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October 9, 2026 

Pau had now developed an unfortunate habit of checking every room before entering it.

It was embarrassing, really. He had never considered himself a particularly anxious person, and he resented the fact that one confrontation in a bathroom had made him conscious of something as ordinary as opening a door. Still, whenever he arrived at Ciutat Esportiva, he found himself looking through the glass panels before stepping inside, checking the corridor before rounding a corner, and listening for familiar voices before deciding where to go.

The training sessions continued, the communications team still had deadlines, and Barcelona were preparing to face Getafe at Camp Nou the following afternoon. The world had apparently decided that Lamine Yamal’s confirmed breakup with Ines was worth discussing for another week, but not worth postponing a football match over. He only wished his own life would stop feeling like a fucking disaster long enough for him to enjoy being there. 

When he arrived at the communications department on Friday morning, the breakup was already being discussed. Two coordinators were comparing screenshots from entertainment accounts, while another member of the team scrolled through a draft of the scheduled matchday posts. The article Xavi had helped publish was still circulating, although it had been pushed down the trending lists by the newer coverage of Ines’s Instagram Live.

“Pau, morning.” Hamza approached with a paper cup in each hand. He offered one to Pau before dropping into the chair beside him.

“What’s this?” Pau asked, looking at the cup.

“Coffee. I thought you looked like you needed one.”

Pau raised an eyebrow. “You’ve known me for, what, a week?”

“Long enough to recognize the face of a man who hasn’t slept properly.” Hamza laughed, and the sound eased some of the tension in Pau’s shoulders. 

They had warmed up to each other a great lot since their introduction. Hamza was still shy around the senior members of the department, but he had a dry sense of humour that surfaced whenever he felt comfortable, and Pau appreciated having someone near his own level who understood the strange combination of excitement and terror that came with the internship.

They had barely finished their coffee when a message appeared in the department group chat.

FC Barcelona Communications Department [Social Media Division]

Sarah Salapour

Full department meeting in Conference Room B at 9:30. Matchday planning. Please bring your laptops and review the schedule beforehand.

Hamza checked the time. “That’s in five minutes.”

Pau stood a little too quickly, scrambling while collecting his stuff. Hamza followed him, laughing on the way. The communications department rarely gathered in its entirety unless something important was happening. 

When they arrived, the number of people seated around the long table made Pau acutely aware of how little experience he had compared with everyone else. Everyone responsible for the club’s matchday communications was present, from the people who planned the content calendar to those who would be moving around the stadium with cameras and equipment.

Pau took a seat beside Hamza and opened his notebook.

“Morning, everyone,” Sarah began. “We have two things to manage today. First, our regular preparations for tomorrow’s match against Getafe. Second, the increased attention surrounding one of our players, again. We need to make sure the second doesn’t interfere with the first.”

A slide appeared on the screen, showing the planned schedule for the next twenty-four hours. Sarah continued through the schedule, outlining the training content to be captured that afternoon and the planned arrival coverage. The social media team needed images for the pre-match posts, while the photography team would cover the game itself and provide material for the live updates and post-match content. 

“Now, for the match,” Sarah said, switching to the next slide. “The senior photography team will cover the full ninety minutes,” Then, she paused and looked around the room before spotting Pau. “And you, Pau, will assist with the second half under their direction. You won’t be responsible for the whole match, and I don’t expect you to cover every significant moment. Your job is to provide supplementary images from the designated position.”

Pau straightened and nodded. “Understood.”

“You’ll be working with the main photographer. Follow their instructions, keep your radio on, and check in before changing positions. Hamza will be assisting the video team, and you’ll coordinate with each other when your assignments overlap.” 

Sarah looked at both interns. “You are there to support the team, not to prove that you can do the work of three people. If the play moves away from you, let it go. If a photograph isn’t safe to take, don’t take it. If you don’t know whether you’re allowed to stand somewhere, ask before you move.”

Pau mentally underlined the last sentence. He had no intention of repeating the mistake he had made on his first day, when he had stepped too close to a training drill and found himself being reprimanded by Lamine. He was not going to give the footballer another reason to accuse him of being incompetent.

“Good,” Sarah continued. “The other thing we need to discuss is the recent media attention. I know you’ve all seen the headlines. I know some of you have been asked about it by friends or colleagues. But once again, we are not going to respond to speculation about a player’s private life through our scheduled content.”

The meeting continued for another twenty minutes. By the time Sarah closed the presentation, every member of the department had a clear assignment, the equipment schedule had been confirmed, and the team knew where to report the following morning.

“Get some rest tonight,” Sarah said. “Tomorrow will be a long day. If anything changes, I’ll send an update to the group chat. Don’t rely on secondhand information.” 

Chairs scraped across the floor as everyone began packing up. For the rest of the day, the department moved through the scheduled preparations. Pau and Hamza helped gather the training material and coordinated with the team responsible for the pre-match content. The work was ordinary in the best possible way. 

He photographed the training session under the supervision of the senior photographer, keeping his distance from the drills and paying attention to the players’ movements. Hamza recorded supplementary footage, and the two of them compared notes afterward to make sure they had not missed anything important.

Pau was feeling comfortable with the work, but then a certain someone had to ruin the momentum. 

When he spotted the intern, he stopped. “Hello again, Pau.”

Pau’s fingers tightened into a ball, enough to make his knuckles white. “Lamine.”

The footballer glanced at the equipment bag hanging from Pau’s shoulder. “You’re covering tomorrow, right?”

“That’s generally how internships work,” he replied, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the footballer’s obvious attempt to make his blood boil. 

Lamine’s expression barely changed. “I was just asking. Have a good shift tomorrow.”

For a moment, they looked at each other. Pau could feel the old argument waiting beneath the surface, the words he had not managed to say in the bathroom and the things he had said three days ago that Lamine had refused to acknowledge. Then he walked away. Just like that. 

“You okay?” Hamza asked.

Pau looked at him and forced his shoulders to relax. “Fine.”

Hamza looked unconvinced, but did not press. They finished their tasks shortly afterward. Pau returned the equipment, checked that the files had been transferred, and confirmed the following day’s schedule with Sarah. She reminded him to arrive early and told him to contact her if he had any questions before matchday.

