Pep Guardiola sat alone in his dimly lit office at the City Football Academy, the sterile glow of his computer monitor reflecting off his bald head.
Outside, the notorious, unrelenting Manchester rain lashed against the large glass windows, a dreary, drumming accompaniment to his profoundly sour mood.
He was visibly annoyed.
He sat with his arms crossed, his jaw tight, running a hand over his face.
Manchester City had just lost 1-0 to Bayern Munich in a preseason friendly.
It was his first return to the Allianz Arena since leaving the German giants, and losing—even in an entirely meaningless exhibition match—always felt like a physical itch he couldn’t scratch.
It burned him.
Sure, the team he had selected to take the pitch in Bavaria wasn’t the greatest.
It wasn’t even close to the starting eleven he actually envisioned in his head.
Most of his crucial, future first-team players—men like Kevin De Bruyne, David Silva, Sergio Agüero, and the Spanish young star Natán Comas—were currently lying on beaches across the globe on extended vacations.
They had all been heavily involved in the later stages of the Euros or the Copa America and were set to come back to England in the coming weeks.
But to Pep, that wasn’t a valid excuse.
He despised excuses.
He demanded a baseline level of tactical comprehension, technical bravery, and intensity from every single player wearing the sky-blue shirt, whether they were a seasoned veteran or an academy prospect.
Right now, looking at the spreadsheet of his squad list on his monitor, he didn’t really even know what he had.
One thing was brutally, painfully apparent: pure Tiki Taka was entirely out of the question for this season.
The current squad simply did not possess the technical foundation, the spatial awareness, or the specific physical profiles required to execute his legendary, possession-dominant philosophy from day one.
But there were building blocks.
Beneath the inconsistencies and the aging legs, there were some players he knew were going to be around for the long term, cornerstones he could build a genuine dynasty upon.
However, looking at his defense, specifically his fullbacks, he knew some players absolutely weren’t going to be playing for City in the future because they simply weren’t good enough anymore.
The legs of Pablo Zabaleta, Gaël Clichy, Bacary Sagna, and Aleksandar Kolarov were heavy.
They couldn’t play the inverted roles he demanded, nor could they bomb up and down the flanks with the relentless pace required to recover from high-pressing transitions.
The entire team was in desperate need of a massive, expensive rebuild.
Pep sighed, rubbing his temples as he stood up from his desk.
He walked over to the massive tactical whiteboard spanning the length of his office wall.
He picked up a black dry-erase marker, uncapped it, and thought in absolute silence for several long minutes.
He ran through dozens of tactical permutations for the upcoming season, calculating angles, distances, and passing networks in his brilliant, obsessive mind.
He quickly drew the outline of a pitch.
Then, carefully, on the right flank, he wrote a single name: Natán.
Pep was deeply intrigued by the young winger.
In fact, Pep had been practically obsessed, watching Natán for the past six months ever since it was officially announced that he would be the new manager of Manchester City.
He had demanded the video analytics department send him every single minute of Natán’s footage from the previous season under Manuel Pellegrini.
What Pep had seen in those countless hours of tape was a maddening, beautiful cocktail of both the good and the very bad.
The boy was undeniably a generational talent, but his raw abilities were terribly undisciplined.
Natán possessed a dribbling capability that could genuinely collapse entire defensive blocks.
He had the explosive acceleration and the low center of gravity that reminded Pep of a young Lionel Messi.
But his decision-making was consistently baffling.
Often, Natán would successfully dribble past a defender, totally beating his man with a drop of the shoulder.
But instead of executing the final action—a cross or a shot—he would purposefully stop the ball.
He would wait for the humiliated defender to recover, just so he could go back around and dribble past him again.
He tended to severely overcomplicate the game, using an excess of step-overs and flashy skills when a simple pass would suffice.
Defensively, it was a nightmare.
Pep demanded high, suffocating pressing, but Natán clearly didn’t like tracking back.
When City lost possession, Natán would often drop his head and jog back, leaving his right-back completely isolated.
Furthermore, his form had been erratic; he had showed flashes in the pan that suggested he could be a Ballon d’Or winner, followed by frustrating periods of anonymity.
