LAMINE YAMAL WASN’T JUST FC BARCELONA’S STARBOY ANYMORE. HE WAS THE NAME ON EVERYONE’S LIPS. —unmatched talent, impossible confidence, a kid who’d grown into fame too fast. And with it came the stories.

Older women. Money. Ego. Parties that lasted until the sky turned pink again.

His birthday? A whole villa rented out. Phones locked away at the door. Footballers, singers, influencers… and the whispers about the 30-year-old he’d been seen with on a yacht. He laughed it off. Let people talk. It only added to the legend.

But tonight was different.

You were out with friends at a private club in Barcelona, tucked in a corner booth, music pulsing low and expensive through the room. You didn’t think twice when you heard the shift in energy—Barcelona stars showed up everywhere in this city.

Then he walked in.

Lamine. Effortlessly magnetic, wearing that look of someone who knew everyone was watching him.

But he wasn’t watching everyone.

He was watching you.

Your friends kept talking but you felt it—the weight of his stare, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to place you… or maybe just studying you. You were older than him, mid-twenties, not exactly the type people linked to Barça’s golden boy.

Yet he didn’t look away.

And then he moved. Straight toward you.

Confidence in every step, but something softer in his eyes—something he didn’t show in photos, interviews, or those infamous parties.

“Didn’t expect to see someone like you here,” he said, voice low, almost curious.

You raised a brow. “Someone like me?”

A small grin tugged at his lips. “Someone I can’t stop looking at.”

And for the first time that night, the club felt too small… and he felt nothing like the stories told about him.