By the time he left Ciutat Esportiva, he was exhausted. Not simply tired from the work, but drained by the constant effort of keeping his face neutral whenever Lamine came within sight. He was sick of having to decide whether every ordinary sentence was a provocation. 

When he got to his dorm, he prepared his bag for the next morning. He laid out his clothes, set his alarm, and checked the matchday schedule one last time. Tomorrow, will photograph a real first-team match, work alongside the people whose jobs he had spent years admiring, and contribute to the coverage of Barcelona against Getafe.

He should have been thinking about the opportunity. Instead, he found himself remembering Lamine’s voice in the corridor. “Have a good shift tomorrow.”

Pau dropped his phone onto the bed. “Fuck you,” he muttered. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

October 10, 2026 | 8:30 A.M. | Match Day

Pau woke before his alarm, his mind already racing. For several seconds, he lay still beneath the blanket, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember why his heart was beating so quickly. He checked his messages and found one from Marc, sent a few minutes earlier.

Asshole #1

Asshole #1

GOOD LUCK TODAY DIPSHIT!!

Your favorite person

You’re a pain in the ass

Asshole #1

And yet you love me

So proud of you, estúpido!!

And yes, only I can call you that

Pau rolled his eyes and grinned. Marc had a way of making encouragement sound like an insult, but Pau knew what he meant. Whatever happened with Xavi, whatever happened with Lamine, Marc had not stopped being his friend. Pau could use that today. 

Everything was going according to plan. He showered, got dressed, and brushed his teeth. He left early enough to avoid the crowds. 

The closer he got to Camp Nou, the more the city seemed to change around him. Supporters in Blaugrana jerseys gathered outside cafés, groups of friends walked toward the stadium, and families stopped to take photographs outstide of the stadium. 

Pau found himself smiling. He had been to Barça matches before. He knew the smell of grass at Camp Nou and the rhythm of the crowd, but he had never experienced a matchday like this.

He was not here as a supporter who had paid for a ticket. He was here as an intern carrying an assignment and a set of responsibilities that would determine whether his work was on par with industry standards. The realization made his stomach flutter.

When he entered the stadium, the working areas were already busy, with staff carrying equipment, checking schedules, and coordinating access. Pau found the designated meeting point and collected the equipment assigned to him.

Sarah was waiting nearby. “Morning, Pau! How are you feeling?”

“Excited,” he admitted, though his voice didn’t quite pick it up. “Nervous, too.”

“Good! That means you understand the responsibility.” She checked the time before looking back at him, then gave him a reassuring smile. “All right. Let’s get you settled.”

Hamza joined him a few minutes later, already carrying the video equipment he would be using. He looked more awake than Pau felt, though the dark circles beneath his eyes suggested that he had also spent the night worrying about the day ahead.

“You ready?” Hamza asked.

Pau looked toward the pitch. He saw the sea of people donning the Blaugrana, chanting and cheering for the club. It was pressuring.  “Hell no.”

Hamza laughed. “At least you’re honest.”

When the first-team players began arriving for their pre-match preparations, his excitement returned with enough force to make his fingers tighten around the strap of his equipment bag.

Hamza nudged him lightly. “Stop staring.”

Pau laughed and lifted his camera. The warm-up had begun, and the working areas gradually found their pace. Players moved through stretches and short passing drills, the ball travelling quickly between them as they prepared for the match. Pau followed the senior photographer’s instructions, taking note of the angles they preferred and the moments they anticipated.

He photographed the group from the permitted position, making sure the images were sharp and that he did not cut anyone out of the frame. He adjusted the focal length to capture both wider shots of the team and tighter images of individual players, checking the results before moving on. Hamza worked nearby, recording the footage needed for the pre-match material.

“Can you get a wider shot of the group?” the other intern asked, lowering his camera briefly. “I want to match it with the footage I’m taking.”

Pau nodded then stepped back to get a better angle. He captured several frames as the players gathered for the next drill. He paid attention to the background, making sure the image remained clean, and waited until the players were moving naturally. 

He checked them on the display, feeling a small burst of satisfaction when he found a sequence in which the players’ movements lined up almost perfectly. That was what he loved about photography. A photograph required him to make a decision in a fraction of a second. Where to stand, when to press the shutter, which expression to preserve, which movement to anticipate. He could not control the match, but he could control how he approached the moment in front of him.

He wanted to capture people as they were, not force them into a narrative that someone else had decided they should fit. That principle had become more important to him since the incident with Xavi. A story could be shaped by what a person chose to include, and a photograph could be made to suggest more than it actually showed.

As he was deep in thought, Lamine entered the field of view again. The winger moved through the warm-up with the energy that had made him one of the most recognizable young players in football. When the ball reached his feet, his movements seemed instinctive, as though he could see the next three possibilities before everyone else had decided what to do.

Pau hated that he could admire the footballer and despise the person at the same time. Admittedly, it would have been easier if Lamine were terrible at his job. It would have been easier if the rest of the department treated him with the same wariness Pau had learned to feel around him. Instead, Lamine behaved like someone who understood exactly how to be pleasant when he wanted to be.

You’re not going to spend the entire match watching him. He needed that reminder. He had a job to do, and he was determined to do it well.

The warm-up continued until the players finished their final stretches and returned toward the tunnel. The communications team coordinated the last pre-match material, while the senior photographers prepared for kickoff. 

The stadium was filling, and the sound of the crowd seemed to grow with every passing minute. Pau watched the players emerge for the final preparations. The noise rose into a roar as the teams took the field, Barça and Getafe’s colors spreading across the pitch.

At this point, Pau wondered whether Lamine ever felt nervous. Whether the winger ever stood somewhere before a match and worried that one mistake might ruin everything he had worked for. Then, he remembered everything what the player did to him after making a mistake. Pau felt all sense of empathy leave his body after that. Fuck him. 

The pre-match formalities came to an end, and the players took their positions. Pau watched as the referee prepared to start the game, the crowd settling into a brief, expectant quiet before the first whistle. Then, the match kicked off.

Barcelona pressed aggressively from the opening minutes, moving the ball forward and forcing Getafe to defend deep. Pau watched from his assigned working area, his excitement difficult to contain. He followed the movement of the game, observing how the main photography team responded to the action.

