenerife white, blue and yellow; a full plátana yellow with proceeds going to 'The Hunger Project'; and neon blue and red with sparks-like design on the heels. A whole media programme was lined up with appearances on biggest spanish-speaking shows, sports and lifestyle journals. Pedri 2.0. as they called the project was all about his unwavering discipline, lethal precision and his puppeteer role. Gone was the little Mago, behold El NecromancerTM. A nickname one of the Arabic commentators gave him during their Copa del Rey final against Real Madrid where they came back from 0:2 despite being dead on their feet in the first half. Pedri thought it was a little cheesy but Ferran said that necromancer sounded hot and he came around. El Necromancer fit in nicely with the Black Mamba, the Red Baron and El Ilusionista, the marketing presentation stated. 

The meeting was mainly dedicated to polishing out the last details on his talking points and schedule. They spoke briefly on how to handle any questions about Ferran's loan (politely redirect attention back to the team and his goals this season while wishing Torres success and excitement over playing together on the national team). Then they quickly moved on to other things as Ruphus had given everyone a headstart on the fact that the wound was still fresh. 

Halfway through the meeting he noticed Riá, the girl responsible for coordinating their charity projects and involving sponsors into those activities, looking at her phone. He never judged other people for slacking off in these meetings plus her contribution was already discussed and limited. Yet, the quizzical look on her face combined with her glancing at the phone and then back at him was alarming, especially because she was composed as hell if Ferran wasn't around to make her laugh at some stupid word play. He couldn't explain the feeling, when she was working with him one-on-one they got on marvelously, they were around the same age and he respected her for the quiet determination to make the world a better place. But the second she looked up at Ferran he felt inexplicable annoyance. 

"Laura, sorry to interrupt you but I think we suddenly have a big problem on our hands," she said, coming up to the laptop and projecting a website page on the wall, "Dude, since when do MARCA do defamation so openly?"

The page read: "BREAKING! Pedri campaigned for Ferran Torres' loan, Haaland acquisition behind the scenes, reliable sources confirm." 

Pedri's blood ran cold. He looked up at Ruphus who appeared as caught off guard as Pedri felt. The pause lasted a second too long. The Adidas people shifting uncomfortably in their seats, one of his publicists texting something with her phone at light speed. 

"No fucking way, no, you didn't!" Riá said, piercing him with her eyes, "What did he do?"

"Riá, this is not the best setting or time, don't you think?" Laura admonished.

"Right, sorry," the younger woman returned to her seat but her eyes never left Pedri's. He suddenly felt ashamed even though he knew he was in the right. He looked the other way. 

"Should we reschedule so you guys can manage this?" one of the Adidas representatives asked. Pedri locked eyes with Laura but she did not seem as freaked out as he would've thought the head of PR would be in the situation where the whole launch was in danger of not happening.

"No, don't worry about it. It doesn't really change anything for us," Laura said, Pedri didn't like that he shared the confused look with Riá, "This is exactly the kind of leadership and striving for perfection we've talked about for Pedri 2.0. Being able to make tough decisions on and off the pitch is the price for greatness. Don't you think this amplifies our storytelling for El Necromancer?" 

She looked triumphantly at the Adidas people nodding, his publicist put her phone away. 

"If anything, we are getting additional exposure for the roll out. So much so that at least for the first three media comments we can pick and choose who to speak with and not pay them a cent for the boot mention! This is great!"

Riá didn't look convinced, just as Pedri wasn't. Marketing went on about the later steps in the campaign for several minutes. Suddenly a phone slid to him over the table. 

"Levante EMV: Ferran Torres dismisses Pedri's involvement in his loan: I would sooner believe aliens abducted him."

Pedri's chest hurt. He remembered the warm ambience of Ferran's chest under his cheek, the TV reflecting off of Ferran's determined brown-grey eyes. "No alien could be my best friend like you." As he lifted his head back up, Riá's gaze turned accusing. Again he felt annoyance mix with shame. He slid the phone back. He didn't have to explain himself to anyone, not least to the people who didn't know how professional sports worked and the competitive level required for a team to succeed. His own phone vibrated in his pocket, Fer's picture on the screen. He declined the call, texted a short "on a meeting, will call later". 

This was far from ideal but the last thing he wanted right now, apart from having to talk with Ferran, was explaining everything to his brother. Around 9 months ago, after Valentina had entered her second trimester of pregnancy, Fer stepped away from his management role and dedicated himself to caring for his wife and their kid. Pedri was incredibly happy to see the family grow and he was pretty much the biggest fan of Valentina since the start. As much as Fer had supported him in the first chapter of his career, it was time to allow him to enjoy family life without endless travels and meetings on his behalf. Pedri was a grown man now, he could handle it just fine. He was handling it just fine. 