Last season, he would score a breathtaking hattrick, single-handedly winning a game, and then he wouldn’t score or assist for the next four games, drifting out of matches entirely.
Yet, despite all the flaws, Pep had watched the Euro 2016 final between Portugal and Spain repeatedly over the last week.
Spain had lost, but Natán was still easily the most dangerous player on the pitch.
Because of his lethal reputation, Natán was constantly double-teamed by the Portuguese defense.
Every time he touched the ball, two men collapsed on him.
To an ordinary manager, this was a problem.
To Pep Guardiola, this was an absolute goldmine.
If two players are marking Natán, that means someone, somewhere else on the pitch, is completely free.
He created overloads simply by existing.
And Pep loved anything if it created overloads.
But there was a logistical problem with the current City squad.
In Pep’s ideal system, when the winger is double-teamed near the touchline, he wanted his right-back bursting through the inner channels, sprinting into those massive spaces as he would be completely free.
But his current crop of right-backs didn’t have the pace or the attacking instincts to do that effectively.
So, Pep stood at the whiteboard and drew a new arrow.
Instead of the fullback overlapping or underlapping, he was going to let his attacking midfielders—De Bruyne or Silva—drift aggressively through that half-space.
This movement would force the opposing team’s defensive midfielder to track the run, dragging them away from the winger.
The result?
Natán would be left in an isolated one-on-one.
The double-team would be broken, letting him chop the ball and curl it onto his left foot for that trademark finish.
And if they didn’t follow the man, there was always a free space.
Pep tapped the marker against the board, a slow smile creeping onto his face.
He had a lot of things he wanted to do with Natán on the pitch.
A thousand miles away, in a balmy, coastal town in Catalonia, Natán was completely oblivious to the tactical revolutions being plotted in Manchester.
Later that night, the ocean breeze had picked up, cooling the stifling daytime heat into a perfect, comfortable evening.
Natán was hungry.
Really hungry.
He was so used to his rigidly scheduled life; in Manchester, he had the club dieticians and the chefs at City to cook for him.
But here on vacation, he didn’t have those chefs with him.
He was completely on his own.
So, throwing on a simple white t-shirt and some dark jeans, he left his coastal home and went to get dinner at a popular, rustic seafood restaurant down by the beach.
As he approached the restaurant, he immediately realized it was incredibly busy.
A large crowd of people were lingering outside on the cobblestone pavement.
As Natán squeezed his way through the heavy wooden front doors, the loud, chaotic din of clinking silverware and chatter hit him.
Within seconds, a frantic waitress spotted him.
Her stressed expression instantly melted into a massive, beaming smile.
She rushed over, completely ignoring the queue of tourists.
“Natán! Welcome back, champion!” she practically shouted in rapid Catalan, patting him affectionately on the shoulder.
“The place is a total madhouse tonight, packed to the walls, but for our golden boy? I will always make magic happen. Just give me two minutes to clear the best table by the window.”
Natán smiled gratefully, thanking her in Catalan.
As he waited near the host stand, he heard an exasperated, distinctly English voice cut through the noise.
“Excuse me, how long for a table? I’ve been here for ages.”
Natán turned to his right.
It was the same woman from the beach.
Up close, without her sunglasses, she was even more striking.
She had piercing eyes and a sharp, slightly irritated set to her jaw as she glared at the empty host stand.
Natán blinked, his mind frantically switching gears into his broken, inexperienced English.
“You speak English?”
She turned to look at him, her eyebrows raising.
She recognised him from the beach, but decided to play it cool, “Evidently.”
Natán gestured awkwardly toward the dining room.
“You can sit here. With me.”
Kylie crossed her arms, feigning nonchalance.
“That’s fine.”
“You sure?” Natán asked, his accent thick and heavy.
“Yeah, I don’t mind waiting,” Kylie said, turning her attention back away from him.
“Okay,” Natán said simply, leaning against the wall.
At that moment, a passing waiter hurriedly told Kylie, in broken English of his own, that it would be at least another fifteen minutes before a table of one opened up.
