Teams Interest And National Call Up

"Hey, watch the seats."

The voice came from the driver's seat—deep, mature, and unmistakably calm, yet carrying an edge of quiet authority. Mateo glanced over, not even struck by the man's sharp features—almost a mirror image of his father, who he saw just days ago. The resemblance was uncanny: the same strong jawline, the same steady gaze. But where his father was gentle, warm, and a little aloof, this man exuded a cooler, businesslike presence. His eyes, framed by a sleek pair of reading glasses, rarely left his nephew, and in Mateo's memory, those glasses had never once been removed.

Sitting behind the wheel of the sleek black car, the man studied Mateo intently as he dug into his food.

Mateo was scarfing down the meal messily—a plate piled high with tortilla de patatas, a traditional Spanish omelet his sister-in-law had insisted Andrew bring along for her son. Golden slices of potato and egg, soft and comforting, but somehow too good for Mateo to eat carefully.

The food dripped onto the immaculate leather seat, tiny spots darkening the cream-colored upholstery.

At first, Andrew's face tightened in mild disapproval, lips pressing into a thin line. But as he kept watching, his expression shifted. The frown faded, replaced by a slow, almost reluctant smile as the phone calls he'd been fielding earlier fluttered through his mind—urgent business mixed with unexpected good news.

It was a moment of calm amid the storm.

"Ahhh… Moms' tortilla are the best. Sorry, Uncle Andrew."

Mateo's words came muffled around a mouthful of food, bits of egg and potato clinging to the corners of his lips, some falling onto his shirt.

Andrew's eyes softened, and he thought to himself, He's just like his big brother—both of them foodies through and through.

He sighed, reaching for a box of tissues on the dashboard and handing it over.

"Manners," he said with a teasing grin.

Mateo accepted the tissues gratefully, brushing the crumbs away as he wiped his mouth carefully.

Finished with his meal, he looked up, eyes tired.

Andrew's gaze sharpened. "Why are you this starved? What have you been eating?"

Mateo's shoulders slumped. He sighed, his voice barely above a whisper, heavy with exhaustion and a hint of disgust.

"Just… those nutritional shakes. You know—the ones packed with proteins and vitamins for stamina and growth. But they taste like… like cardboard mixed with chalk."

He recited the list mechanically, as if reading from a script—whey protein, branched-chain amino acids, electrolytes—words that meant nothing to him except that they were necessary but utterly joyless sustenance.

His face tightened, the faintest grimace betraying how much he hated it.

A flicker of disgust crawled up Mateo's spine as he shook his head slowly, brushing the thought away. "Let's just forget about that," he muttered, voice low and heavy with tiredness.

His eyes lifted and began scanning the interior of the car, tracing every curve and detail like he was seeing it for the first time. The leather seats were immaculate, deep black with subtle diamond stitching that caught the soft light just right. The polished wood paneling gleamed under the overhead lamp. State-of-the-art screens flickered quietly in the dashboard, displaying navigation maps and ambient controls.

"This car…" Mateo breathed out, almost reverently. He circled his gaze, taking in the sleek lines, the subtle hum of the engine even when idle. "When did you get this?" He turned sharply toward his uncle, eyes wide with genuine curiosity, still absorbing the luxury surrounding him.

Andrew smirked faintly, amused by the boy's amazement. "Well, since it looks like I'll be spending a lot more time in and around Spain now, I figured it'd be good to have something reliable to move around in while I'm here."

Mateo paused, the wheels turning in his mind as he faced his uncle directly. His voice was cautious, but a flicker of excitement sparked in his eyes. "Wait... you'll be around Spain more? Does that mean what I think it means?"

Andrew's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Yeah... it's exactly what you're thinking. The Barça board reached out—they're eager to renew your contract, or better yet, offer you a first team deal."

Before Andrew could finish, Mateo practically exploded with joy, pumping his fists in the air, grinning from ear to ear. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" he practically shouted, his voice bursting with excitement and disbelief.

His uncle's expression softened, tenderness shining in his eyes as he watched the younger man's elation. He'd known this moment was coming, but this wasn't the sole reason for his visit. Sure, Barça wanted to negotiate, but they were far from the only ones.

After the call with the club, Andrew's phone had been relentless. His line was flooded—so busy he hadn't been able to focus on his other clients or business deals. Every other call was about Mateo: endorsements, small-time gigs, interest from other clubs.

It amazed him how suddenly everyone seemed to have his number—where it came from, he didn't know. But each call was a reminder: this was the son of his elder brother, and the football world was watching closely.