The first goal came almost immediately. Anthony Gordon received the ball near the edge of the area, drove past two defenders, and struck toward goal. Pau heard the roar before he fully registered what had happened. The Englishman made his first goal for the club, and he was there to see it. 

He turned toward the celebrating players, instinctively following their movement. Gordon was surrounded by teammates, and the main photographers were already working, capturing the celebration. Pau observed their timing.

They did not simply chase the players once the goal had been scored. They anticipated where the celebration would happen and positioned themselves to capture the players’ embrace, the raised arms, and the brief interaction between teammates.

He mentally marked the position where the celebration had taken place and imagined the angle he would have chosen if he had been covering it. 

Pau listened to the commentary in the stadium and followed the action with the concentration he usually reserved for important assignments. 

Football was beautiful when it unfolded like this, when a sequence of decisions and movements came together so quickly that it looked effortless from the stands. A pass was not merely a pass, it was a calculation, a small act of trust between players who had to believe the other person would understand what they intended to do. Pau found himself smiling at the thought.

Around the half-hour mark, Gabriel Jesus pressed the Getafe defence, won possession, carried the ball into the area, and finished across goal. The stadium erupted again, and Pau followed the celebration, watching the photographers find their positions to capture Jesus and his teammates. 

By the time the first half approached its conclusion, Barça was leading 2–0. Pau was buzzing with excitement, but the work had kept him grounded. 

When the referee blew for half-time, the crowd remained loud, and the players headed toward the tunnel.

Pau checked his radio, and Sarah’s voice came through a moment later. “Pau, come over with your secured equipment. We’ll go through your second-half position.”

He acknowledged the instruction and made his way toward the designated media area. Sarah was standing beside the senior photographer, reviewing the next set of requirements on a tablet. 

Her face was visibly excited, a smile running through her lips. She looked up and waved as the intern approached. “Pau! Finally you’re here. Exciting game we have going on!” 

“Yeah! My mind was racing all throughout, I didn’t know where to focus,” he replied, voice also containing the same energy that Sarah had. 

Sarah smiled as she stepped closer towards Pau and angled the tablet so he could see the senior photographer’s shots of the match. “This is what we’re looking for. General action, close-ups when the play comes into your area, and reactions after significant moments.”

Pau nodded. “Got it.”

“And remember your position.” She pointed at an area encircled behind the goal line. “You’ll be assisting from here. If the play moves away from you, let it go. Keep your radio on, and if anything happens, call for help. Don’t try to handle everything by yourself.”

Pau nodded, mentally absorbing everything that was just said. Before heading to his position, he checked his camera settings, made sure the lens was secure, and tested the autofocus with a few shots. 

Hamza caught up with him shortly afterward. “Ready?”

Pau exhaled slowly. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

He checked his radio again, fixed the camera in his hands, and returned his attention to the pitch. The second half was about to begin.

The players returned to the field, and the crowd rose to greet them. The first few minutes were a blur of movement as the teams returned to their positions. Pau shivered with anticipation as he lifted the camera and looked into the viewfinder. A few seconds later, the second whistle was blown, and the second match was underway.

Barcelona continued to dominate possession, moving the ball across the pitch while Getafe attempted to push forward with greater urgency. Pau followed the action through his viewfinder, keeping his feet planted within the area he had been assigned and tracking the play as it moved toward him.

The camera felt heavier than it had during training, perhaps because he was more aware of every movement he made. He kept his elbows tucked close to his body, adjusted the shutter speed when the play quickened, and used continuous autofocus to keep the moving players sharp.

A pass went forward, then backward, then across the pitch. Lamine received possession near the right side and accelerated, forcing a defender to turn and follow him. Pau tracked the movement, taking a short burst of photographs as the winger attempted to find space.

For a moment, he forgot everything else. He forgot the breakup headlines, the department meeting, the argument in the corridor, and the threat Lamine had made in the bathroom. He forgot the way the footballer had looked at him during training and the way he had spent the past few days anticipating another confrontation.

Lamine moved with the ball, drawing a defender toward him before releasing a pass. Barcelona recovered possession, and the play moved toward the center.

A few minutes later, Gabriel Jesus made a run into the area, chasing a cross from the left. The goalkeeper moved to intercept, and the ball was cleared before the Brazilian could reach it. Pau captured the scramble, checked his focus, and returned to the action.

“You’re doing great, Pau!,” Hamza called from a nearby position when the play paused. 

He gave him a quick thumbs-up without taking his eyes off the pitch. He was starting to enjoy himself. He could feel his confidence growing with every successful sequence.

Then Lamine received the ball again, the play developing quickly along the right flank. Pau followed the movement, his camera rising instinctively.

When the winger looked up, there was a fraction of a second in which he seemed to assess the field, searching for an option. A teammate was cutting into the area, another player was moving into space behind the defense, and the defenders were beginning to close around him.

Lamine swung his leg, the ball leaving his foot with far more force than Pau expected. 

It was an attempted assist, a delivery intended to reach the teammate making the run, but the timing was off. The ball travelled far beyond the cluster of players. Pau saw it coming too late.

He had been tracking the movement through his viewfinder, trying to capture the pass and the run developing in front of it. The ball came toward the sideline at a vicious angle, faster than he could process.

His body barely had time to respond. The ball struck the camera as he was bringing it down from his face. The impact drove the hard body of the camera back toward him, and one of its corners slammed into the lower right side of his face.

For a split second, there was no pain. There was only a sharp, blinding jolt, the sudden sensation of losing his balance, and the awful sound of the camera hitting the ground as his hands failed to keep hold of it.

Pau stumbled backward and fell, one hand flying to his face. The stadium seemed to erupt around him, but the noise reached him strangely, as though he were hearing it from underwater. 

He could see movement in the corner of his vision, people turning toward him, someone raising an arm to call for help. He tried to sit up, but the ground seemed like it was moving beneath him.

“Pau!” Hamza’s voice cut through the noise.

He blinked, trying to focus. The other intern was suddenly beside him, crouched at his side, his expression stripped of the nervous humour that usually softened his face. 

“Pau, don’t move. Stay still for a second, okay? Just stay still.”

