Chapter 45 – A European Stage

The morning air at Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper was heavy with anticipation.

Barcelona's return to the Champions League knockout rounds wasn't just another match—it was a moment. A signal. After years of transition, failed promises, and near-rebuilds, the club was finally stepping into Europe with belief.

For players like Pedri, Gavi, and Lamine Yamal, it was a chance to prove that this generation wasn't just exciting—they were ready. And for Luca, this was new territory. He wouldn't be starting against Benfica, not this time, but he would be on the bench, prepared, alert, and maybe—just maybe—ready to change the game.

But for now, all eyes were on the starting eleven and the tactical preparation.

Morning – Inside the Film Room

Hansi Flick stood in front of the players, the big screen behind him paused on a Benfica possession map.

"They are dangerous on the counter," he said, voice low and serious. "Fast transitions. Watch their number 27, Aursnes, drifting into half spaces. Silva runs the midfield, and their back line isn't afraid to push up."

The room was locked in. Pedri leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Gavi's leg bounced restlessly. Even Lamine—usually relaxed and joking—looked intensely focused.

"Lineup," Flick said, clicking the remote.

The formation appeared on screen:

SzczęsnyKoundé – Araujo – Cubarsí – BaldeCasado – Pedri – GaviRaphinha – Lewandowski – Lamine Yamal

Luca nodded to himself. No surprises. Raphinha was back from injury and fully fit, meaning he would slide in on the left with Lamine playing off the right.

Flick continued, "Casado, I want you shielding Silva. Gavi—press when the ball shifts wide. Pedri, unlock them."

Then, he paused, turning toward the squad.

"And boys… this is the Champions League. You all grew up dreaming of this. This badge was built for nights like this. Let's act like it."

Afternoon – Tactical Training

Out on the pitch, the sun cut through the cold February breeze. Training started with high-pressure rondos, then moved to positional drills.

Szczęsny shouted instructions from the goal as the back four rehearsed their defensive transitions. Araujo was a rock. Cubarsí, young but mature, communicated calmly with Balde on his left and Koundé on his right.

In midfield, Pedri looked smooth as ever. Casado stayed disciplined, not flashy, just doing the work. Gavi, of course, played like someone had insulted his family—aggressive, fast, relentless.

Further up, Lamine Yamal and Raphinha swapped wings, keeping defenders guessing. Flick watched closely, adjusting shape and shouting occasional corrections.

Luca worked with the second unit but kept sneaking glances. These were his teammates, his brothers—but tomorrow, they'd also be his standard to reach.

Evening – Locker Room Talk

As training wrapped, the players hit the locker room. Gavi flopped down on a bench, pulling off his boots.

"That Silva guy…" he muttered, "he moves like he's got five lungs."

"Doesn't matter," Pedri said, grinning. "We're faster."

Raphinha stretched out his leg, testing it. "Man, it feels good to be back. I've missed this."

Lamine gave Luca a nudge. "Think we'll get a moment together out there?"

Luca shrugged. "If the chance comes. I'll be ready."

"Always are," Lamine replied with a smirk.

Across the room, Flick stepped in.

"One last thing," he said. "We respect Benfica, but we do not fear them. Not in this locker room. Not in our house."

Night – Luca's Apartment

Luca stood by the window, looking out at the Barcelona skyline. The lights of the Camp Nou glowed in the distance.

Champions League. Even saying it felt like magic.

He scrolled through his messages—his agent had wished him luck. His parents had sent a selfie in Barça jerseys. And there was one from Coach Flick:

"Stay ready. Big nights make big players."

He locked the phone and sat on his bed, lacing up his training boots one last time before bed. A ritual. One he'd done since he was ten.

Tomorrow would be a different kind of night. The anthem. The pressure. The lights.

But Luca knew one thing: whether he played five minutes or fifty, he belonged.

And when the whistle blew, the world would watch.