Kylie let out a quiet sigh, her stomach giving a loud, traitorous rumble.
She looked back over at the Spanish winger.
“Excuse me, yeah,” Kylie said, clearing her throat slightly.
“Is that offer still available?”
Natán smiled softly, a genuine, welcoming expression.
“Sure.”
A few minutes later, the waitress led them to a prime, secluded table near the back of the restaurant, directly overlooking the dark, crashing waves of the Mediterranean.
As they sat down, Natán felt an unfamiliar, jittery sensation in his stomach.
He was kind of nervous.
Because of his obsessive dedication to football and his meteoric rise to fame at such a young age, this was arguably his first real date.
He didn’t know the protocols.
He didn’t know what to do with his hands as he just twiddled his thumbs under the desk.
Before he could even attempt to strike up a conversation, the food came.
And it kept coming.
Because Natán was a local legend, the kitchen had taken the liberty of sending out practically the whole menu.
Plate after plate was set down between them: steaming bowls of garlic prawns, platters of thinly sliced jamón ibérico, crispy patatas bravas, grilled octopus, fresh calamari, and a sprawling, vibrant pan of seafood paella that took up half the table.
Kylie stared at the ridiculous mountain of food, her eyes wide.
“Did you order all this?”
“No,” Natán said, looking equally overwhelmed.
“Then why is there so much food?” Kylie asked, gesturing to the plates.
Natán shrugged sheepishly, struggling to find the right vocabulary.
“It happen… sometimes.”
Natán, starving from his beach football session, immediately started digging in.
He grabbed a piece of crusty bread, dipped it into the sizzling garlic oil of the prawns, and took a massive bite.
He reached for a skewer of octopus before pausing.
He looked up and saw that Kylie hadn’t even started.
She hesitated, her Hollywood conditioning screaming at her that tearing into a massive platter of garlic-soaked carbs and whole crustaceans was profoundly unladylike.
She delicately picked up a silver fork, completely unsure where to start.
“Come,” Natán urged, pushing a plate of the crispy potatoes toward her, his broken English sounding endearing.
“We need to eat this.”
“We can’t eat all of this,” She protested with a laugh.
“There’s enough food here for a small army.”
“We must try,” Natán insisted, his dark eyes completely serious.
Kylie looked at him.
He wasn’t just eating; he was attacking the meal with unapologetic joy.
He had garlic oil on his chin and was currently peeling a prawn with his bare hands, looking completely unbothered by the mess.
Seeing him so authentically enjoying the moment, Kylie just shook her head exasperatedly, a small, genuine smile breaking through her polished exterior.
She abandoned her hesitation, reached out with her fork, and started digging in herself.
Any initial awkwardness between them was quickly smoothed over by the sheer, undeniable quality of the meal.
Kylie picked up her fork, tentatively trying the patatas bravas.
The spicy, smoky tomato sauce exploded on her tongue, and her eyes lit up in genuine surprise.
She let out a small groan of approval, reaching for another piece.
Natán grinned proudly, passing her the plate of jamón ibérico.
They ate with a shared, enthusiastic rhythm.
Natán devoured the calamari with the speed of an athlete who burned thousands of calories a day, his manners slightly rough but entirely authentic, while Kylie expertly navigated the paella, picking out the perfectly cooked mussels and scraping the caramelized, crispy rice from the bottom of the pan.
They didn’t bother with pretenses; they used their hands to peel the prawns, laughed when the garlic oil dripped onto the tablecloth, and washed it all down with glasses of ice-cold sparkling water.
The food acted as a perfect icebreaker, bridging the gap between two strangers from entirely different worlds.
Swallowing a piece of octopus, Natán wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“I can ask question?”
“You just did,” Kylie replied instantly, not missing a beat.
Natán stopped, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
He rapidly translated her sentence in his head, trying to figure out if he had missed a vocabulary word, his face completely blank as he tried to process the English phrasing.
Seeing his bewildered expression, Kylie smiled softly.
“It was a joke.”
Understanding suddenly washed over his face, and Natán laughed genuinely, a bright, booming sound that echoed over the clatter of the restaurant.