Everything that he had done lately was in the interest of Barca. He spent most of the summer break reflecting on the kind of leadership needed from him after hours-long conversations with Marcelino. He also cared deeply for Ferran and if there was one thing he knew about Ferran, it was that he did not deserve to get stuck to the bench and fade away slowly. Barca demanded everything from you, mes que un club. But he could see that Ferran's best just wouldn't be enough anymore for the length of the whole season with the World Championship waiting for them in June. Pedri still had nightmares about the equalizer Ferran missed on the 88th minute of the Chelsea game because the ball went to his bad leg first. It just wasn't sustainable anymore. 

On the other hand, Valencia's low pressure, rebuilding phase and fighting spirit could give Ferran a fitting environment to finish his career as a home hero, not hated by culers for his decay. He knew that Ferran wouldn't be happy about it at first, how could he not? But at the end of the day it would be better for both of them. That's what he thought and what Ruphus agreed was true too when he came to him to explain the situation shortly before everything went down. 

He did not believe for a second that Fer would be happy with his reasoning. 

* * *

The problem lied in the fact that everything shouldn't have happened so quickly. He was approached by the management on the first day of training camp. He felt elated when they told him City and Haaland didn't agree on some things anymore and a transfer was on the cards. However, Deco pointed out they did not have enough money for it and had to act swiftly to get some space under the cap. That was understandable even if he never liked saying goodbye to teammates. Then Marcelino said Ferran was the most viable option looking at him meaningfully. 

The knee-jerk reaction was to say no. But they'd discussed how much role fits and efficiency meant for this Barca. They'd discussed how crucial spacing and consistent pressing against tough teams were. In the end, he said it was their decision but he would be happy to help get Haaland if they needed him. 

Two weeks later, while they were in Japan, he called Erling and asked him to choose Barcelona using his broken English. The Norwegian laughed and said it would be a pleasure to share the pitch with him but did Barca even have the resources? Pedri said they could make space for the best striker in the world.

Then, before he knew it, Deco said that everything was lined up for the loan. Pedri asked to wait for the next day so he could speak with Ferran first. He didn't realise they meant the deal was literally made, papers signed. Ruphus told him he found new respect for Pedri and they would still take care of Ferran if things went south between them. Pedri was sure he had more time to talk Ferran through this, to show him reason. They could never stay cross with each for long, this wouldn't be an exception. 

In the end, he didn't even have the guts to tell him he had known about it before the call. Turned out they couldn't wait because someone had leaked the news to the press. It hurt to see his best friend in pain and no matter how rational the loan was he had a nagging feeling this would change things. Pedri knew no success ever came without sacrifices, that there was no space for feelings in pro sports. It would be for the better, he thought like a mantra while sitting on Ferran's sofa and any time the Valencian entered his mind since that. 

Especially now, alone in Ruphus' office with his finger hovering over Ferran's name on the screen, it was the only thought he allowed himself. He called.

"Hi?" his hands were sweaty as if it was his trial out for Real all over again.

"Hey, Pepi! I am so glad to hear you!" Ferran's voice echoed from the phone. God, he missed him so much, "Did you see that nonsense from MARCA already? I laughed right at the press conference. Isn't it ridiculous?"

"I... Ferran, I am sorry," he stood up from the chair, walking around Ruphus' new expensive mahogany table. 

"Ah, don't worry. You've got nothing to be sorry about, you don't control the press," Ferran was still cheerful. He didn't get it yet. Pedri's breath hitched. Just like a band aid, c'mon.

"I knew about the loan. I helped recruit Haaland," There. It was said. His nape glistened with sweat that wasn't there a minute ago. A small pause. Ferran chuckled. 

"Yeah, sure. Pepi, don't fuck with me. Did Laporta set you up to make the club's decision look better to the fans? You don't have to take respo…" 

Why did it have to be so difficult to get through to him? How the hell was Ferran so dumb? Why did he have so much faith in him?

"Ferran, no, listen to me. They asked for my opinion and I said we should go for Haaland. You were our best option to get some cash," Hell, this is as clear as he can be. He had his hand in a fist, nails applying pressure to the soft skin. It's for the better, he'll get it now, "You should understand it's what's best for the team."

"I don't believe you," Ferran said after another pause. He sounded more uncertain. Good, that was good, "Pepi, this is ridiculous, why would they even include you in the talks in the first place? It's a clear conflict of interest!"

"There was no conflict," Pedri suddenly felt annoyed at Ferran. He was captain, he could separate work and personal life, his voice mattered to the club, "I believe it was time for you to leave Barcelona too."

There was silence on the other side, no movement. It was like Ferran wasn't even breathing. Did he finally get it? Pedri didn't understand why there were tears collecting in his eyes. He was telling the truth. Wasn't it supposed to be easy and pleasant?

"Think about it, Ferri. You are not the same, it's okay that time takes its toll. Do you really want to fizzle out and be sent away to Saudi?" Pedri didn't want that fate for him. Hell, why was Ferran so naive in the first place? He was a grown man, "They wouldn't have renewed your contract, you should know it."