Pau tried to answer, but his mouth felt strange. His face was throbbing now, the pain arriving in uneven waves. He pressed his hand against the injured area and it felt warm and strangely wet.

He looked down, and he saw streams of dark red coloring his fingers. For a moment, his mind refused to connect what he was seeing to what had just happened.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered.

“Don’t touch it,” Hamza said quickly, catching his wrist before he could press harder. His voice shook despite the effort he made to keep it steady. “Pau, don’t touch your face. Keep your hand away from it.”

Pau stared at him, confused. “What happened?”

Hamza’s expression changed. “You were hit by the ball and the camera took the impact. Don’t move, all right? The medics are coming. Please.” Hamza’s voice broke slightly. He swallowed and tried again. “Please, just stay still. Sarah’s coming.”

Pau could hear people calling to one another. The match had stopped, or at least the movement around him had changed. He could no longer tell where the ball was. His vision seemed to narrow at the edges, and he struggled to keep his attention on Hamza’s face.

He was dizzy. He was confused. And he could not understand why his cheek hurt so much. 

Sarah arrived with a member of the matchday staff, her expression tense but controlled. She knelt beside Pau, careful not to jostle him. “Pau, can you hear me?”

He nodded.

“Good. Keep looking at me. Can you tell me your name?”

He stared at her, thrown by the question. “Pau,” he answered faintly. “Pau Cubarsí.”

“That’s right. You’re at Camp Nou, and you’ve been injured. The medical team is on the way. Don’t try to stand up.”

Pau swallowed. His throat felt dry. “Sarah, the camera-”

“I know.” Her voice softened. “We’ll deal with the camera later. This is not your fault. Do you understand me? You were doing your job.”

She glanced toward Hamza, who was still crouched beside him. “Stay with him. Keep him still until the medics arrive.”

Pau tried to look around again. He could see people gathering at a distance, the matchday staff directing others away from the area. He thought he heard someone asking whether he was conscious. Another voice answered that he was.

Then the medical team arrived. They approached with a stretcher and a medical bag, moving with the urgency of people who had dealt with emergencies before. One of the medics knelt beside Pau and introduced himself, speaking slowly and asking him a series of questions.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“The ball,” Pau said. He paused, struggling to find the right words. “It hit the camera, then the camera hit me. Everything’s a bit strange.”

The medic exchanged a glance with his colleague. “All right. We’re going to take you for an assessment. Try not to move your head too much.”

They examined the wound, applying pressure and preparing to move him. Pau flinched when one of them carefully lifted his hand away from his face. He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Sorry,” the medic said. “I know that hurts. We’re going to get you taken care of.”

Pau nodded, though he wasn’t sure he had heard the whole sentence. As they helped him onto the stretcher, his eyes drifted toward the camera again. 

It lay several feet away, its strap twisted beside it. The lens had struck the ground, and the camera body was at an angle that made Pau’s stomach drop.

It was ridiculous. He was lying on the ground with blood on his face, feeling as though the stadium were moving beneath him, and he was still thinking about the camera. The expensive professional-grade Canon EOS R3. 

It had been the first piece of equipment he had ever been trusted to use for an assignment at this level. And now it was lying on the ground because he had been hit by a football. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to cry.

The medics began moving him away from the pitch, and Hamza followed until a staff member gently told him to return to his assignment.

“I’m coming to check on you,” Hamza promised, leaning close enough for Pau to hear him. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”

The last thing he saw before they took him inside was the bright green of the pitch, the players gathering in the distance, and Sarah standing beside the damaged camera with an expression he could not quite read. Then the stadium disappeared behind the corridor doors.

As he was being carried on the stretcher, the motion combined with the lights above only made him feel more dizzy. He closed his eyes, but the faint glow found a way to enter and irritate him. When they arrived at the medical room, it was way brighter, which didn’t help the situation.

He was placed on an examination bed while a doctor assessed his injury, asking him to follow a finger with his eyes and checking whether he could move his jaw comfortably. Another staff member took his vital signs and asked him to repeat the details of what had happened.

Pau answered as best he could. The questions were simple, but his thoughts kept drifting. He knew where he was. He knew the date. He knew Barcelona were playing Getafe and that the score had been 2–0 at half-time. He could remember the ball coming toward him, the sudden impact, and the sensation of falling. But everything after that seemed blurred at the edges. 

The doctor examined the wound on the lower right side of his face and explained that it would need to be cleaned thoroughly and closed with stitches.

Pau stared at him, struck with confusion. “Stitches?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. “The wound is deep enough that we need to close it properly. From the initial assessment, we’re looking at around ten stitches. We’ll clean it, make sure there’s no debris in the wound, and then close it.”

Ten. Pau repeated the number in his head. Ten stitches.

It sounded like something that happened to other people. People in dramatic television scenes or athletes who collided during a match, even strangers whose injuries were described in news reports and forgotten by the next day. 

Not him. He was supposed to have spent the afternoon taking photographs.

“Is it going to leave a scar?” he asked.

The doctor did not offer false reassurance. “It may. The wound is on your face, so we’ll do our best to close it neatly, but I can’t promise there won’t be a visible mark. Once it’s healed, we’ll give you instructions on how to care for it and when to return for follow-up.”

Pau nodded slowly. He could not think of anything else to say.

A nurse prepared the necessary supplies, and the doctor explained each step before beginning. Pau was given pain relief and local anaesthetic to numb the area. He tensed at the initial discomfort, gripping the edge of the examination bed while the nurse reminded him to breathe.

“Take your time,” she told him. “You don’t need to be brave for us. Just tell us if you feel faint or if something hurts more than it should.”

Pau gave a weak laugh. “I think I’ve already used up all my bravery for today.”

She smiled sympathetically. “Then we’ll do the rest.” 

He appreciated that she didn’t tell him everything would be fine. 

The doctor began cleaning the wound. Pau turned his face away as much as he could, his fingers tightening around the edge of the bed whenever the pressure became uncomfortable. Even with the pain relief, he could feel the movements around the injured area. He kept his eyes fixed on a point near the ceiling and tried to concentrate on the nurse’s voice.