Now, Kylie was the one who looked slightly confused by his intense reaction, it wasn’t that funny.
“Ah! I never heard this before,” Natán explained, pointing a finger at her playfully.
“You speak English really well,” Kylie noted, taking a sip of her drink.
Natán violently shook his head.
“No, no. Is very, very bad.”
“But it’s not that bad,” Kylie argued.
“I can understand you.”
“I practice most in shower,” Natán said innocently, his accent thick.
Kylie choked slightly on her water, her eyes widening as her mind immediately jumped to the gutter.
She thought he meant he was having sex in the shower with girls to learn the language, or at the very least, sitting naked in the bathtub doing Duolingo lessons.
“Excuse me?”
“Music,” Natán clarified, entirely oblivious to her brief panic.
“Oh,” Kylie exhaled, a relieved laugh escaping her lips.
“You play music in the shower.”
“Yes,” Natán said, tilting his head, his brow furrowed again.
“What you think I say?”
Kylie felt a blush creep up her neck.
“Nothing.”
“I no understand what people say most time,” Natán confessed, leaning back in his chair, unashamed of his struggle.
“In England, they speak very fast. I just do this.”
To demonstrate, Natán smiled widely, a completely vacant, polite grin, and simply nodded his head up and down like a bobblehead.
Kylie burst out laughing.
It was a genuine, throaty laugh that made Natán’s chest flutter.
“And it works?”
Natán kept the vacant smile plastered on his face and just nodded again.
Kylie smiled, leaning her elbows on the table.
“Okay, I’ll answer one of your questions if you answer one of my mine? Why do you always smile?”
“Because… life good,” Natán answered simply, dropping the joke.
Kylie looked at him, taking in the expensive watch on his wrist, the perfect, athletic physique, and the fact that an entire restaurant was treating him like royalty.
She could admit he had a point.
His life looked incredible.
And hers was too.
There were practically thousands, if not millions of women who would love to be in her exact position right now.
“Yeah, I guess you got a point,” Kylie conceded smoothly.
“What was your question?”
“What do you do for work?” Natán asked, tilting his head.
Kylie explained her cosmetics line.
She talked about the lip kits, the massive online launches that sold out in seconds, and the beauty empire she was passionately trying without the help of her chaotic family.
“Oh,” Natán said, nodding slowly as he processed the English.
“Makeup.”
“Pretty much,” Kylie smiled.
“What do you do?”
“Football,” He said with a smile
“American Football?” Kylie asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Like… the NFL?”
“No, no,” Natán said, shaking his head rapidly.
He struggled to find the right word for an American audience.
He pantomimed kicking a ball under the table.
“Manchester City. Winger.”
“I don’t know any of that,” Kylie admitted freely.
“S-so…” Natán stammered, snapping his fingers as he tried to recall the American word.
“Soccer.” Kylie finally reminded when it was called back in America.
“That’s it!” Natán beamed, pointing at her.
“Yes.”
“You’re a professional soccer player,” Kylie said, connecting the dots of his fame in the restaurant.
“Yeah, but we call it Football,” Natán corrected gently.
“I Play in England.”
“What’s that like?” Kylie asked, genuinely curious.
Natán immediately launched into a passionate rant about the horrific lack of sunlight and the sheer misery of the English rain.
He used wild, dramatic hand gestures when he couldn’t find the right English word, mimicking shivering in the freezing cold and complaining about how British food lacked any actual flavor.
He was so animated and charming that Kylie found herself hanging onto his every broken sentence.
Eventually, Natán asked her what she liked to do for fun, and she surprised him by talking extensively about her makeup again, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from her overbearing family dynamics and the pressures of her immense fame.
“My makeup is kind of a big deal,” Kylie casually mentioned after taking a sip of water.
“Yes,” Natán said earnestly, smiling at her, admiring her passion.
“You don’t even know what it is,” Kylie pointed out, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
Natán shook his head shamelessly.
“No idea.”
Kylie laughed, finally extending a hand across the table.
“I’m Kylie Jenner.”