"I would have taken a cut and go full Szczęsny if I fucking had to, Pedri. I would have gladly fucking fizzled out in Barca, playing with you and our guys. What the hell are you talking about?" He never heard Ferran this angry. Not even in their biggest losses, never at him, not like this. It didn't feel right, "Did Marcelino get this in your head?"

"First of all, I can have my own opinions, stop trying to make me out to be so easily manipulated," There were too many emotions at once fighting in him. But the indignation at being seen as some obedient pawn for the second time in this conversation pushed his own anger to the surface, "Secondly, Tek could still deliver somewhat, the fuck would you do come April when we have a game every other day and all of them big?!"

"So what, you've just decided I am done?" 

How is he so infuriating? Couldn't he see the truth? He might be okay now but it wouldn't last. 

"Nobody said you were done! Listen to me, Valencia has fewer games and a very young roster. They'll cover for your pressing and speed and you'll help them grow the team while being a starter for several more years. It's a win-win! Please, think with your brain right now," here, words perfectly delivered just like he had practiced back before that stupid dinner. He chewed on his nail looking quizzically at the indents in his hand. Huh, he didn't notice doing that. 

"Well, it's clear you had an awful lot of time to think this through while you were lying to my face for weeks. When did you decide I am no good for you anymore?" 

This was not going as planned. Why did Ferran have to be so dramatic? 

"Ferran, c'mon, try to make sense of my words, be a man!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Pedri winced but he was not giving up yet, "Were you a man when you had no balls to tell the truth to my face? God, I was so worried about you and you just sat there enjoying the show, didn't you?"

"I was not enjoying anything! How can you say that?" He felt completely out of control. Why did Ferran always make him a mess? "If you would stop coddling me, maybe you would have noticed I am the captain now, I can't spend my season looking after your useless ass, I... we have the Champions League to win!"

No, no, no. That's not what Pedri wanted to say. 

"My useless ass?" Ferran sounded out of breath, like someone slapped it all out of him. He fucked up.

"You know I didn't mean it like that..." Pedri said quietly, hoping to cool them both down.

"No, you meant it, stop pretending like this is about anything other than your own ambitions! It didn't cross your mind to speak with me about this before you signed off on throwing my oh so useless ass out, did it? It's clear why, stop with this bullshit. Did you ever even care about me? Or was I just there for entertainment until you've decided to be a big boy?" 

"Fuck you, you know I care..." 

Why did it hurt so much, they were just words! Ferran was too emotional, it wasn't true. He put his hand through his sweaty hair. 

"How would I know? I don't have any reason to believe that, Pedri. You've fucked it all up, put a dagger in my back and for what?! Little magician wants a third CL, huh? Nothing is good enough until you have your very own Ballon D'or to jerk off to? Well, it's nice to know my worth to you. I can't believe you are the man who I lo... who is supposed to be my best friend. I am so disappointed in you." 

By the end of Ferran's speech his vision blurred, air coming in but not out. He sat down on the floor, head to the cool table. He took a deep breath: 5 seconds going up, 5 seconds holding, 5 seconds breathing out, holding. Like Ferran taught him. He heard quick breaths from the phone.

"Ferran, I know you are angry right now but sports require sacrifices. You should understand me," he tried for the last time tiredly. 

"Shit, who are you? You can't be him, this is stupid. Pedri would never make others pay for his success, you don't go about life like this." 

Jesus, why did his chest hurt so much? Like something was chewing its way through his bones and organs from within. He couldn't do this anymore.

"I am sorry. Call me when you are ready to see the full picture."

He hung up. Ferran's accusations kept ringing in his head. 

"Fuck you, I didn't betray you. I did not," Pedri pressed his hands into his eyes trying to stop the tears. Not once had he called his actions a betrayal before this call. Nobody who knew had. He thought through how this was good for Ferran. Then why the fuck did it still feel like he betrayed his best friend?

* * *

The next day he woke up with his head still hurting. There was another message from Fer with a link attached. It led to a video of Ferran coming out of his house in Valencia in the evening, sunglasses on even though the sun had set. 

"Ferran, have you talked with Pedri since the news broke?" a journalist yelled. Ferran stopped in front of the cameras. 

"Yeah, I have. Intergalactic football must be nuts if they were able to swap in some random alien for my best friend. If someone is organising rescue missions, contact me, please. Be careful, there must be more of them among us."

"So does this mean..." someone else tried to ask.

"This discussion is over, I am not answering anything about P... him again, today or in the future. Please, vacate my driveway, next time somebody shows up I will have to call the police."

He got into his car and drew off. Pedri had no reaction, just regret pooling at his stomach. He read Fer's message. 

"Explain yourself." 

Shit.

Chapter Text

"Shit, who are you? You can't be him, this is stupid. Pedri would never make others pay for his success, you don't go about life like this." 

"I am sorry. Call me when you are ready to see the full picture."