He was not particularly squeamish. He had photographed sports injuries before and understood that football was a physical game. But it was one thing to see an injury through a viewfinder and another to sit still while a doctor worked on his face.

He blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. The doctor worked carefully, closing the wound while explaining what he was doing and checking Pau’s comfort throughout. By the time the final stitch was placed, Pau’s shoulders ached from remaining tense for so long.

“All right,” the doctor said at last. “That’s done.”

The nurse helped clean the remaining blood from his face. She moved gently, explaining that the area might remain tender for some time and that he should avoid touching or putting pressure on the wound. The doctor gave him instructions for aftercare and explained that he would need to return for follow-up.

Pau listened, nodding when appropriate, though he knew he would need the instructions repeated once his head felt clearer.

“Because you reported dizziness and disorientation after the impact, we want to monitor you for a while,” the doctor told him. “You shouldn’t leave until we’ve reassessed you and confirmed that you’re doing well. If you develop worsening symptoms, you need to tell us immediately.”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll need someone to accompany you when you leave.”

“Okay.”

The doctor studied him. “How are you feeling now?”

Pau considered the question. His face hurt. His head felt heavy. He was exhausted, embarrassed, and increasingly aware that the match was continuing without him.

“I don’t really know,” he admitted.

“That is an acceptable answer.” The doctor nodded and left him to rest while the nurse finished documenting the treatment.

Pau leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes. For the first time since the ball had hit him, he had nothing to do. No camera to lift, no instructions to follow, no radio to monitor. He could not help with the match, and he could not undo what had happened. All he could do was sit in a medical room with ten stitches in his face and wait for his head to stop spinning.

The thought finally caught up with him. There were ten stitches currently on his face. There was a possibility of it leaving a scar. The universe really enjoyed toying with him since he started his work here. 

He had wanted this internship so badly. He had wanted to prove that he could do the work, that he could handle the pressure, that he deserved to be there. He had spent the past few weeks trying to make himself smaller around people who could decide whether he stayed, careful not to give anyone a reason to question his place at the club.

And now he had been injured while doing the assignment he had been given. He could already imagine the questions. What had happened? Where had he been standing? Had he followed the instructions? Had he been paying attention?

He knew the answers. He had been in the designated area and he had followed the instructions. He had been doing his job. Still, the questions made his stomach tighten.

The door opened, and Sarah came in carrying his bag. Her expression softened immediately. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit in the face by a football,” he said, face heavy, making it hard for him to articulate clearly. 

For a second, Sarah looked as though she might laugh. Then she seemed to remember the circumstances and settled for a small, sympathetic smile. “Fair enough. The doctor told me the procedure went well. They’re going to keep you here for observation before deciding when you can leave.”

Pau just nodded, not really grasping the full extent of what she was saying. Sarah set his bag on a chair and pulled it closer. “Do you need anything?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m okay,” 

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

He looked down at his hands. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“You can say that you’re upset. Or that you’re in pain. Or that you’re worried about something. You don’t have to make this easy for everyone else.” Sarah pulled the chair closer and sat down. “Can you tell me what you remember?”

Pau described the sequence as best he could. The ball had come toward the sideline after Lamine attempted a pass into the area. Pau had been tracking the play through his camera. He had started to lower it, but the ball had arrived too quickly. The impact had driven the camera back into his face.

“Did you see the ball coming?” Sarah asked.

“Not properly. I was looking through the viewfinder. I saw it at the last second, but I couldn’t get out of the way.”

Sarah nodded, listening carefully. “Were you standing in the position we agreed on?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone tell you to move?”

“No.”

“Were you trying to get closer to the play?”

“No.” Pau’s answer came out sharper than he intended. He took a breath and continued more quietly. “I was in the area you showed me. I wasn’t moving toward the pitch.”

“I believe you, Pau. I’m not asking these questions because I think you’ve done something wrong. I need to understand what happened so we can document it accurately and make sure the appropriate people are informed. That’s my responsibility. And you don’t need to make any decisions about your work today. You’re injured, you’ve had a frightening experience, and you’re still being monitored. You can leave the rest to me for now.”

Pau nodded again. He wanted to believe that the rest could be left to someone else. He wanted to stop thinking about the camera, the assignment, the internship, and the possibility that everything he had worked toward could be disrupted by a few seconds of bad luck.

“Did they stop the match?” he asked.

“Only briefly while the medical team attended to you. The game continued once you were safely inside.”

Pau looked toward the door. “And Hamza?”

“He’s back with the team. He wanted to stay, but I told him I would keep you company and that he needed to finish his assignment.”

“Is he okay?”

Sarah’s expression softened. “He was shaken, but he’s fine. He was worried about you.”

He hadn’t even thought about what Hamza must have seen. One moment they had been working side by side, and the next Pau had been on the ground with blood on his face. “Tell him I’m sorry he had to deal with that.”

“I’ll tell him. But I think he’d rather hear that you’re doing all right.”

Sarah remained with him, asking occasional questions and making sure he was comfortable. When the nurse returned to reassess him, Sarah stepped aside to give her room. Pau tried to keep track of the conversation, but exhaustion was beginning to catch up with him.

His phone vibrated inside his bag. He could hear it, but the thought of reaching for it felt like too much effort.

“Your phone’s going off,” Sarah said. “Do you want me to get it?”

Pau hesitated before nodding.

She retrieved it and checked the screen. “It’s someone called Asshole #1,” Sarah said, raising an eyebrow. They sent you several messages.”

Pau had the urge to laugh, but his situation wouldn’t permit it. “Of course he has. Can you tell him I’m okay? Just that I’m being looked after and I’ll call him later.”

Sarah typed a brief message with his permission and set the phone beside him. “Anything else you need?”

“No. Thank you,” Pau said as he closed his eyes. He could not remember the last time he had felt so tired.

…

Pau woke up to the sound of voices in the corridor. For a moment, he did not know where he was. The room was quiet, the lights still bright, and his face felt stiff beneath the dressing. He blinked slowly, trying to orient himself.

He spotted Sarah standing near the door, speaking to someone outside. She turned when she noticed he was awake. “Hey. How’s the dizziness?”

“Better, I think.”

“Good. The doctor will come by again before you leave. Don’t rush yourself.”