Mateo might have been the ire of countless Twitter "banger boys" and the storm of sensationalist media headlines, but in the relentless, chaotic world of football coverage, most of it was just noise. Clickbait. Gimmicks designed for views and viral outrage, thrown around by pundits eager to rake in hits by condemning a 17-year-old boy for a celebration that sparked far too much drama.

Yet, beyond the viral storms and tabloid theatrics, the real decision-makers—the coaches, sporting directors, club owners, and elite scouts—saw something entirely different. They saw a raw, dazzling talent. A 17-year-old prodigy who, in just six matches, had exploded onto the scene with 16 goals and 7 assists. Among those, a historic hat-trick in a Champions League knockout round that had captured the imagination of the footballing world.

And they took note.

Because for all the noise and hype, there was an undeniable problem looming over top-flight football—the glaring shortage of world-class strikers emerging to lead dynasties. Sure, stars like Robert Lewandowski were still firing with lethal precision in the Bundesliga, set to shatter goal-scoring records. La Liga was cautiously entering a new era of strikers, and Serie A was dominated by the ever-potent Cristiano Ronaldo, who continued to defy age and expectations.

But the truth was clear to the architects of football dynasties—the men building treble-winning teams and crafting legacies: the world lacked fresh, top-tier striking talent ready to carry the torch into the future.

The golden generation of elite forwards was aging. Many of the best were pushing past 30, still capable but no longer the foundation for long-term plans. The promising young stars? Few and far between. Romelu Lukaku in Serie A was a name that came up, but even he was struggling to meet the full expectations of a true world-class striker.

Harry Kane, undeniably world-class, was already 27—no longer the youthful rising star, but rather in his prime years.

The only truly young, world-class striker many pointed to was the Norwegian phenom in Dortmund, a mechanical marvel with an uncanny ability to score. Yet even he lacked the technical finesse and fluidity that teams dreamed of blending into a modern attacking style.

Then, out of nowhere, came Mateo.

Younger. More technically gifted. Agile with the ball at his feet. And perhaps most importantly: affordable.

After only six electrifying matches, the entire football world was going insane. Analysts, agents, and big clubs were all suddenly tuned in—eyes wide, mouths agape. This was no ordinary prospect. This was the next great hope, the perfect storm in a striker-starved era.

And they were all watching.

"Even if he isn't fully tested yet, it's not like he's expensive," the voice on the other end reasoned, calm but calculated. "Get him. If he turns out to be a fraud later, well, you haven't broken the bank. Lord knows we've paid more for less before. But if Mateo lives up to what he's shown? Then we're looking at the deal of the century."

For the biggest clubs—those with deep pockets but eyes firmly set on the future—Mateo was the perfect target. A young, hungry talent who carried minimal financial risk but potentially limitless upside. The kind of player they'd gamble on, willing to lose a few bucks in hopes of striking gold.

Mateo's smile was still wide, a rare spark of genuine joy in a storm of pressure, when his uncle's tone shifted. The celebration in his eyes dimmed as he looked up sharply, curious and cautious.

"Eh… what other things?" Mateo asked, his voice tightening just a little.

His uncle gave a knowing smile, that cold, businesslike grin that never quite reached his eyes. "It's about other teams, Mateo."

Mateo blinked, shock flickering across his face. "Other teams?"

"Yeah," his uncle confirmed smoothly. "With your performance? You really don't think it's just Barcelona that's interested in you, do you?"

Before his uncle could even start listing the suitors, Mateo's words rushed out, desperate to cut him off.

"Uncle, don't worry about all the other teams. I'm not leaving Barça. Just tell me—how much is the contract? How much are we talking about?"

He launched into a rapid-fire spiel—talking about his plans, his dreams, even the car he wanted to get with his first paycheck. The excitement bubbled out of him, words spilling fast, uncontrolled.

His uncle held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Mateo, Mateo," he said firmly, voice steady but serious.

The lightness drained from the room. His uncle leaned forward, fixing Mateo with a sharp gaze.

"Right now, Mateo, I'm not your uncle. I'm your agent. And you're not just Mateo King, my nephew. You are Mateo King, the professional football talent."

His words hung heavy in the air.

"You need to carry yourself like that. Like the professional you are becoming. This isn't just about you scoring goals in the park or making your family proud. This is your career. Your future."

He paused, letting the weight sink in.

"You have to think like a pro. Consider every option carefully. Don't just chase dreams—make the choices that will build your legacy. It's a business as much as it's a passion."