Pedri hung up on him. Ferran did not move, remaining still on the sofa. This felt like a bad dream, the kind you would have when the temperature was too high, throat painfully sore, his mind playing tricks on his heart. He took a coin out of his pocket and spun it on the coffee table. It fell down. He pinched his arm. It hurt but nothing happened. He looked for anything out of place: a window view or a wall colour wrong. Nothing. He counted his fingers from left to right and the other way round. Still ten. He felt a tear sliding down his cheek. 

How could it be real? He slid his hands through the short hair. Another few minutes passed in silence, only the sound of the refrigerator humming in the back. Suddenly a slap reverberated through the house. 

"Why the hell am I not waking up?" he whispered, "When did I become useless?"

Slapping himself didn't hurt as much as repeating the word out loud. He took his phone, going straight to messages. He missed his therapist's name even though she said he was welcome to reach out any time. Instead he opened his chat with Eric and quickly tapped in a message. Deleted it. Tapped again. Deleted. God, what if everyone in the team wanted him out a long time ago? If Pedri was so done with him, all of them probably were. Their messages and calls – nothing more than polite decorum. God, it hurt. 

But... What if he misread the situation? Pepi was the kindest person he knew. The best one, the one he thanked God for in every prayer. Maybe he shouldn't have screamed at him. Ferran didn't even believe all the bullshit he spat at his best friend. Pedri was not the kind of person to demand changes in the roster, he didn't give a shit about Ballon D'or, always the first one to cheer him up after falling short in competition. He would never mistreat his family. All these years by his side, through wins and losses, family vacations and tired evenings at each others' places. Ferran still remembered the day they were dreaming about their lives post football. How Pedri was so sure to include Ferran in all of his plans. 'So you won't stop calling as soon as I am not your teammate anymore?' Pedri looked at him for a second, his face annoyed like Ferran said something stupid. When he had realized Ferran was serious, he replied shyly but not looking away, 'Ferri, you are family. I start missing you if I don't see you or hear from you even for a day. Don't ever question that'. Where was that boy now? 

Maybe the front office did pressure Pedri to go after Haaland but lying about the loan made no sense. Were they going to send him somewhere much worse that Valencia and Pedri bargained for him? No, he would have talked this through with their agents. With Ferran, for fuck's sake. The way Pedri described it during the call, you would have thought the striker got marbles up his head instead of brains. If Pedri couldn't give him a choice in this, couldn't he have at least given him the grace of knowing his fate beforehand? In the end of the day, it was Ferran's career he was signing off on. It was cruel. Unlike him at all. 

Objectively speaking, going after Haaland was not a crime. Any big team on the market was going after him. Hell, he himself would have loved to play with the guy. He'd know for years that Pedri was curious to team up too. Ferran's own limitations in talent and efficiency weren't a secret to the man. He worked harder than anyone to get better than others but there were some extremely special players in sports, the guys that just had 'It'. Haaland was that, Ferran wasn't. No hard feelings. He would've been elated to learn some stuff from the Norwegian. Pedri calling him to join the team did not hurt. It wasn't that. 

It wasn't even going behind his back that hurt the most. But Pedri's words, thought through and so matter-of-fact, still rang in his ears like when one tried to fall asleep, drunk, after a loud party. Small parts of conversation zipping around his head: useless, time takes takes its tall, I believe it was time for you to leave, useless ass, fuck would you do, you should understand, wouldn't resign, at least he could still deliever somewhat, be a man, see the whole picture, best for the team, fizzle out, useless, useless, useless...

He couldn't breathe again and it felt like a dam of tears welling in his eyes just refused to break. If Pedri thought he was useless, he must have truly become that. He scored several goals in the preseason games but they must have expected much more. Pedri must have expected more. When did he become a weak link in the team? Yes, he missed one of the last chances they had in the CL game against Chelsea but he scored a brace in that same match. It sucked but Pedri didn't score the last big opportunity they had and it reminded Ferran that sometimes things just didn't go your way. They all had a long conversation after the loss and agreed they will come back stronger next year. Maybe when Marcus hugged him tightly and said 'We'll get them back, don't even worry', he meant that they would get him without Ferran? But if they knew back then, it made no sense that he didn't even get an opportunity to say goodbye after almost a decade in Barcelona. 

Was he a burden to Pedri? 

Not until lately for sure. He could have pretended for a couple of months but years of always choosing to be by each other couldn't just be crossed out. They were inseparable on the pitch, both official and training ones. Every morning he would make a coffee for himself and tea for Pedri before walking out to Pedri's car to get to work. There were countless times they would stay over at each others' places. They would make each other soups when sick (Pedri's much better than Ferran's), they would go on nature hikes with their dogs, they would hug each other in their lowest moments. One of Ferran's favourite memories was Pedri helping him shave because he injured his hand during the game and couldn't move it properly. Ferran teased him about not being ready to die when Pedri instructed him to lean on the hotel bathroom's sink and not move while slotting between his legs with a razor. Pedri's movements were so gentle and careful that Ferran didn't want it to end. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed the feeling of Pedri's hands on his face, directing and steadying him. 'Ferri, stop smiling!', 'I can't do that, mi luz, you are too good to me. How much should I pay for you to do this all the time?'. He still remembered the little huff the Canarian left out, his soft eyes and signature blush looking back at Ferran when he opened his eyes. The soft kiss to his shoulder when Pedri was done. The over-the-top hug he threw at Pedri when he examined the results, his skin clear of hair. 

