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Chapter Text

“Is he dead?”

Pablo immediately jolted awake, blinking furiously as he rubbed his eyes gently.

“No, you idiot,” a second voice snapped. “He’s awake.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“Why should I know?”

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“Actually, though, how did he get in here?”

“You know, he kinda looks like you, Bojan. If you cut your hair.”

“He does not look like me,” the first person protested. “He looks more like Xavi.”

“If Xavi brushed his hair and actually took time to style it for once, then yes.”

“Xavi?” Pablo’s vision finally came into focus. “Xavi, I-”

He was laying on a bench in the Ciutat Esportiva dressing room, the same locker room he had used nearly every day for the past three years, since he started training with the first team under Koeman.

Except, something seemed off.

This wasn’t the locker room he knew. This locker room didn’t have the giant, framed photo of their league win from last season hanging over the doorway. It didn’t have the plate of homemade oatmeal cookies from Lewy’s wife that he had brought in that morning sitting on the table in the corner of the room. He could just see Félix’s locker out of the corner of his eye, and it was missing Cancelo’s crudely hand drawn gag birthday card from back in November taped to it.

Pablo strained to read the names written on the four nearest lockers, expecting to see his own name on his locker, followed by “FERRAN”, “PEDRI”, and “LEWANDOWSKI” written in small letters on each one. Instead, his name was replaced with Xavi’s, while the name that should have been Ferran read “GUDJOHNSEN”, and then “INIESTA” and then “ETO’O”.

Is this a joke?

How long was I asleep for them to do this?

“So? Who the hell are you?”

The midfielder finally sat up slowly, getting a good look at the four boys surrounding him. They were all around his age, and were wearing blue, vintage training jerseys, and were looking at him like he had three arms.

It only took Pablo a second to realize he knew every one of the boys crowded by his feet.

Busi was one of them, easily recognizable by his tall, lanky figure, but he had a noticeably more youthful face. Another was Bojan Krkić, who Pablo knew pretty well from his job as Barça’s football coordinator in La Masia. The third player was obviously Pedro, another Barça legend and current Lazio player.

And the fourth- The fourth boy, who was staring at Pablo with confusion- Was the spitting image of a young Lionel Messi, complete with messy, brown hair and raised eyebrows.

No. It can’t be him.

“Busi?” Pablo said immediately, turning to look at the man he knew best, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “What’s happening?”

“Sergio?” The Messi look-alike stared at Busi. “Do you know this kid?”

He shook his head slowly, scrunching his eyebrows. “Never seen this guy before in my life.”

“Busi, what are you talking about?” Pablo pleaded as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He knew he was sounding desperate and scared, but he didn’t care.

“Busi- It’s me. Pablo. We played together for two years before you retired at the end of last season-”

“The hell do you mean, retired?” Busi scoffed. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m twenty. I’m not planning on retiring any time soon, unless you know something I don’t.”

“Maybe he’s confusing you with your dad,” Pedro suggested.

“Definitely not, my dad retired over six years ago,” Busi frowned again. “Either this guy has severe memory issues, or he’s just… Not mentally there.”

“I am just fine mentally, thank you very much.”

“Then why the hell are you calling me “Busi” and acting like we’re best friends or something?”

Why the fuck is he acting so weird?

“I never said we’re best friends-” Pablo finally stood up, wincing slightly as he put weight on his bad knee and leaned against what should be his locker for support. “We played together. You were my captain. Last year.”

“I don’t think a newly promoted, former reserve team player is the captain ,” the Messi look-alike said.

“No shit, genius,” Pablo was beginning to feel pissed off. “Clearly, there’s something wrong here,” he paused. “So, then, who put you up to this? Fermín? Ale? Pedri? And how long was I asleep? More than an hour? Please don’t say more than an hour, my coach will kill me-”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, or who those people are,” Busi looked weirded out. “We just got here for training to find some guy sleeping in front of the vice captain’s locker.”