Pau nodded and moved slightly towards the table near the bed, grabbing his phone. There were several unread messages from Marc, a couple from Hamza, and one from an unfamiliar number that he assumed belonged to someone at the club. He did not have the energy to open any of them.

“What’s the score?” he asked.

Sarah looked up. “Three-nil.”

Pau blinked. “Three?”

“Koundé scored in the seventy-third minute. We won, Pau.”

Before he could ask more questions, a knock sounded at the door.

Sarah turned toward it. “Come in.”

The door opened, and the last person he wanted to see was there. Lamine stood inside the doorway, his hand still resting against the handle. He had changed out of his kit, but his hair was damp with sweat, and his clothes stuck to his body. He looked as though he had come straight from the dressing room, barely giving himself time to clean up before rushing his way to the clinic.

“Sarah,” Lamine said, his voice quieter than usual. “Can I talk to him for a minute?”

Sarah looked at Pau, silently asking if he wanted the player in the room. The gesture was subtle, but Pau appreciated it. Truthfully, he did not want Lamine in the room. He did not want to hear another excuse, another explanation, another carefully controlled sentence that would make the incident sound like an unfortunate inconvenience rather than something that had happened to a real person. But he wanted to know why Lamine had come. He wanted to look him in the eye and see whether the footballer had finally understood what he had done.

“It’s fine,” Pau said, though the words came out stiffly.

“I’m going to speak with the medical staff about your discharge instructions,” she said carefully. “I’ll be just outside. Call me if you need anything.”

Pau gave a short nod without taking his eyes off Lamine as the door clicked shut behind her. The footballer took a few steps forward but stopped well short of the bed, his gaze moving briefly to the dressing on the injured boy’s face.

“I heard you needed stitches,” he said. “Ten, right?”

Pau stared at him. “Wow. You can count.”

Lamine’s jaw tightened. He looked down for a moment, accepting the insult without returning it. “I came to see how you were doing.”

“Did you?” Pau asked, his voice sharp enough to make the question sound like an accusation. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“I know you’re angry.”

“Do you?” Pau let out a humorless laugh, then immediately regretted it when the movement pulled at the wound. He winced, his fingers instinctively rising toward his cheek before stopping when he felt the dressing. The pain only made him angrier. “Do you actually know what I’m angry about, Lamine, or did someone tell you that I was being difficult again?”

“I’m not here to argue with you.”

“Of course you’re not.” Pau moved forward to the edge of the bed, planting both feet firmly on the floor. His head still felt heavy, and there was a faint dizziness whenever he moved too quickly, but he refused to let either thing show. “You’re here to apologize, probably. Say you didn’t mean it, tell me it was an accident, and then walk out of here feeling better about yourself because you did the decent thing and checked on the intern you nearly sent to the hospital.”

Lamine’s expression hardened at the edges. “I didn’t nearly send you to the hospital. You’re already here, and the medical staff are taking care of you.”

Pau’s mouth fell open slightly. For a second, he could hardly believe what he had heard. Then he laughed again, this time without even trying to hide the bitterness in it. “Are you fucking serious?”

Lamine went quiet.

“No, genuinely. Are you serious right now?” Pau demanded. “I’m sitting here with ten stitches in my face. The camera worth thousands of euros entrusted to me is damaged. I can barely move my cheek without feeling like someone is driving a nail into it, and you’re correcting my wording?”

The footballer took a deep breath, closing his eyes before looking back at the boy in front of him. “I’m not saying you weren’t hurt. I’m saying I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“And you think that fixes everything?”

“No.” Lamine’s answer came quickly, his voice still controlled, but there was a tension in his shoulders that had not been there when he first entered. “I don’t. That’s why I’m here. The cross went too far, the ball came toward the touchline, and I saw what happened. I should have been more careful. I’m sorry.”

The apology hung between them. For someone who had spent days imagining what it would feel like to hear those words from Lamine, Pau found that they did absolutely nothing to soothe him. There was no sudden relief, no satisfaction, no sense that the last few weeks had finally reached some kind of resolution. 

All he could think about was the cold bathroom wall against his back, the fist twisted into his shirt, and the quiet threat that had followed. “You’re a nobody here.”

Pau could still hear it. He remembered the way his stomach had dropped, the way his legs had nearly given out after Lamine walked away. He remembered calling Marc because he could not bear the thought of getting on a train and crying where strangers could see him.

And now Lamine was standing in front of him, apologizing as though this were one unfortunate afternoon that could be separated from everything that had come before it.

“You know what the worst part is?” Pau asked.

Lamine watched him warily. “What?”

“It’s that I actually believe you.” Pau swallowed. His throat felt tight, but he forced himself to continue.

“I believe you didn’t mean to hit me. I believe you weren’t looking at me when you crossed the ball. I believe that, for once, you probably didn’t wake up this morning and decide to ruin my fucking life.” His voice rose with every sentence. “But do you know what I don’t believe? I don’t believe you understand what you’ve done to me. And I don’t believe you give a damn unless it starts affecting you.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“Fair?” Pau repeated, almost choking on the word. “You want to talk to me about fair?”

“I came here to apologize, Pau.”

“And I’m telling you that your apology isn’t enough!” The words burst out of him before he could stop them. His voice cracked on the last word, and he hated that more than anything. He hated that his anger had become so big that it was beginning to shake through his body.

“You’ve treated me like I’m beneath you since the day I got here. Like I’m some idiot who wandered onto the pitch and needs to be reminded where he belongs. I apologized to you when I made a mistake during training. I apologized twice, actually, because I thought maybe you’d had a bad day and I’d caught you at the wrong moment. I gave you the benefit of the doubt because I didn’t know you yet.”

Lamine opened his mouth, but Pau raised a hand.

“No. You’ve had plenty of opportunities to speak. You can listen for once.”

Lamine closed his mouth. His eyes remained fixed on Pau, and although his expression was carefully neutral, his hands had curled into fists at his sides.

Pau drew a shallow breath. “Then you called me an idiot under your breath. You made it clear that you didn’t think I deserved basic respect. Fine. I told myself you were an asshole, and I went back to work. I did my job. I took your pictures, I followed instructions, and I stayed out of your way. I didn’t ask you to like me. I didn’t ask you to be nice to me. I asked for nothing except the chance to do the work I came here to do.”