Pedri enjoyed caring for Ferran as much as Ferran enjoyed caring for Pedri. Even if they wouldn't have ever become more, it was a friendship you bring with yourself all the way to your last day on Earth. And then maybe wait for the other at the gates of whatever's next. That he wouldn't have ever questioned. Before today. 

The tears still didn't come but at some point his body decided he had to breathe, starting to do self regulating exercises on its own. At least, years of therapy were paying off. 

Nothing made sense and, worst of all, it didn't change Pedri's actions. Unless it really were aliens. That was the last thing that hurt. He couldn't understand Pedri no matter how much he tried. Whatever his friend's reasoning for betraying him was... Because it was betrayal and fuck if that didn't hurt too. Whatever it was, Pedri decided he couldn't come to Ferran and talk to him. To figure it out together. Like they figured out long-term injuries, restaurant orders, presents for teammates, interlapping gossip, puzzles at family gatherings in Foios and Tenerife, strongest defenses in the world or installing a new water filter at Ferran's mom's kitchen. 

Pedri chose to lie for weeks, if not months. He chose to wash his hands off Ferran. He chose to believe Ferran's career was on its last breath and he chose not to be there for him even if it was true. He chose to say those awful words to him. Fuck, he didn't even apologise properly. He chose to hurt him. And he succeeded beyond measure. 

Ferran's phone chimed with a message. It was his sister: 'Get your ass to mom's, we are watching Princess Diary'. At least, he still had his family. He picked up the keys and his sunglasses to cover his eyes rightfully expecting the journalists to stalk him to his dad's house. He didn't know why he talked with those fuckers, maybe out of bitterness, maybe baceuse he wanted to have the last word in this argument, maybe because he wanted Pedri to face some kind of public backlash. Maybe because a small part of him hoped that he could still somehow get through to his best friend's heart if he even had it now. 

* * *

When he had arrived at their old house in Foios 30 minutes later, his stepdad was the one to open the door, his mom and sister arguing about something in the background. He was home. In no time they were all hugging him, asking if he had anything to eat, as if it would make a difference to their plans to stuff him full of his favourite food. They didn't talk about why he was in Valencia in late August or what the papers were saying about it. His stepdad went to sleep after dinner, giving him a head kiss and a meaningful glance: Yeah, the women were going to have a conversation about feelings with Ferran, no, I am not staying for that. He loved the dude.

They got comfortable on a coach, each sibling on either of their mom's side, and started watching the movie. That's what they had been doing for longer than he remembered. A scrapped knee, a fight with neighbour kids, a bad grade, a missed goal, a broken heart, a bad argument with dad, a university rejection, a move to England, a job rejection. No matter what it was, they ended up on their sofa with a film classic on TV. His mom had her hands on their heads while Ferran and Aranxa commented on the movie and bickered about everything and nothing at once. Sooner than he would've wanted, the third act was there. He closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep before the credits rolled so that there was no interrogation. He did not.

The TV was back to Netflix's home page. His mom shifted a little bit.

"Is it necessary?" he asked.

"Yeah," both of them answered. 

"Okay."

He tried to collect his thoughts. Where should he even start? 

"So you know the basic facts. Did you see the news about..." he fell silent, "the loan circumstances?'

"Ypu mean that article about Pedri?" his mom asked carefully, her hand still petting his head. 

"Yeah, that. I called him and," God, he didn't want to go through all the details, "it's true. Everything. He said I was useless to the team and that he didn't want me in Barcelona anymore. That he had a Champions League to win."

His mom's hand stopped moving for a few seconds, then resumed. He could tell without opening his eyes that they were having a silent conversation. 

"Well, fuck him then!" his sister said finally.

"Arri!"

"What, mom? You wanted to say it too!" 

"Not like this!" Ferran smiled at their antics, "Niño, I am so sorry. Did he explain why?"

"No, not really," he sighed, "He said that I was not the same. But I don't understand why he lied to me before that? And then when he talked about winning CL, he really hurt me. It was so weird too, like I was the only obstacle between him and the trophy and he personally really wanted it. It's just... It was like talking to a stranger?"

"Do you want me to kill him?" Arri asked, "Because I still have that mafia dude's phone number from a blind date. Just say the word and..."

"Hija, let's not do something quite as drastic?" his mom admonished, "I am really sorry, Ferri. You don't deserve to be treated like this."

"I don't know, I keep trying to pinpoint when he had given up on me but it just doesn't make sense. Life doesn't make sense right now. What did I do?"

"Hermanito, you didn't do anything wrong. You played well last season, your G/A would've been the highest in your career if not for that injury at the start of the year. Please, don't question your own ability because of this idiot. We are all really proud of you."