Mateo's smile vanished. His excitement faded, replaced by a serious, almost fragile calm.

"Yes," he whispered, voice low, almost trembling. "But…I want to stay at Barça."

For Mateo King, born and raised in Barcelona, who had grown up dreaming beneath the shadow of the Camp Nou lights, this was more than just football.

His dream had never been simply to be a great player anywhere.

It was to be the great player for Barcelona—wearing the iconic badge on his chest, running wild across the same fields where legends had played before him, shattering records, and etching his name as the best in Barça's storied history.

Yes, Mateo's dream soared that high—higher than most dared to think. To him, becoming the greatest player in Barcelona's history wasn't just a personal achievement. It was a declaration, a stamp of greatness that automatically crowned him the best footballer in the world. After all, to carry the legacy and pedigree of Barcelona was to carry football's highest honor.

So, in Mateo's mind, the thought of leaving Barcelona had never once taken root. The idea was almost foreign—unthinkable. And his uncle saw it clearly. He studied Mateo carefully, his brow furrowed with concern but eyes soft with understanding.

Then, after a brief pause, his uncle's face softened into a knowing smile. "Hey, just because I tell you to be serious," he said, his tone gentle but firm, "doesn't mean you have to scrunch your face like you just smelled something bad."

He sighed deeply, the weight of experience in his voice. "Listening to other offers doesn't mean you're leaving. Barcelona is still the priority—it has to be."

He leaned back, eyes narrowing with a hint of strategy. "Think of it this way: hearing out other teams? That can actually help you with your contract at Barça. You play hard to get. You show that you're in demand. It's all business, Mateo. Don't take it personal."

Mateo nodded slowly, absorbing the advice. "Okay," he said, curiosity prickling at his voice. "So… what teams are interested?"

His uncle smirked, steepling his fingers like a seasoned negotiator. "Alright, I'm only telling you about the top five league teams showing serious interest."

"In the Premier League," he started, "there are four clubs on your radar. Both Manchester teams—United has shown the most interest. Then, in London, Tottenham called. But the club with the highest interest? Chelsea."

Mateo's eyes widened slightly, his mouth twitching in surprise and amusement. He raised a brow as if picturing those teams, wondering how it felt to have such giants circling.

"Here in La Liga, Atletico Madrid has reached out. But the more proactive—and you might want to sit down for this one—we've got Real Madrid."

Mateo burst out laughing. "Madrid? Seriously?"

His uncle didn't even flinch. "Yeah, seriously. And for Serie A, Juventus has shown massive interest. Both Milan teams have made some moves, mostly AC Milan, though. No interest from Bundesliga clubs yet, but Ligue 1? Big, big interest there—Paris Saint-Germain is leading the pack."

Mateo's smile faded. The name hit him like a cold gust. PSG. They might have come late to the party, but right now, they were the ones knocking the loudest.

"They all have one request, though," Andrew added, his voice lowering.

"What request?" Mateo asked, eyes narrowing.

His uncle looked him dead in the eye. "They all want you to not sign a contract with Barcelona."

Mateo's head snapped up, disbelief and anger flashing in his voice. "What?!"

Andrew shrugged as if it was all part of the game. "It's standard. These clubs see you as flashy, talented, but untested. It won't be the first or last time a shiny new player bursts onto the scene only to disappoint later."

He continued, "Their plan is simple: get you cheap. If you turn out to be the real deal, great. If not—well, they lose nothing."

Mateo's jaw clenched hard. "Tell them I can't do that. If Barça's offer is good, I'm signing with them. And please—don't even entertain talks with Real Madrid again. No chance in hell I'm ever going there."

He paused, then added with venom, "And you can add PSG to that list too."

His uncle regarded him thoughtfully, then spoke with a calm but probing tone. "Madrid, I can understand. But why not PSG? What's really holding you back?"

Mateo's gaze flickered downward, the weight of memories shadowing his features. His uncle leaned in slightly, voice softening but firm. "You need to separate the fans from the club, Mateo. Paris Saint-Germain has the best offer on the table right now. They're even willing to let you sign with Barça first if that's what you want—but with one condition: your release clause should be not be higher than that fifty-million ballpark figure."

He paused, searching Mateo's face. "And those fans? Once you start playing for them, they'd turn around. You'd have their support."

But Mateo's voice dropped low, thick with cold finality. "I do not want them as my supporters."

Andrew's eyes met his nephew's, understanding and respect mixing in their depths. "Well," he said, a slight smile tugging at his lips, "I'm your agent, so I follow your wishes. PSG is firmly in the 'no chance' bracket. What about the others? What about the Premier League? You don't want to play in the best league in the world? Eh?"