“Just call security,” Pedro suggested. “Mister will be annoyed if we’re not outside on time, even if it’s because some psycho broke into the dressing room.”

“I didn’t break in, this is my dressing room and my locker,” Pablo snapped as he gestured to the #6 locker with “XAVI” written in the top right corner in small letters. “Where the hell is Xavi?”

“Why would we know? He’s probably with the manager.”

“He is the manager.”

“One day, I hope,” the boy who looked like Messi joked.

What the fuck is going on?

“He’s delusional.”

“Agreed. I’m going to go get security.”

That was the last thing Pablo heard before he hit the floor.

****

“So, who the hell are you?”

“Shut up, Sergio.”

“You shut up. This guy needs to answer.”

“Mate. He’s unconscious.”

“Once he wakes up, obviously-”

Oh good lord. I thought this fever dream would be over by now.

“All of you need to shut up right now.”

Pablo slowly opened his eyes again, his hand immediately touching his forehead. There was a throbbing pain in his head that seemed to be getting worse every second, but at the moment, that was the least of his worries.

He glanced around quickly, and it didn’t take long for him to realize he was laying in a hospital bed in a private room at Ciutat Esportiva. He had, unfortunately, become quite familiar with the hospital wing ever since his injury, and recognized where he was almost immediately.

The four players from before were surrounding him again, along with some security officer, who looked incredibly pissed off that he was dragged over here.

“What’s your name?” the security officer asked gruffly, once he had noticed Pablo was awake.

“Pablo,” the footballer answered.

“Great answer, maybe be a little less specific next time,” Pablo boy who looked like Pedro said sarcastically, and the Messi-like person hit him over the head gently.

“Hey!”

“Pablo Gavira,” the footballer amended. “Pablo Martín Páez Gavira, technically, but nobody calls me that. You can call me Pablo. Or Gavi. Or Páez. My coach calls me that sometimes if he’s annoyed with me. Or you can call me anything else, I don’t really care that much.”

“That’s good for you,” the security officer looked entirely unimpressed. “Alright, kid, did you break in?”

“For the last time, I didn’t break in, I play for this team,” Pablo answered, exasperated. But he had a bad feeling that nothing he said was going to be able to convince them.

“You definitely don’t play for this team,” Bojan cut in. “And you’re not on Atletic, either- How old are you? Are you on Juvenile A or something?”

“I’m nineteen, and I haven’t played for Juvenile in over three years,” Pablo answered indignantly. “It’s me, Gavi. We know each other. You’ve been meeting with me weekly ever since I got injured- Why are you acting like an idiot, Bojan? We know each other.”

Bojan did a double take and his eyes grew wide. “How do you know my name, too?”

“You’re a pretty popular footballer, dimwit,” Messi told him.

“No-” Pablo spluttered. “Or- I mean, yes, you’re famous, but, I know you because you’re La Masia’s football coordinator.”

“What the hell?” Bojan wrinkled his nose. “I just got out of La Masia, not planning on heading back anytime soon.”

This is NOT happening.

“You lot need to shut up,” the security guard sighed, glaring in Bojan’s direction. “You said he was just laying in the dressing room?”

“Yeah, in front of Xavi’s locker,” Busi answered.

“My locker.”

“Yeah, right,” Bojan scoffed.

“He claimed that we played together,” Busi continued. “And then he passed out. Again. We found him passed out in the locker room. He seems to have some sort of issue with that.”

“You hit your head on the floor,” Pedro told him helpfully, and Pablo instinctively reached up to touch his head again, wincing at the pain.

That explains why I probably now have a concussion. Brilliant.

“What’s up with your knee?” The security guard prompted, and Pablo glanced over at the knee brace on his right leg.

“ACL tear,” Pablo answered. “Back in November. I’m not allowed to be on the field yet, only doing cardio work, and I’m still supposed to wear this as a precaution, just to control the motion in my knee- How do you not know this?”