"Yeah, but you are my family, you are supposed to only see the good, maybe he realised..."

"No, that's bullshit," Arri interrupted, "He is supposed to be family too."

He didn't know what to say to that. 

"Everyone is going through their own battles, bebé. We can't know for sure what's going on with him. But believe me, I am as confused as you are. I think everyone is. It's not like Pedri at all. I called Rosy a couple of hours ago but she assured me the family had no clue this was happening. Fer is trying to reach him but he's not picking up calls."

"Oh. Do you think it might be something bad? What if he's in trouble? Or like not okay mentally?" his head raced with options.

"He's done some crazy shit, alright," his sister snorted. Ferran opened his eyes to look at her disapprovingly, "Chiquillo, he broke your heart and you are still worried about him..."

"Not like I can just turn it off," he grumbled while hiding his face back in his mom's arms. 

"I understand. I do. But you cannot help him right now. Whatever it is, he has still chosen to hurt you instead of talking openly. He's got his family around him, there is nothing Rosy can't figure out. But we want you to focus on yourself now," Ferran's chest hurt at her words. It felt unnatural to sit there and do nothing when Pedri could be hurt and all alone. He felt pathetic for caring so much. 

"Hijo, figuring him out isn't gonna help you right now. Yet, not all changes have to be for the bad. You have us, your home team is excited to have you back. Let's try to build from this and I am telling you, you are not alone here. The world is still standing, you just gotta regain your balance," his mom's words were intended to sooth, to uplift. And yet he felt himself crumble like he was fifteen again and his dad caught him kissing a boy in his room. The weight of rejection, shame and being wounded by someone who is only supposed to love you was finally too much to bear. 

"Mama, it hurts too much," he sobbed quietly. He heard his sister move and then she was hugging him from behind. 

"I know, sweety, I know. You can cry, we'll keep you safe," the two most important people in his life were holding him tightly. The tears flowed freely. 

"It only gets better from here," his sister whispered, "We promise."

He wanted to believe them.  

* * *

The next morning he woke up at 5 o'clock as he had to come back to Valencia before going to training. Ferran kissed his girls goodbye, chatted a bit with his stepdad over morning coffee and went back to his dad's place. He probably had to think about renting his own flat. His dad would be glad to have him there once he returned to Valencia but they could be too much for each other. He dressed casually and put the training clothes into a bag. A big meeting awaited him first.

When he was close to the Ciutat Esportiva in Paterna a lot of memories came up. The amount of time he spent at this place was unrivalled even by Barca's facilities. The building might have been a bit old but it was still sturdy and welcoming. Its orange roof made his heart beat faster. 

Surprisingly, there were some fans standing near the entrance. He didn't remember this happening often when he was younger. They waved him over and he lowered the window. 

"Bon dia!" he said to a couple of kids who got to him first with their national team shirts. Huh, that never stopped being nice.

"Ferran! Ferran! Please stay in Valencia!" one of them cried. 

"Guys, I've just got there, don't worry!"

"My dad says you'll demand to leave because you only care about money and hate it here," another kid said. Oh yeah, those fans. 

"Tell your dad he is wrong. I love it here, it's my home," he said reassuringly. He stayed there as long as he could but it was time to get moving "Guys, go to school now, please. You've got the whole season to catch me around here."

"You promise?"

"Scout's honor," he waved to them and rode to the gate. 

Another surprise, a familiar face welcomed him. Well, Valencian style. 

"Would you look at this little bustard?” Angel, the security guard that had worked at the Ciutat Esportiva longer than Ferran walked this earth, cursed at him, "And what makes you think I'll let a lousy guy like you back here, huh?"

"Angel!" he beamed at the old man, noticing a sly smirk behind the grumpy words, "I am so happy to see you!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, like I would believe you."

"Don Angel, don't wound me! I've always been your favourite!" He had to stay with the guy sometimes after training back when he still lived at home, his parents worked late. 

"Nonsense, Javi is my favourite!"

"Oh, is he aware? I'll make sure to tell him today!" Ferran laughed when he saw displeasure at the man's face, "I'll come talk with you more but I really gotta get inside, have got a meeting with the big guys."

"Ok, go but this conversation isn't over, young man!" he opened the gate, "What poor girl did you steal this sweater from, by the way?"

Ferran didn't answer as he giggled and got to the parking. He was so glad the old man was still around. 

Before training, he had his first meeting with the new owner, Federico Avellaneda. A man who's made his fortune on construction around the world, was a Valencian and as the legend said, had bought the club because his grandfather asked him to, too tired of the previous owner's incompetence. Ferran didn't know if that was true. But whatever the actual reason was, the facts stayed the same. For Avellaneda it was a passion project and a way of giving back to the community. He supposed that some of the renovation projects that Avellaneda's company secured in the city after the deal were more of an added bonus. The businessman was out of the country when they first talked so Ferran's press conference was held with the manager and director of the club. They were nice enough guys but insisted that he waited to meet Federico before holding any serious discussions. Ruphus only sent his publicist with Ferran that first day as there was something big they were lining up for one of the younger players in the agency. If he was being honest with himself, it was obvious from the lack of effort that Ruphus knew about the loan beforehand and didn't do shit to represent him better. Ferran didn't have the energy to deal with it for now. 

