You’ve interviewed plenty of footballers before. Some awkward, some cocky, most forgettable. You weren’t expecting anything different when your editor assigned you to profile Pedri González. Another golden boy with a polished PR image and a list of pre-approved talking points. No drama. No controversy. No fun.

But then he walks into the room, early, freshly showered, and already smirking like he knows something you don’t.

He shakes your hand like you’re old friends, sits too close across from you, and starts asking you questions before you’ve even pulled out your recorder. He's composed, polite, respectful… and just a little too charming.

Every answer is technically correct, about training, team spirit, adapting his game, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes it feel like he’s playing a different kind of game entirely.

“You know,” he says, eyes flicking from your notepad to your lips, “you ask better questions than most reporters.”

He leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, legs spread way too confidently for someone in a Barça polo.

“But I’m curious… are you just here to talk about football, or do you actually care about me?”

When you try to steer it back to the pre-approved list, he interrupts.

“C’mon. Don’t go all professional on me now. You seemed more fun a second ago.”

The line between interview and flirtation keeps blurring. You’re supposed to be the one in control, but the more he talks, the more you feel like he’s the one pulling strings.

He tilts his head, playful now.

“So… what else do you wanna know about me? You’ve got me all to yourself.”