“We don’t have anyone on the first team with an ACL injury,” the security guard answered. “We definitely don’t have anyone on the first team named Pablo Gavira.”

“Pretty sure he’s some psycho fan who’s trying to get autographs or something,” Messi mused. “You know, I would sign a jersey for you, you didn’t have to break in and make yourself black out multiple times.”

“I didn’t break in, or make myself do anything,” Pablo insisted, getting more and more frustrated. “Look, whoever the hell you are all, there’s clearly something wrong here. Where’s Xavi?”

“How do you know Xavi?” the security guard asked.

“He’s my coach- Can I just talk to him? Please?”

“He’s probably on the field right now,” he answered. “Where you lot are supposed to be.” He gestured toward the four players.

“This is the second time now he’s claimed Xavi’s the manager,” Busi told the security guard, ignoring what he had said about where they were supposed to be.

The guard took a step back, looking at Pablo oddly. He eyed him up and down for a few moments before speaking again. “Hey, Pablo, or whatever your name is, what year do you think it is?”

“That’s a dumb question, it’s 2024.”

He wished he never heard the next sentence from the security man.

“Kid, it’s 2009.”

Pablo hit the floor again.

****

Xavi already had a headache.

He had barely gotten any sleep this past week. Their first leg against PSG was five days ago, they had a league game two days ago, and now tomorrow would be possibly the most important game of the season. The second leg against PSG.

But of all the things he was preparing for in the next couple days, he was certainly not expecting to see Pep Guardiola staring at him from across his desk.

Did I fall asleep again?

Xavi was in his office, he knew that, but this was not the way he was used to seeing his office. All of his pictures of his family and the current team, as well as photos his players had taped to the walls, were taken off and replaced with pictures from their 2006 UCL title, and squad photos from over ten years ago.

“Pep- I- What?”

“What are you doing at my desk?”

“Your desk? It’s my desk, are you alright?”

“Why aren’t you outside with everyone else?” Pep asked sharply. “Is everything okay? And why do you look so… different? Old?”

“Forty-four is not old,” Xavi snapped. “That’s really ironic, coming from somebody who’s pushing fifty-five.”

Why the fuck does he look so young?

“The hell are you talking about?”

“Listen, Pep,” Xavi stood up. “You know you’re welcome to stop by anytime, I love you, but why now? Don’t you have the Madrid game in a few days?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Pep repeated. “We don’t play Madrid for another couple weeks.”

“No, I play Madrid next week. You play Madrid in two days.”

“Last time I checked, we have the same schedule,” Pep answered dryly.

“And last time I checked, you’re supposed to be in Manchester.”

“And you’re supposed to be in a jersey, not whatever the hell that is-”

Xavi glanced down at his black training jacket. “I’m with you on that, at least it’s better than last year’s.”

“Just get outside. Please.”

“What is wrong with you?” Xavi raised his voice slightly, getting more and more pissed off. “You can’t just walk in unannounced and try to tell me what to-”

He stopped short as the office door opened and a clean shaven Gerard Piqué stepped inside.

“Ah, Geri, there you are, did you know Pep was stopping by today…”

Wait. He shouldn’t be here, either.

Xavi stopped suddenly as the defender stared at him, dumbfounded. “Wait, Geri?”

Geri was still staring at Xavi. “Why do you look so old?”

“I am not old.”  

“And what the hell is Spotify?” Geri gestured to Xavi’s jacket.

“Music platform, idiot. They’re our sponsors, aren’t they?”

“I’ve heard of them,” Pep offered. “But they are definitely not our sponsors.”

If Xavi didn’t know any better, he’d think he was somehow transported back to the late 2000s. It was the only way to explain why Pep and Geri looked so young, and why they were even there in the first place. But that answer was way too ridiculous to believe.

This, however, was definitely not right.

“There’s something very wrong here,” Pep said, voicing Xavi’s thoughts.

“Unfortunately.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, Xavi!”

The midfielder glanced up from where he was kneeling as he tied his boots to see Puyol jogging over towards him.