He came up to a small office at the facility that was usually the sporting director's space. He didn't have the nicest memories from it but the people responsible were long out of the club. He knocked and opened the door. Avellaneda was sitting at the head of the table, flanked by the manager, Carlos Carberan, and the sporting director, who had a weird nickname Quincho. Avellaneda was of average height and built, pepper hair and a pair of thin rectangular glasses on his big nose. He was wearing a smart dark blue sweater with a white shirt underneath and old jeans. If Ferran didn't know the guy was a billionaire, he would've thought he was just someone's dad.

"Ferran, welcome!" Federico started, standing up to shake his hand, "Thank you for taking your time to meet with us this early. I am sorry I couldn't be there on your first day."

"Hello! That's okay, no worries," he sat down at the other side of the small table after shaking all the hands, "I am ready to start."

"That's the approach, tío!" Quincho said, "Look. I know this was unexpected for you but when I got a call from Barcelona about you, I almost thought Deco was pulling a prank on me! We are really happy to have you back."

"I really appreciate it," the mention of Barca laced his heart a little but he repeated his sister's words in his head. It will only get better from here, "I would lie if I said I wanted to change clubs but if it had to happen, I am happy that it's Valencia and not someone else."

"That's high praise, Ferran," Avellaneda started, "We want to bring Valencia back to the top but it's a long-term project. The financial obligations that we took on from the previous owners had restricted our opportunities at the market. So for the first couple of seasons Quincho and Carlos worked hard to get together a young team with some hidden brilliants in it. We are very lucky to have our leaders in Javi Guerra in the midfield and Julen Agirrezabala in the defense but we are lacking sharpness in the third part of the field. We always saw you as the ideal piece, we even enquired about you a couple of times before but you were not available. We know that the sudden transition can be tough but I will reiterate that we've wanted you here a long time and we believe in you. We need your energy, your experience, your lethality."

"Sr. Avellaneda, I am really grateful. But I am not sure you chose right," the businessman's brow lifted up, "I... maybe I am not as good as I used to be."

"Ferran, you are one of the most successful strikers in the world right now and you are still only 30," Carberan joined in, "We understand that you are in the second half of your career but we have no reason to think it's anywhere close to being over. We believe that if you and Javi lead this team, we could be looking at bringing trophies back to the Mestalla if not this season, then next."

"Next season?"

"If you choose to stay of course," Quincho added, "No pressure now but we are serious about you, my guy."

"Don't you have concerns about my knee? It's kind of fucked now," Ferran felt like he was being gaslighted. 

"So fucked that you were still Barca's starting player in the same season as the injury and got a treble?" Avellaneda asked, smiling at him. He did have a point, "It's gonna get better from here, we have a great medical team and if you need something we don't have, I will personally make sure you are provided with it, okay? You are one of the best Valenciano players in the world. We don't leave each other behind."

"I... thank you," Ferran said, "I can't promise you much but let's see how it goes, yeah? I'll give everything I have even if it's not... well.'

"It's okay, we have faith in you. You acclimatise, get to know the team, find your rhythm back," the manager said, "There is no pressure!"

"There is always pressure."

"Nothing that El Tiburón couldn't handle. And we are not gonna be the ones to add to it," Avellaneda assured, "Deal?"

"Deal."

Ferran felt something shift. Were things really looking up for him? El Tiburón never gave up. 

* * *

He followed Carlos to training after the meeting. They had already had the opportunity to discuss the kind of football the team played the day before. Now Carlos was going through the positions he wanted to try Ferran out in, the connections and plays. He didn't know all the names but Ferran was sure he'd get to know his new teammates well enough shortly. 

They came out on the pitch and some of the guys cheered when they saw him. Ferran waved and clapped back as he ran to the closest person on the pitch. Javi was the team captain now. They knew each other back in the academy days and were fast friends when in the national team. The fact that Javi was even able to break through Barcelona's monopoly on the Spanish midfield spoke for itself. While in Valencia he was doing the same work as Pedri in Barcelona, in the national team he was competing for a spot with Fermin and it was an equal battle. 

"Welcome back, fucker!" Guerra pulled him into a hug. 

"I liked you better when you were shorter than me," Ferran mumbled into his shoulder. It was really annoying when those kids grew so tall. 

"Karma," Javi said as he beckoned other guys to say hello too. Names were exchanged, Ferran turned his charismatic self to an eleven trying to memorize everyone. 

"I am glad you are home, hermano," Javi said when most of the greetings were exchanged.  

"Tell this to our ultras, man," Ferran answered, remembering the morning incident.  

