The sprawling, glass-fronted canteen of the City Football Academy was a masterpiece of modern athletic nutrition.
Dozens of pristine, circular white tables were scattered across the brightly lit room, offering panoramic views of the training pitches outside.
The air was filled with the low, comfortable hum of overlapping conversations in five different languages, the clattering of silverware, and the faint, appetizing aroma of grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and complex carbohydrates.
Natán Comas sat slouched at a table near the back, nursing a fresh, incredibly painful bruise on his left thigh.
He was absolutely miserable.
The grueling, ninety-minute tactical nightmare of playing False Nine during the morning scrimmage had entirely drained him of his usual, boyish arrogance.
He felt stupid.
He felt slow.
He felt entirely inadequate.
“Here you go, sir. Your lunch, as requested.”
Natán looked up.
Vincent Kompany, the towering, fiercely intimidating Belgian captain of Manchester City, was standing beside the table.
True to his word regarding their earlier bet, Kompany had a white linen napkin draped elegantly over his massive forearm, holding a tray laden with Natán’s meticulously weighed and measured nutritional lunch.
“Thank you, Vinny,” Natán managed a weak, exhausted smile, accepting the plate of grilled salmon and quinoa.
“Your service is excellent. Five stars.”
“Don’t get used to it, kid,” Kompany chuckled deeply, clapping a heavy hand onto Natán’s shoulder before walking off to join De Bruyne and Aguero at a neighboring table.
Natán picked up his fork, absentmindedly pushing a piece of broccoli around his plate.
He didn’t have much of an appetite.
The mental tax of Guardiola’s system was infinitely heavier than the physical exertion.
Just as he took a small, joyless bite of salmon, the heavy glass doors of the canteen swung open.
Ferran Soriano, the Chief Executive Officer of Manchester City, strode into the room.
Soriano was a towering figure in the corporate footballing world, impeccably dressed in a tailored navy suit, clutching a sleek leather folio.
He possessed a sharp, analytical mind and was entirely responsible for orchestrating the massive, global expansion of the City Football Group.
But more importantly to Natán, Soriano was a fellow Catalan.
During the incredibly tense, high-stakes transfer negotiations the previous summer, when Natán was deciding between Bayern Munich, Juventus, and Manchester City, it was Ferran Soriano who had personally flown out to Barcelona.
Soriano had sat in Natán’s family living room, speaking fluent Catalan, and sold the teenager on the grand, sweeping vision of the club.
They shared a close, comfortable relationship that transcended the usual player-executive dynamic.
Natán instantly dropped his fork.
He needed to sort out the logistics for Wednesday night.
He scrambled up from his chair, wincing slightly as his bruised thigh protested, and jogged across the canteen.
“Ferran,” Natán called out softly in Catalan, catching the CEO just before he entered the private executive dining room.
Soriano stopped, turning around.
His stern, corporate expression instantly melted into a warm, genuine smile.
“Natán. How are you, my boy? Healing up from Stoke?”
“I am surviving,” Natán smiled, shaking the executive’s hand firmly.
“Listen, who do I talk to about the box thing? The private suites for the game on Wednesday?”
Soriano raised a dark eyebrow, genuinely surprised by the request.
“You never use your assigned box, Natán. You always give your ticket allocation back to the club for corporate sponsors because you never use it.”
“I know,” Natán nodded, shifting his weight nervously.
“But I have someone coming on Wednesday. A guest. It is very important.”
Soriano’s sharp, calculating eyes twinkled with instant, knowing amusement.
He didn’t pry into the personal lives of his players, but a nineteen-year-old superstar suddenly requesting a private, secure VIP box for a meaningless Champions League qualifier was a fairly transparent situation.
“A guest,” Soriano repeated, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“I see. Okay. Don’t worry about it, Natán. I’ll sort it personally. I will have VIP hospitality contact your agent with the security protocols and the private entrance logistics. Your guest will be completely taken care of.”
“Thank you, Ferran. I really appreciate it,” Natán beamed, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over him.
“Focus on the football,” Soriano patted him on the arm before turning away.
“We’ll handle the rest.”
Natán walked back to his table, feeling significantly lighter.
The prospect of having Kylie in the stadium, watching him play, was an incredibly motivating thought.