“Hey, Carles,” Xavi jumped to his feet, greeting his teammate. “Mister’s still not out yet? It’s nearly nine. It’s unusual for him, being late.”

He glanced a few years away, where most of his teammates and the coaching staff were gathered, but his manager still wasn’t in sight.

“Yeah. A couple of the kids, too,” Puyi explained. “He’s probably talking to them, I think he was pretty pissed at Leo, he’s been going out late too often. Ronnie and Deco rubbed off on him too much,” he paused. “I’m not sure what happened to the others, though.”

Xavi was about to reply to his teammate, before he heard someone call out his name. He swiveled around to find the assistant coach, Tito Vilanova, walking towards him with an odd look on his face. For some reason, a security guard was beside him.

“Hey, Xavi, can we talk to you for a moment?” Tito said, raising his eyebrows. “It’s nothing bad, don’t worry. At least, I don’t think it is.”

“Uh, sure,” the footballer agreed, brushing past his teammates to head over to Tito, trying to ignore the stares. “Is… Something wrong?”

“I hope not,” Tito replied, chuckling as he put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Apparently, there’s some kid I told Alejandro over here that I don’t know who he is, so I’m not sure if you want to go talk to him, or…”

“What’s his name?” Xavi asked. “I wasn’t expecting anybody, so unless I know him, it’s probably just some fan of the team.”

Tito looked a the security guard, who answered the question for him. “Pablo Gavira. He said he’s nineteen years old. Definitely a Spaniard. Claims to be a first team player.”

Xavi frowned. “I have no idea who that is. What’s he saying about me?”

The security guard glanced Tito, who shrugged. “I think it’s best if you just come with me so you can see for yourself, I’m not sure how to explain it.”

“Alright, I’ll come with you,” Xavi relented. He glanced at Tito, who nodded in approval.

“Go ahead, I’ll let Pep know where you are, whenever he comes outside.”

“Xavi, is everything okay?” Puyi asked, making his way over.

“I honestly have no idea,” he muttered under his breath, putting his hand over his moth so nobody else could hear. “There’s some kid who’s claiming to know me, I said I’d go meet him.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“Yes, but I honestly don’t know what’s going on so it’s probably best if I just go alone. If I disappear, it’s probably because I got kidnapped by this kid or something along those lines.”

His teammate laughed darkly. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“Xavi, we better head over,” the security guard interjected, glancing at his phone as he stepped forward, closer to Xavi. “For all I know, he’s passed out again.”

Xavi blinked. “ Again?”

“Yeah, that boy is… Interesting. You need to come see for yourself.”

****

“So, this is weird.”

Pep nearly face palmed at his player’s attempt to break the silence.

“Geri- Just- Go to training. Please.”

Piqué frowned. “Wait, Mister-”

“You know what? You can go home. Take the day off.”

“But-”

“You were great against Bayern last night. You can take the day to rest.”

“Mister, I didn’t even play last night…”

Pep took a deep breath, trying to avoid Xavi’s gaze. He was positive his former teammate was smirking, either that or he was still in shock.

“Geri… Please. Go outside, go home, I don’t care, just please keep whatever the hell is going on here to yourself for now.”

Piqué finally relented, holding his hands up as he walked out the door slowly.

Pep waited until the younger man had disappeared down the hallway before slamming the door shut and twisting the lock.

Finally, he turned around to look at Xavi. He was standing with his arms crossed under his chest, still looking completely stricken as he leaned against the desk for support.

They stayed like that for a few moments, just staring at each other, neither one of them daring to say a word, before Pep finally took a step forward.

“You’re not the Xavi Hernández I know, are you?”

“Sounds like it, unfortunately,” Xavi drummed his fingers on his desk. “This is exactly the sort of shit that would happen to me before an important game.”

There is absolutely no way this is what I think it is.

“I’m going to take a guess that, wherever you think you’re from, I’m not coaching Barça, am I?”

