The stadium lights spilled golden over the pitch as Pedri jogged toward the center circle, the ball glued to his foot as if it belonged there. At just twenty-two, he moved with the calm of someone twice his age—and with twice their imagination.

From the bench, a new arrival whispered to the assistant coach, “He plays like he’s painting. Every pass—it’s like he sees what no one else does.”

Pedri didn’t hear it. He didn’t need to. In the next moment, he executed a perfect no-look pass that sliced through the opposing midfield like silk. Gasps rippled through the stands.

Later, in the tunnel at halftime, Gavi slapped his shoulder. “You never stop thinking, do you?” he asked with a grin.

Pedri smiled softly, wiping sweat from his brow. “No. If I stop thinking,” he said, tapping his temple, “the magic stops too.”

He stepped back out onto the field, the kind of player who didn’t just play football—he orchestrated it.