Natán took her hand, his grip warm and firm.
“Natán Comas.”
“Nathan,” Kylie repeated, pronouncing it the American way, with a soft, English ‘th’ sound.
“Natán,” he corrected smoothly, emphasizing the hard, sharp ‘T’ of his proud Catalan heritage.
“Nathan,” Kylie tried again, attempting to mimic his accent but utterly failing to roll the sound properly.
Natán chuckled softly at her attempt.
“So-so. Kylie.”
“I like how you say that,” Kylie said, rather liking the way her name rolled off his tongue with that thick accent.
She took a breath, letting her guard down entirely.
“Oh, yeah,” Kylie said, her tone shifting slightly, becoming much more genuine and vulnerable.
“I’m kind of worried about this makeup thing. I want it to be its own thing, and not to be overshadowed by family stuff. You seem wise. Do you have any advice?”
Natán stopped chewing.
He set his fork down on the edge of his plate.
His usually bright, animated expression dropped into something deeply serious and contemplative.
He stared blankly at the flickering candle in the center of the table, struggling to find the right English words for the complex emotions swirling in his chest.
The silence stretched on for ten seconds.
Then twenty.
Kylie instantly felt a pang of regret, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
She was afraid she had upset him, prying into an open wound that was clearly still fresh.
“Um,” Natán finally spoke, his voice quiet, his English heavily fragmented as he tried to piece his thoughts together.
“When we lose Euros in Paris… you finish game. You go take medal. And you see the cup. And you just… want cry.”
Kylie blinked, profoundly confused for a second.
That wasn’t helpful advice at all; that was just incredibly depressing.
Natán held up a hand, asking for patience as he searched for the words.
“You want be alone.
Talk to nobody.
Is strange feeling.
Very heavy.
But…
you must accept.
And work.
And come back to final for win.
If lose, you promise yourself you come back.
I guess you do the same.
Just keep going till it works.”
Kylie softened.
That was much more helpful.
It wasn’t about avoiding the pain of losing; it was about using it as fuel for the inevitable return.
It was a beautiful sentiment, made even more poignant by the visible effort it took him to express it in a foreign language.
They fell silent.
For a long, breathless moment, they just stared at each other across the table.
The profound weight of his words settled over them, replacing the lighthearted banter with a thick, undeniable intimacy.
Natán looked up, his intense, dark eyes locking directly onto Kylie’s.
For a moment, the bustling noise of the restaurant—the clattering plates, the loud chatter of Catalan families, the distant roar of the ocean waves—seemed to completely fade away.
Kylie stared back, genuinely moved by the raw vulnerability from someone who had seemed so effortlessly bulletproof on the pitch.
She realized that despite the language barrier, she understood exactly the kind of man he was.
But as the silence stretched on, Natán suddenly realized how deeply they were staring at each other.
A wave of unfamiliar panic washed over him.
He felt intensely awkward.
He was a master of reading defensive lines and exploiting spaces, but reading the romantic cues of a gorgeous American Woman was terrifying.
He was used to performing in front of sixty thousand screaming fans, but this quiet, one-on-one intimacy made his chest tight.
He felt the back of his neck grow hot, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.
He abruptly broke eye contact, clearing his throat nervously and shifting his weight in his chair, suddenly intensely interested in his glass of water.
Sensing the sudden shift in energy and finding his sudden shyness incredibly endearing, Klyie gently placed her napkin on the table.
“Well, I should be going.”
Natán nodded quickly, relieved to break the suffocating tension, though a part of him immediately wished she would stay.
“Okay. I need sleep also.”
Kylie stood up, grabbing her purse and offering him a warm, lingering smile that made his stomach do a flip.
“This was nice. We should do it again sometime.”
“Yes,” Natán replied, an earnest, boyish smile returning to his face.
“That is nice.”
Kylie gave a small wave and turned, navigating her way out of the crowded restaurant into the warm Spanish night.
Natán watched her go for a brief second, his heart pounding slightly faster than usual.
Then, shaking his head with a small chuckle at his own nervousness, he picked up his fork and went right back to eating his paella.