Xavi grimaced. “That would be a correct guess,” he paused for a moment. “You haven’t coached Barcelona in over a decade, Pep. I’m the current manager.”

Holy crap.

“Over a decade,” Pep repeated. “A decade,” he hesitated, almost afraid to hear his player’s (ex-player?) answer. “What year do you think it is?”

“2024, last time I checked,” Xavi replied dryly. “April 15th, 2024.”

“It’s April 15th, 2009.”

“Of fucking course.”

Pep watched as Xavi ran his fingers through his hair thoughtfully.

“What- Is this a normal occurrence for you?” he snapped. “How often do you supposedly- If you’re even telling the truth here- Time travel fifteen years into the past?”

“Unfortunately, this is my first experience,” Xavi retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Pep, Believe me when I say I would rather be anywhere else but here right now.”

“Why, what happened this year that makes it so bad?” he tried to avoid sounding as curious as he was.

“Nothing bad,” Xavi assured. “But tomorrow, we’re playing what might be our most important game of the season, and now I’m… Stuck in 2009, or whatever the hell this is.”

“Hey, Xavi,” Pep reached over to grip his player’s shoulder. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but we’ll figure it out, and get you home. I promise.”

The other man shrugged him off, looking dumbfounded. “You do realize this is insanity, right? It’s 2024. It has to be 2024. I just don’t believe this.”

Pep sighed, finally, beckoning Xavi over to look at his laptop. “Check out the date, then. I’m not lying to you, unless you think I changed the date on here.”

April 15th, 2009

Xavi’s face was ghost white.

“But how?” he whispered, his eyes widening as he stepped back a few stops. “That’s impossible, Pep, you must have changed the date on that, because that’s- that’s-”

“Completely ridiculous, I know. But obviously something’s wrong here, and we need to talk about what we’re going to do.”

If he was being entirely honest, Pep had know idea what the hell he was going to do. After all, it wasn’t every day that an older version of one of your players appeared in your office, claiming to have your job fifteen years in the future.

Xavi looked like he was getting more and more distraught, so Pep was about to say something to comfort him, or at least attempt to comfort him, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Xavi looked at him frantically, shaking his head wildly, and Pep had to agree with him. It would be pretty catastrophic if somebody were to walk in and see an aged up version of their vice captain, who was supposed to be on the training pitch right now.

“Sorry, not now!” Pep shouted out frantically. “I’ll be out in a few minutes!”

“Mister?” Fuck, it was Leo’s voice. “It’s really important. Bojan and I wanted to come find you.”

What the hell?

“Oh, what now?” Pep muttered so only Xavi could hear, before he raised his voice slightly to reply to Leo.

“What's going on? Why do I need to do something?”

“There’s a kid a bit younger than me who randomly appeared in the locker room- Pablo something or other? It’s a bit ridiculous, he’s claiming to be from the future and that he knows Xavi, but we just talked to Xavi and he has no idea who he is…”

Pep swiveled around to look at Xavi, who had turned, if possible, even more pale.

Pep blocked out Leo’s voice as he looked at Xavi.

“You know who that is, don’t you?” he whispered.

Xavi exhaled. “Looks like I’m not alone here.”

****

Xavi wasn’t sure who he was expecting to find in the infirmary, but it certainly wasn’t a teenager who nearly burst into tears when he saw him.

“You really have no idea who I am?” the boy asked, his voice quiet. “Busi? Bojan? None of you even know who I am?”

Xavi shook his head slowly as his younger teammates looked at each other. “Sorry, I’ve never seen you in my life,” he looked at his teammates. “You said he hit his head?”

“Multiple times,” Leo assured. “But he was acting weird before. Kept repeating that he plays for the team.”

“According to him, the year is 2009,” the security guard added. “I wanted to check with you before I take this lad to the hospital to get him checked out for brain damage.”

“What?” the boy panicked. “No, I’m fine, I don’t need to go to the hospital, I just… Is President Laporta here?”