He sat down and finally began to eat his lunch with genuine enthusiasm, his mind already drifting to the tactical challenges he would face on Wednesday.
Twenty minutes later, the canteen began to empty as the players finished their meals and prepared to head back out to the pitches for the afternoon tactical session.
Natán gathered his tray, fully intending to join Silva and Nolito, but a sharp voice cut through the remaining chatter.
Natán froze.
He turned around.
Pep Guardiola was standing near the exit, holding his ever-present iPad, gesturing for the teenager to follow him.
Natán let out a quiet, defeated sigh.
He knew exactly what this was.
He was about to be subjected to a grueling, microscopic dissection of every single mistake he had made while playing False Nine during the morning scrimmage.
He was going to have his terrible timing and his lazy tracking back pointed out.
He trudged slowly across the canteen, falling into step behind Pep as they navigated the sterile, brightly lit hallways of the facility.
Pep didn’t lead him to the massive, stadium-seating tactical auditorium where the entire squad usually gathered.
Instead, Pep bypassed the double doors and swiped his keycard, leading Natán into a small, private, windowless editing room utilized exclusively by the elite coaching staff.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the harsh, blue glow of a massive, 80-inch digital screen mounted on the far wall.
There were only two ergonomic leather chairs positioned in the center of the room.
“Sit,” Pep instructed simply.
Natán took a seat, his heart hammering nervously against his ribs.
He prepared himself for the onslaught.
Pep sat down in the chair next to him, connecting his iPad to the massive screen via a wireless network.
But when the video file finally booted up, Natán was entirely, profoundly confused.
It wasn’t footage of the morning scrimmage.
It wasn’t footage of Manchester City at all.
It was grainy, high-definition broadcast footage of a classic El Clásico.
Barcelona versus Real Madrid at the Santiago Bernabéu.
May 2nd, 2009.
The legendary 6-2 demolition.
A game Natán had seen with his very eyes.
Pep switched entirely into rapid, passionate Catalan, dropping the English barrier to ensure his message was communicated with absolute, crystal-clear precision.
“You know why Messi is good?” Pep asked, pointing a digital laser pointer at the small, long-haired figure wearing the iconic number 10 jersey on the screen.
“He’s fast,” Natán answered instantly, falling back on the obvious traits.
“He’s dribbling, he’s passing, he’s shooting. He has a perfect left foot.”
“Yes,” Pep agreed, waving his hand dismissively.
“The physical gifts are obvious. Everyone sees the dribbling. But there is one thing he is better at than everyone else in the history of this sport. He is always like this.”
Pep suddenly stood up from his chair.
He didn’t point at the screen.
He physically demonstrated the action.
Pep began to jerk his head rapidly from left to right, his eyes darting frantically around the small, dark editing room, constantly checking his blind spots, looking over his shoulders with a paranoid, hyper-vigilant intensity.
“See? Look,” Pep commanded, gesturing back to the massive screen.
Pep hit play on the video.
The footage showed a young Lionel Messi operating in the dead center of the pitch, completely surrounded by the massive, terrifying frames of Sergio Ramos, Fabio Cannavaro, and Heinze.
It was a claustrophobic, violent tactical warzone.
“Watch him,” Pep instructed, his laser pointer dancing over Messi’s head.
“He’s not running. For the first five, ten minutes of this game, he is walking. He looks lazy but he is always watching. His head never stops moving. He is a radar.”
Pep paused the video right as Messi dropped deep into the midfield, completely isolating himself between the Real Madrid defensive and midfield lines.
“After five, ten minutes,” Pep explained, his voice thick with sheer, undeniable reverence for his former player, “he has a map in his eyes and in his brain. He knows exactly where every single player is positioned. He knows the distances. He knows the blind spots.”
Pep hit play again.
The footage showed Xavi Hernandez zipping a firm pass into Messi’s feet.
Before the ball even arrived, Messi had already checked his shoulder three times.
He knew exactly where the pressure was coming from.
He received the ball on the half-turn, bypassing the lunging tackle of Lassana Diarra with a single, devastating velvet touch, and instantly accelerated into the massive, gaping hole he had identified just seconds prior.
“To know exactly where is the space,” Pep continued, his passion radiating through the dark room.
