For once, there were no whistles. No cones. No tactical boards.
Just four Barça players, hoodies on, shades pulled low, walking the streets of Barcelona like regular teenagers—except they weren't. Luca, Gavi, Pedri, Lamine Yamal, and Raphinha had the day off, and after a heavy week of training, they decided to unwind.
They started with breakfast in the Gothic Quarter, tucking into croissants and café con leche. Fans passed by occasionally, whispering, glancing, but giving them space. It was a rare peace.
Lamine bumped Luca's shoulder. "So, LW, how's life up here with the big boys?"
Luca laughed. "Still feels surreal. Like, I'm one of you guys now… kinda."
"You are," Pedri said, nodding. "We've all been where you are. Just enjoy it. But don't get too comfortable—Hansi notices everything."
"He's right," Raphinha added with a grin. "Flick will praise you one day and bench you the next if you start slacking."
They all laughed.
As they strolled through the city, they hit up a retro sneaker store—Raphinha grabbed a rare pair of Jordans—then took a short detour to the arcade. It wasn't long before competitiveness took over.
"Alright, LW," Gavi said, holding up a basketball at the arcade hoop game. "Show us you're more than just fancy footwork."
Luca smirked. "Bet."
He sank five shots in a row. Lamine cheered. "Let's gooo! My boy's got that Mamba mentality too!"
Later, they sat at the beach, shoes off, watching the waves roll in.
"Luca," Pedri said thoughtfully, "you know your game is special, right? You move like you're dancing. Reminds me of how Ney used to float on the wing."
"I'm trying," Luca replied. "I've been working nonstop. Studying clips. Gym. Flick gave me the go-ahead to stay with the first team, and I want to be ready for anything."
Lamine tossed a pebble. "We all see it, bro. Just stay humble, stay hungry."
"You think a debut's close?" Luca asked quietly.
Raphinha raised an eyebrow. "If you keep training like you've been? Yeah. And when it comes, take it personal. First impression is everything."
They sat in silence for a moment. It wasn't just football anymore. It was about bonds. Brotherhood. Barca wasn't just a team—it was family.
—
That Evening
Back at home, Luca flopped onto the couch, still smiling.
He grabbed his notebook—something he'd started keeping after his dad suggested it—and scribbled:
"Day off with the boys. Gavi's louder in person. Pedri's wiser than he looks. Lamine = pure energy. Raphinha's got jokes.
I belong here."
He looked up at the ceiling, then turned to his dad across the room.
"Pop?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm not just gonna play for Barça... I'm gonna leave a mark."
His dad smiled, eyes full of belief. "You already are, son."