His voice grew rougher as the memories came faster. “And then the article happened. I never sent that story to the press. I never gave anyone permission to publish it. I told a friend what happened because I thought I could trust him, and he betrayed me. I was already terrified that I’d lose my internship because of something I hadn’t even done. I spent an entire morning thinking I was about to watch my future disappear because someone else had decided my private conversation was useful.”

He looked straight at Lamine. “And what did you do?”

Lamine’s jaw worked, but he said nothing.

“You grabbed me.” The words came out quieter than the rest, but they landed harder. “You followed me into the bathroom, cornered me in a cubicle, grabbed my shirt, and shoved me against a wall. You threatened my career because you thought I’d gone to the press. You told me I was a nobody and that you could make sure I’d never work in a newsroom again.”

Pau could feel his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. His face hurt, but the memory hurt differently, opening up a familiar knot of fear and humiliation that he had been trying to bury for a week.

“Do you remember that?” he asked. “Or have you managed to forget it already?”

“I remember.”

“Good. Because I haven’t forgotten a single second of it.”

Lamine looked away, his lips pressed together.

“You know what I did after you left?” Pau continued. “I sat on that bathroom floor because my legs were shaking so badly I couldn’t stand up. I called my remaining friend to come get me because I couldn’t even trust myself to get home without breaking down. And the next day, I still came back here. I still did my job. I still acted professionally because I was terrified that if I complained, you’d make good on your threat.”

Lamine raised his hand, trying to defend himself. “I wasn’t going to-”

“You said you would!” Pau shouted.

The sudden volume startled them both. Pain flared along his cheek, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. For a moment, the room seemed to tilt slightly, but he held himself upright, refusing to let the dizziness force him back against the bed.

“You said it, Lamine. You looked me in the eye and told me you’d make sure I never worked in a newsroom again. Don’t stand there and pretend you get to decide what that meant after the fact. You don’t get to threaten someone and then rewrite it as though they were supposed to understand that you didn’t really mean it.”

Lamine’s composure finally showed a visible crack. His brows drew together, and he took a breath as if he wanted to defend himself. Whatever argument had been forming seemed to die before it reached his mouth. “I was angry,” he said eventually. “You thought you had the right to put your hands on me.”

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, you fucking shouldn’t have.”

Pau’s voice shook. He hated how close he was to tears, but he was no longer willing to confuse keeping himself together with keeping quiet. He had spent so long trying to be the reasonable one, the professional one, the intern who knew his place. He had swallowed his anger because Lamine had the reputation, the influence, and the power to make his life difficult. He was done.

“And now this.” Pau gestured toward his face, then stopped when the movement pulled at his stitches. His hand dropped to his lap. “Now I get to walk around with a scar because of you.”

Lamine’s eyes went to the dressing again. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Pau leaned forward, his gaze burning into Lamine’s. “You don’t know what that means to me. You get to go back to your life. You get to go back to training, play another match, score another goal, give another interview. People will cheer for you. They’ll post your pictures, talk about your assists, call you talented, call you brilliant. And in a few days, most people will have forgotten that I was even there.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Pau challenged. “How long do you think it’ll take before this becomes just another match? Another win? Another clip of you doing something incredible on the pitch? How long before nobody remembers the intern who got hurt on the touchline? But I’ll remember,” Pau’s voice lowered. “Every time I look in the mirror, I’ll remember this. When the wound heals and the stitches come out, I’ll still have to look at the mark it leaves behind. I’ll have to touch my face and remember the ball hitting the camera, the pain, the confusion, and the sound of everyone shouting while I tried to figure out what had happened.”

He took a shaky breath. “And I’ll remember who was responsible for it.”

Lamine’s face had gone still. He looked genuinely stricken, but Pau found that he could not bring himself to care. The sight of Lamine looking sorry did not erase the scar that might remain. It did not give him back the afternoon he had imagined spending documenting his first professional match without ending it in a medical room. It did not repair the camera that had been entrusted to him for work, or undo the humiliation of being treated as though his safety mattered less than Lamine’s anger.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Lamine said. His voice was lower now. “I swear to you, Pau. I wasn’t trying to hit you.”

Pau stared at him for a long moment. “Do you honestly think that’s the point?”

“I’m trying to explain what happened.”

“And I’m trying to explain what it feels like to be on the other side of you.” Pau’s hands clenched against his knees. “You keep talking about what you intended, what you meant, what you thought. Have you ever stopped to consider what it’s like to be the person who has to live with the consequences of what you do?”

Lamine’s expression tightened. “I have.”

“When?” The question came out immediately. “When have you ever considered what it’s like for me? When you ignored me? When you insulted me? When you threatened me in that bathroom? When you stood in front of Sarah and acted like we could all just move on because the department had agreed to handle the article professionally?” 

Pau shook his head, disgusted. “You can control your face, your words, your little public appearances. You can stand in front of a room full of people and look like the most reasonable person alive. But the second you think someone has crossed you, you decide you can do whatever the hell you want.”

“That’s not who I am.”

“Then you should have tried being someone else when you had me pinned against that wall.”

The words silenced him. For the first time since entering the room, Lamine looked as though he had no answer at all. His gaze dropped, and the muscles in his jaw tightened so hard that Pau could see them working beneath his skin.

Pau should have felt satisfied. Instead, he felt exhausted, as though he had spent the last week carrying a weight that had finally become too heavy to hold without putting it down.

“I don’t care if you meant to hurt me today,” he said. “I care that you have made me afraid of you. I care that I have spent the last week wondering whether doing my job is going to give you another reason to come after me. I care that I had to convince myself to come back to this place because I was scared of what you might do if you decided you were angry with me again.”

His eyes burned, but he refused to look away. “And now I have to deal with this. I have to deal with the pain, the stitches, the possibility of a scar, and whatever happens to my internship because I was standing in an approved position doing exactly what I was told to do. I did everything right today, Lamine. For once, I did everything right, and I still ended up here.”

His voice broke slightly. He swallowed hard, furious at himself for it, and pressed his lips together until he could speak again. “So don’t stand there and tell me you’re sorry as though I’m supposed to make you feel better about it. I am not here to absolve you. I am not going to tell you that it’s fine when it isn’t. And I am not going to pretend that one apology makes you a better person than you were yesterday.”