“He moves here. He doesn’t wait for the ball to come to him on the wing. He controls the geometry of the entire pitch.”
Pep swept his hand dramatically across the massive screen, gesturing to the incredible, gaping pockets of space the Barcelona team was exploiting.
“He keeps moving to the space, to find more space to attack,” Pep lectured, pausing the video right as Messi slipped a perfectly weighted, defense-splitting pass through to Thierry Henry for a goal. Find the original chapter at novelping dot com.
“When people talk about Messi, they talk about the spectacular goals. The dribbles past five players. But the most important thing is the control, and the pass. It is always perfect. Every single decision is correct. ”
Pep turned off the screen, plunging the room into shadows, illuminated only by the faint ambient light of the iPad.
He turned his chair, facing Natán directly, the distance between them incredibly small.
“The best is Messi,” Pep stated, his voice dropping into a quiet, deeply intense register.
“I didn’t meet Messi at nineteen years old when I met you. When I took over the Barcelona first team, Leo was already twenty-one. He was already established.”
Pep leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto Natán’s, burning with a terrifying, absolute sincerity that made the teenager’s breath catch in his throat.
“And at that age, nineteen years old,” Pep declared softly, “I have never seen a player with this potential who is already this good so young. Never.”
Natán sat perfectly still, entirely paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of the compliment.
He was being compared directly, favorably, to the greatest player in the history of the sport by the exact man who had forged that greatness.
“You listen to me,” Pep commanded, gripping Natán firmly by the knee.
“You listen to me, and you keep playing the way you’ve been playing, and you will be unstoppable. There has always been a ‘new Messi’. Since I started coaching, ten, fifteen players have been called the next Messi. Bojan, Halilovic, Deulofeu. They always had so much potential. But they failed. Because they don’t get better. They stagnate. ”
Pep squeezed Natán’s knee, his voice vibrating with absolute belief.
“Not you,” Pep said firmly.
“You have gotten better every single game this season. You adapted against Sunderland. You adapted against Stoke. You are only nineteen, and you have so much room to grow into that player. But I believe, completely, that your best position is False Nine. Once you start to understand the game better, once you build that map in your brain… the sky is the limit.”
Pep leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, presenting the teenager with the ultimate, philosophical ultimatum of his young career.
“So,” Pep asked quietly.
“Do you want to stay on the wing, and be better than most wingers in the world, but never reach the level of those absolute greats? Or do you want to be in the False Nine, and be one of the best players to ever touch a football?”
The silence in the dark editing room was suffocatingly heavy.
Natán stared at the black screen of the television.
He thought about the agonizing frustration of the morning scrimmage.
He thought about the terrifying intellectual complexity of the role.
It was going to be the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.
But he thought about the legacy.
He thought about the sheer, undisputed glory of being the best.
Natán turned his head, looking directly into Pep Guardiola’s intense, waiting eyes.
He didn’t hesitate.
“The False Nine,” Natán answered, his voice steady, his Catalan clear and resolute.
Pep smiled, a massive, brilliant expression of pure, unadulterated satisfaction crossing his features.
The master had successfully recruited his new apprentice.
“Okay,” Pep nodded briskly, instantly shifting back into pragmatic, tactical management mode.
“Wednesday against Steaua. I will play you. First half only.”
Pep leaned forward, jabbing a finger toward Natán’s chest to emphasize the instruction.
“But listen to me,” Pep instructed firmly.
“For the first couple of minutes, I do not want you to come to the ball.
Do you understand?
I do not want you to touch the football.
You walk.
You scan.
You look over your shoulder constantly.
You get the map of the game in your head.
You find where the opposition is vulnerable.
You map the spaces.
Only when you have the map, do you drop deep to receive the ball.”
Natán nodded slowly, the tactical blueprint burning into his brain.
“Walk. Scan. Build the map. Then play.”
“Exactly,” Pep agreed, standing up from his chair.
“I will play you till half-time, so you can practice the role in a real, competitive environment. Then I will sub you out to keep you fresh for the weekend. Let’s go back out there. We have a lot of work to do.”
Funny thing about this season, Aguero and De Bruyne get injured around the same time.
So we’re going to get False Nine Natan for a couple of games because Pep doesn’t trust Kelichi.