He teased, nudging the conversation forward with light humor.

Mateo scoffed, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "England's weather is shitty. I don't like it whenever I go there. And how is the Premier League the best league in the world anyway? La Liga is the best. We have the most Champions League wins. We've beaten Premier League teams in every final we've faced. By far, we're the best league."

His uncle chuckled heartily, shaking his head in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I'm not about to argue with you on this. We both know which league is the best." He grinned. "La Liga, right?" Mateo said firmly.

"So," Andrew said ignoring his nephew he knew how Mateo liked arguments, still chuckling, "no interest in any other team? Not one you like?"

"None," Mateo said, voice steady and certain.

"Alright then," his uncle said, settling back in his seat. "Since that's settled, the negotiations with Barça will be our main priority. But Mateo, if anyone from the club approaches you, don't make it obvious that you're unwilling to leave. Playing it cool means we can negotiate the best offer possible."

Mateo nodded, a determined glint in his eyes. "No problem."

"Good. Now that's out of the way, there's still something else we need to discuss." Andrew's tone shifted to one of quiet contemplation. "As for endorsement deals… it's probably best to leave that alone for now. No serious offers have come through yet. The only pressing matter is your national team call-up

Mateo's eyes snapped to his uncle the moment he mentioned the national team call-up. There was a flicker of hope, a spark of anticipation that lit up his face.

Andrew caught the look and smiled warmly. "Yes, Mateo, you are being called up."

He leaned back slightly, a knowing glint in his eye. "Though… you are eligible to be called by England as well. And they did ask— but after that stunt with, was it Carragher? Let's just say you're not exactly the favorite of the British media right now."

Mateo's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Oo, that doesn't matter. Did Spain call?"

His uncle laughed, a deep, hearty chuckle. "I blame your dad for this lack of anything British in you, Mateo." He shook his head, amused. "But yeah, yeah, you're right. Spain did call. The coach specifically wants you for this month's World cup qualifiers."

Mateo threw his head back and laughed, the sound bright and relieved. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Andrew joined in the laughter, his eyes crinkling with pride. "Congrats, kid. You deserve it."

Mateo's smile softened, his voice warm. "Thanks, Uncle. If that's all, I should probably get going soon. Oh, and help me tell Mom I liked the food."

Andrew grinned. "Will do."

Just as Mateo reached for the door handle, ready to leave, his uncle's voice stopped him.

"Wait, Mateo… there's one more thing."

Mateo paused, hand on the door, turning slowly. "Ehn? Is there something else?"

"No," Andrew said quickly, his voice gentle but earnest. "I just wanted to say how proud I am of you. How proud we all are."

A faint blush crept over Mateo's cheeks. "Ah, ah… I told you, didn't I? Just wait. This is only the beginning."

His uncle smiled softly, placing a reassuring hand on Mateo's head. "No, truly, Mateo. I'm really proud. And I know what's going on right now. I know you. When things get hard, you tend to deflect. Hide behind a smile. But you don't have to do that with me. You're still just 17. A kid."

His tone was warm, steady — a lifeline in the storm.

"I'm here for you," he added quietly.

Mateo walked back toward La Masia, a lightness in his step and a grin that wouldn't quit. His mind was swirling with the whirlwind of recent events—the flood of calls from clubs, the buzz of the Barcelona contract negotiations, and, of course, the thrilling news of his Spain call-up. So many teams want me… insane, he thought, shaking his head in amused disbelief. And the Barça contract... it's actually happening.

He glanced up at the sky, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow on the familiar campus grounds. "I think we still have three matches before the qualifiers, right?" he mused aloud, a soft chuckle bubbling up as the reality sank in. Can't wait to tell the guys. They're gonna freak out.

Just as he let himself enjoy the moment, faint shouting drifted from the side, pulling his attention. He glanced toward the main gate and saw the protesters—still there, their voices raw with anger, banners waving, the tension thick in the air.

Mateo's smile faltered, shrinking just a little. The weight of it pressed down again.

He shook his head, a silent command to himself.

"Don't think about that, Mateo," he whispered firmly. "Just focus on the next match. Who is it again? Getafe. Just focus on that. Your sign in, yes. New match, new sign in its at the camp nou again i would probably get something good."

He squared his shoulders, the fire returning to his eyes. "Don't dwell on the negative."

Breathing in deeply, he mentally set his sights forward. Getafe—that should be my focus.

A/N

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