Xavi glanced at the security man. “I don’t think Presi’s here right now. Somebody could probably call him, though.”

“I’ll contact his secretary right now,” he told Xavi, stepping away as he pulled out his cell phone.

Xavi stared at the teenager, who was sitting up on the hospital bed, looking small and skinny among a sea of blankets. “What’s your name, again?”

“Pablo,” he clarified. “Pablo Páez Gavira, I go by Gavi on my shirt.”

He frowned. “Spelled like me?”

“Yeah,” Pablo said. “I wear #6, too.”

“I wear #6 right now,” Xavi said, but an uneasy feeling was growing in his stomach.

“I think we’re way past that,” Sergio interjected. “This guy really thinks the year is 2024.”

“Yes, it is!” Pablo exclaimed, breathtaking heavily. “Pedro, you’re supposed to be in Italy, Bojan’s retired and currently working for Laporta, Xavi is our manager, and you two are playing for Inter Miami right now!”

“What the hell is Inter Miami?” Leo asked, frowning. “And why do I play for them?”

“David Beckham, long story.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“You got fucked over by Laporta- Well, it wasn’t entirely his fault, more like by Barto- and then by PSG.”

“Also doesn’t help.”

“What does PSG have to do with anything?” Sergio scoffed.

“Nothing to do with you, with him,” Pablo jerked his head in Leo’s direction.

“I wouldn’t go to PSG willingly, I’m not crazy.”

“You didn’t really have a choice-”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Xavi finally interjected. “Pablo… I’m sorry kid, I really don’t know who you are.”

The kid looked crestfallen. “You all promise you’re not messing with me?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Xavi? You really don’t know who I am?”

He shook his head. “I’d probably look a lot different in fifteen years, wouldn’t I?”

“Eh, you discovered hair gel unfortunately, but other than that you look pretty much the same.”

“No, we’re not joking,” Sergio clarified. “It really is 2009, I don’t know what to tell you.”

Pablo turned ghost pale. His left hand was gripping onto the bed rails so tightly it was starting to turn white.

“I think I’m going to pass out again.”

“Please don’t,” the security man swiveled around, putting his phone down. “President Laporta’s on his way, hopefully.”

“He’ll at least hear me out, right?” Pablo panicked “I’m not insane, I swear. I don’t need to go see a doctor.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m honestly too tired to deal with this, and I have to get back to work, anyways. I’ll let Laporta deal with you.”

Xavi watched as the security guard sauntered off, muttering something about needing to take some aspirin for his headache when he gets home.

“Should someone go get Pep?” Sergio asked. “He’s probably furious since we haven’t shown up to training all morning.”

“I haven’t seen him yet today, actually,” Xavi told his younger teammate. “He wasn’t in the gym earlier, and then he wasn’t on the pitch. I don’t think Tito knew where he was, either.”

“Maybe he time traveled,” Bojan laughed, rolling his eyes.

“That’s not funny,” Pablo sniffled, clutching the corner of one of his blankets.

Xavi genuinely felt bad for him. Whether he was actually from fifteen years in the future or not, he was still just a teenager, and he must be feeling pretty scared.

“I’ll go check the mister’s office,” Leo decided, looking at Xavi for his opinion.

Xavi nodded in agreement. “That’s a good idea. Go ahead, Leo.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bojan offered, and the two of them walked out of the infirmary room together, heading down the hall.

That left Xavi alone with Sergio, Pedro, and the kid on the bed, who was looking like a little boy who couldn’t find his parents.

“What position do you play?” Xavi asked, partly out of curiosity but mostly just to break the awkwardness.

“Well, I’m a midfielder,” Pablo explained. “You make me play left wing sometimes, ‘cause of injuries and we barely have any wingers, but I’m fine with it.”

“Injuries, as in you?” Sergio asked, gesturing to Pablo’s knee.

“Yeah,” Pablo touched his knee gently. “This was from November, it was a Euros qualifiers with Spain, against Georgia. We were already qualified, so it was kind of a pointless game for us, but whatever.”