Lamine took a slow breath. “I’m not asking you to say it’s fine.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

“I’m asking you to believe that I’m sorry.”

Pau looked at him, and something bitter twisted in his chest. “You want me to believe you?” he asked. “After everything?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should have thought about that before you made it impossible for me to trust you.”

Lamine flinched. It was small, almost imperceptible, but Pau saw it. For once, the words had reached him without being softened by the status that usually surrounded him. He was not an untouchable footballer in front of a camera, nor a player whose reputation needed protecting. He was simply a person standing in a medical room, facing someone who had every reason to be angry with him.

The sharpness of Pau’s voice seemed to fill the room. He was breathing too quickly now, and his face throbbed with every heartbeat, but the anger kept him upright. He had never spoken to Lamine like this. Not during training, not in the hallway, not when he had been frightened enough to beg him not to ruin his future. The difference was that Pau no longer had the energy to be afraid of the consequences of telling the truth.

“You want to know what I think?” Pau asked. “I think you’re used to people making excuses for you. I think you’re used to getting away with things because you’re Lamine Yamal and everyone is too busy protecting the image of you to hold you accountable for the person you are when nobody’s watching.”

Pau straightened as much as his aching body allowed. He was still pale, still exhausted, still sitting on a medical bed with a bandage on his face. But he no longer felt like the frightened intern in the bathroom, desperately trying to persuade a more powerful person not to destroy his future.

“You don’t get to do this anymore,” Pau said. “You don’t get to threaten me and then expect me to keep my mouth shut. You don’t get to treat me like I’m beneath you because I’m an intern. And you don’t get to hurt me, accidentally or otherwise, and decide that your apology means I have to make peace with you.”

“I am not your punching bag. I am not your scapegoat. I am not some disposable person whose job is to stay quiet so you can have a comfortable day. I have a name, I have a future, and I have every right to be here. I earned this internship. I earned the chance to do this work. You do not get to make me feel like I have to be grateful for the privilege of being treated like a human being.”

The room fell silent. For several seconds, Lamine did not move, his expression turned into something unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders remained. When he finally spoke, his voice was restrained. “You’re right about the bathroom.”

Pau blinked, caught off guard by the admission.

“I had no right to grab you or threaten you,” Lamine continued. “I was angry about the article, but that doesn’t excuse what I did. I should never have spoken to you that way, and I shouldn’t have put my hands on you.”

“And I’m sorry about today,” Lamine added. “I know that doesn’t change what happened. I know it doesn’t take away the pain or the possibility of a scar. But I am sorry, Pau. I never wanted you to get hurt.”

For a moment, Pau could see the effort it was taking Lamine to stand there and say it. There was no audience, no camera, no statement to polish. Whatever he was feeling, he had to face it without the usual distance between himself and the people around him.

Pau might have appreciated that under different circumstances. Today, it only made him angrier that Lamine had waited until he was sitting in a medical room with ten stitches in his face to acknowledge what he had done in the bathroom.

“Good,” Pau said flatly. “You should be sorry.”

The answer seemed to catch him off guard. Pau held his gaze, refusing to soften the words. “But being sorry doesn’t mean you get forgiveness. It doesn’t mean I trust you. It doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being angry because you finally admitted that threatening me was wrong.”

Pau drew a careful breath, feeling the ache in his face and the fatigue settling into his limbs. He had said everything he had wanted to say, but there was no relief in it. The past weeks remained exactly as they were. The threat had happened. The injury had happened. The scar might still happen. Nothing Lamine said could reach backward and make any of it disappear.

“I want you to leave,” Pau said.

Lamine hesitated. “Pau-”

“Leave.” His voice was quieter, but there was no uncertainty in it. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you today. I don’t want another explanation, another apology, or another attempt to convince me that you’re not the person I think you are. I want you to leave me alone.”

Lamine studied him for a moment. Pau could see the impulse to say something else, perhaps to defend himself one last time, but Lamine eventually nodded.

“All right.” He turned toward the door, then stopped with his hand on the handle. “I’ll make sure the club takes care of the equipment and whatever you need because of the injury,” he said without turning around. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that on your own.” Lamine stood motionless before opening the door. He left without another word.

Pau remained still, staring at the space where he had been standing. His hands were trembling again, and his chest felt painfully tight. The anger had carried him through the confrontation, but now that Lamine was gone, the exhaustion began to catch up with him. Beneath the bandage, the wound continued to ache. Somewhere beyond the medical room, the stadium was still celebrating the victory, and the rest of the club was already moving on to the next match, the next training session, the next story.

Pau wondered how long it would take for everyone else to forget what had happened. He knew he wouldn’t. Perhaps the scar would fade. Perhaps it would remain visible for years. Either way, it would belong to Pau, just as the memory belonged to him. Lamine did not get to decide what it meant, and he did not get to demand that Pau turn it into a story about forgiveness.

For the first time since starting the internship, Pau understood something that had eluded him throughout their conflict. He had spent so much time worrying about the power Lamine held over him that he had forgotten the power of his own account of what happened. Lamine could deny his intentions, explain the accident, and offer to pay for the damage. He could be sorry. Hell, he could even change. But none of those things meant Pau had to stay silent.

The club had a responsibility to him. His university did, too. He had been doing his job in an approved area, following instructions, when he was injured. He had already been threatened by the same person whose actions had now left him needing medical treatment. 

Whatever Lamine wanted to believe about their relationship, Pau did not have to protect him from the consequences of it. A few weeks ago, Pau had been afraid of losing everything he had worked for. 

Lamine had spent weeks making Pau feel powerless, as though the only way to survive the internship was to keep his head down and accept whatever treatment came his way. But Pau had done nothing wrong by getting hurt. He had done nothing wrong by being angry. And he had nothing to apologize for by refusing to make this easier for the person responsible.

He was still hurt. He was still furious. He was still terrified of what the mirror might show him once the bandage came off. But he was no longer going to protect Lamine at his own expense. For once, Pau would not be the one to turn the other cheek. 

He now had power, and he would never, in any circumstance, surrender it.