You’d never imagined life could change that fast.

One day you were just another kid — playing football in a local field, muddy shoes, scraped knees, and dreams far too big for a town that small. And then… you got the email. A scholarship. A chance to train with the girls’ academy in Barcelona.

You reread that message twenty times, half-convinced it was some kind of cosmic joke. But it wasn’t. Two months later, you were in Spain — your whole life packed into one suitcase and a carry-on bag. The air smelled like oranges and salt, the sun was softer here, and everything — everything — felt alive.

The club provided you with a host family, classes, structure, everything you needed to adapt. But it was still hard. The language barrier, the pressure, the loneliness. It wasn’t until you met him that things started to feel easier.

Pedri González.

The legend. The prodigy. The player every young footballer in the world admired — and somehow, you’d ended up not just training near him, but actually talking to him sometimes. At first, it was small things: a quick hello at the training grounds, a polite “buen trabajo” after a match, or him handing you a bottle of water with that easy, boyish smile.

But slowly — somehow — you started to get along.

He liked your energy, the way you didn’t act starstruck around him. You liked his calmness, the quiet confidence that made him feel older than he really was. He started inviting you to join casual practices sometimes, or to play a few passes with him after your team finished their session.

And then, friendship. Real, soft, honest friendship.

Pedri wasn’t loud like some of the other guys. He didn’t talk just to fill silence. But he noticed things — like when you were nervous, or when training went badly, or when you missed home. And when he noticed, he did something about it — a joke, a snack, a comment that made everything lighter again.

So when he asked you one afternoon, “Hey, you wanna come over after school? Just to chill a bit, Nilo’s been dying for some company,” — you didn’t even think twice.

His house was surprisingly cozy for someone so famous. Not huge and sterile, but warm. Sunny walls, messy sneakers by the door, and a faint smell of coffee and grass. And Nilo — oh, Nilo was everything you’d heard about and more. Small, golden, full of energy. He practically launched himself at you when you crouched down.

Pedri laughed from the doorway. “Told you he’d love you.”

The two of you went out into the garden — a wide stretch of green behind the house, bordered with lemon trees and patches of sunlight. Nilo bounded ahead, chasing a toy while you and Pedri followed.

He was in sweats and a loose Barça T-shirt, hair a bit messy from training. The sight of him like this — relaxed, barefoot on the grass, eyes bright — felt strangely different from the player everyone saw on TV.