Xavi felt cold. “Why did it happen? Were you overplayed?”

“Nah, that’s what happened to my teammate, Pedri, when he was younger, with the manager before you. He’s pretty much okay now, though, but he’s still pretty injury prone. It was different with me though, I just landed wrong. It can happen to anyone, you said it yourself.”

“It happened to me in 2006,” Xavi found himself saying. “During training. Same thing, I just landed wrong.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pablo said, and the room fell silent again.

“So, what happens this year?” Pedro spoke up. “What trophies do we win? We’re on track for the treble this year.”

Pablo’s lips tightened. “Not sure if I should say anything.”

“Oh, but you had no problem telling us about your injury?” Xavi said, lighthearted. “Come on, go ahead and tell us.”

“Well, it’s not that, it’s-”

Pablo stopped short of his next word when the door swung open and Leo and Bojan appeared in the doorway, two other men behind them.

Xavi did a complete double take when he saw who was next to Pep, at the same time as he heard Pablo gasp.

“Xavi?”

Chapter Text

“You know who that is, don’t you?” Pep’s voice was uncharacteristically low as he stared at Xavi, who could only feel his headache worsening.

He ran his fingers through his hair, looking at the direction of the door. “Looks like I’m not alone here,” he breathed. “What the fuck do we do?”

“Mister?” he heard Leo Messi’s voice call out again. “Is everything alright?”

Xavi raised his eyebrows as he looked at his former coach and teammate, who seemed to be frozen in place.

“Well, Mister?” he muttered mockingly.

“There’s not much we can do, we can’t keep this from them if they’ve met someone from your time,” Pep said, his words barely audible. He cleared his throat, and then called out, much louder, “You can open the door, Leo.”

Even though he was expecting it, Xavi wasn’t ready for the moment of shock that hit him when the door swung open to reveal a twenty one year old Lionel Messi and a teenaged Bojan Krkić, both of whom’s mouths dropped open as soon as they laid their eyes on Xavi.

Seeing a severely aged down Pep had scared him enough, but this… This was different. Leo and Bojan looked like kids .

Because they were kids.

“Xavi?” Bojan gaped, his eyes widened. “Why do you look so old?”

“I am not old,” Xavi snapped, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Pep stifle a laugh. “Hello, Bojan.”

“Holy. Fuck,” Leo said slowly. “That mental guy is telling the truth, isn’t he?”

“But how?” his teammate cut in.

“Believe me, we’re still trying to figure that out ourselves,” Xavi said with a hint of sarcasm.

“We?” Leo choked. “Mister, are you from 2024, too?”

“Thankfully, no,” Pep assured. He then paused, turning around to look at Xavi again. “Who the hell is Pablo?”

“One of my players,” Xavi answered, at the same time as Leo replied, “Some guy who’s claiming to be a first team player in fifteen years.”

“Yep, that lines up,” Xavi groaned when he heard what the Argentine said. “I know exactly who he is. I have no idea how he would have gotten here, but I only have two players named Pablo, and one of them is on loan currently,” he paused. “You said I- Or, younger me- Doesn’t know who he is?”

“Yeah.”

The manager closed his eyes slowly and then reopened them, blinking a few times. “Pablo’s probably panicking right now,” he muttered. “Where did you two leave him?”

Leo visibly flinched. “He’s with Sergio, Pedro, and… Well, you.”

“Oh, so he’s in safe hands,” Xavi said sarcastically.

His heart was pounding so much that he could barely think straight - All he knew was that he was somehow stuck in the past, with no way to get back home, and he needed to find Pablo.

“I have to go talk to him,” Xavi started towards the door.

“Wait-” Leo held his hand to prevent his older teammate from immediately rushing out into the hallway. “There’s something else. Something you should probably know about.”

Pep coughed, raising his eyebrows. “What?’

“Well-”

“Leo, what did you do?”