"Well, you are already calling them yours too, a couple of goals and they'll come around. To hate someone so much that they never stopped those chants about you, I'd say it's way closer to love than you think", Javi winked as they started the routine. 

"Let's hope you are right," Ferran sighed. Javi pushed him into the back roughly, "Hey! Come here, fucker, I'll show you!" 

As the training progressed, Julen Agirrezabala, the team's pillar and a genuinely good goalkeeper came up to him. Ferran remembered some of his most stupid mistakes happening against him.

"I'll kick your ass every practice but I am glad you are not gonna be against me in games anymore," Julen said, shaking his hand. 

"Man, I've had some of the most embarrassing misses against you, it's not a big gain," Ferran said back looking at the guy.

"And I enjoyed every one I could get. But you have 3 hattricks against me, idiot."

"Oh, well... I guess I do, yeah," They laughed, "Okay, go into the post, I want the fourth one!"

"Over my dead body, Torres!"

Carlos pulled him to the side once training was coming to an end. The team was recovering from a preseason game so there was no game action. He still enjoyed interacting with everyone. 

"Hey, we have a bit of a superfan of yours on the team," Carlos said, "I don't know if you noticed but he got too shy to say hello."

"Oh, that wouldn't do. Where is he and what's his name?" Ferran looked around trying to figure out who he missed. 

"Kayo Gonçalves, we had a little injury so we had him do his own programme. He is shooting now on the farther pitch, see?" He pointed out a small figure in the distance.

"Your wonderkid midfielder is a fan of mine? I've gotta go say hi, he is really good!" Ferran was surprised with the boy's choice but you don't choose which player to imprint on when you are a kid, it can be pretty random. Unless you were born to be the second coming of Iniesta, then it's pretty straightforward. 

"Good, go on. But I want you to know that once he gets out of his way, it's very difficult to shut him up." Carberan smiled. 

"Noted." 

The kid was still getting some shots when Ferran approached. He played against the boy a couple of times in the last two seasons but early injuries had the wonderkid out for quite a bit. He remembered Pedri bitching how he felt too old playing against him. 'Thank God his prefrontal cortex isn't developed yet, he's gonna be an even bigger pain in the ass'.

Kayo was about 10 centimetres shorter than Ferran, dark skin and short black curls that bounced adorably on his forehead. He had huge eyes that were a lighter colour making them his most distinctive feature. The Brazilian was explosive on the pitch, intense in a way that reminded him of Gavi more than Pedri, and unpredictable in both good and bad ways, sometimes lacking finesse in the final third. 

"Hey, got space for me?"

"Yeah, yeah! Hi!" the boy was startled. He looked like he didn't quite know what to do with his hands. He passed Ferran the ball even though he came up with one of his own. 

"Go on," he passed it for a kick. Kayo missed spectacularly.

"Shit. I am not that bad usually!" he lifted his brows. "Sorry! Ergh... I am Kayo."

"Hey, Kayo, I am Ferran. But I think you already know that. And I know your name too," He smiled, sending a ball in the net.

"You do?" The boy looked up at him, all wonder in his eyes, an overexcited smile splashing his lips. 

"We played against each other, remember?"

"Well, yeah, but like... I didn't do anything those times," he put his hand up in his hair still not reaching for the next ball. 

"You did enough for me to remember you, though," Ferran missed the next one but he wasn't sure the kid even noticed, rolling from his toes to heels. 

"Oh... cool. Cool. Very cool. Yeah. Thanks," he finally moved for the next shot. Then, after it went in the higher left corner, "We have the same last name, by the way."

"We do?" Ferran looked with interest at the boy. He blushed. 

"Yeah, my mum is Torres, she's from here," Kayo said.

"Yet you chose not to play for Spain?" Sue him, Ferran loved teasing shy rookies, it was his second calling after scoring goals. 

"I... well, I..." Ferran laughed.

"Kid, relax, I am joking. So you are what, Kayo Gonçalves Torres?"

"No, it's the other way round in Brazil actually, Kayo Torres Gonçalves," he said proudly. One hell of a name, if you think about it. Ferran decided he was not going to.

"Oh, well, then you are a proper little shark, huh?" he teased again.

"I am! I mean, I went to your camp once!" Kayo said before getting embarrassed and reaching for the next ball. He missed again.

"Did you? So you are a fan. I am not gonna sign anything though," The niño laughed, finally catching up to Ferran's sense of humour. 

"Nevermind, not like you can sell it for much these days," he chipped back, "Plus, I already have one. Bought it like… online."

"Kid!" Ferran laughed, going to ruffle his hair. Damn. He just adopted another one, didn't he? Brazil would have to pay him once they were all grown and kicking everybody's ass. "Look, might be shit, but 20 euros I win in a shootout."

"You are like the coolest player ever, man, you are not actually shit!" Kayo said, trying to dodge Ferran's hands, "I will still win, though!"

"Okay, off you go!"

When he came back to his dad's place that afternoon, he felt better. Even if he ended up almost texting Fer a dozen times before finally calling his therapist.