He winced. “We had someone call President Laporta.”

“You did what?” Xavi choked. “Fuck-”

“To be fair, we thought Pablo was mental,” Bojan said, immediately jumping to his teammate’s defense. “But, in any case, I don’t think Laporta will be here anytime soon, so we can probably get him out of the building beforehand. And even if he does get here, we can just say we realized he’s a friend of someone’s, or something along those lines. Make something up.”

Xavi nodded. “But still, I should probably get out of here, too. I don’t think it will help much for Presi to see me.”

Pep nodded in agreement. “You lot are insistent on making my job harder,” he groaned. “So, where is this Pablo kid?”

“He’s waiting in the hospital wing,” Leo explained, and Xavi’s eyes widened.

“What happened?”

“He’s fine, at I think he is. Well, we found him unconscious in the dressing room, and then he kinda passed out again and hit his head pretty badly. We thought his brain got fucked up or something because he kept repeating he played for Barça and you were his coach, but that’s apparently true, so I guess he’s fine.”

“I sure hope so,” Xavi muttered under his breath. He cleared his throat. “Alright, then, let’s go to the hospital wing.”

****

“Xavi!” Pablo breathed, immediately jumping up to greet him. He paused for a moment, feeling a little uneasy, his eyes scanning the older man up and down. Thankfully, Xavi looked the same as he did when Pablo saw him before he somehow woke up in the 2009 dressing room, with the same dark, spiky hair and 2023-2024 training clothes.

 “You are from the same time as me, right? From 2024? Not from 2050 or some shit?”

He could hear a choking noise from behind him, and a few gasps of shock, most likely from the younger Xavi, but he ignored it for now, instead rushing over to embrace his manager.

“From 2024,” the older man assured him. He gripped Pablo’s shoulder firmly with his right hand. “Are you alright? Injured? Leo said you passed out-”

“Yeah, I’m okay, but what the hell is going on?”

“No idea,” another voice cut in.

Pablo swiveled around, and with a jolt, he realized a younger, thin-haired and very annoyed-looking Pep Guardiola was there as well.

If this was under any other circumstances, Pablo probably would have been starstruck by the fact that he was in the same room as Pep Guardiola and Lionel fucking Messi (not to mention Xavi), but instead he just felt more sick every minute. It was becoming more and more painfully obvious that Pablo was somehow stuck in the past with no way home.

At least he wasn’t alone. 

“We need to get you two out of here,” Guardiola said firmly, walking over so he was closer to the two of them. “Those two over there-“ he tilted his head in Leo and Bojan’s direction. “Decided it would be a good idea to get Laporta involved.”

“How the fuck were we supposed to know he’s from the future?” Leo defended himself.

“Forget Laporta, who the hell are you?” Busi exclaimed, looking in the direction of Pablo’s manager.

Xavi’s eyes widened. “Sergio, I-”

“What the fuck?”

“You can’t be-”

“No way.”

Pablo glanced over at the younger Xavi, who was leaning against the wall, his face ghostly pale. He hadn’t said anything since his two teammates came back with his older self and Guardiola, but he looked like he was going to be sick.

“Good lord,” Guardiola face palmed himself, and Pablo winced. “Xavi- My Xavi- Don’t panic, we can explain-”

“Don’t panic- Don’t panic? How the hell can I not panic?” the twenty-nine year old exclaimed, finally saying something. He stared at Pablo’s manager, who sheepishly raised his hand in response. “I mean- I- What the fuck?”

“Geez, my hair really was a mess back then,” Xavi commented, raising his eyebrows.

“It is not,” the younger Xavi snapped. “How much hair gel do you have in right now, to get it to lay somewhat flat like that?”

Xavi winced. “Not enough.”

“Alright, alright,” Guardiola interrupted. “Here’s what I want- My players, get out now . Go somewhere, I don’t care, just don’t say anything to anyone. Please. Xavi, I'll talk to you later. I promise. Just go home for now.”

“How am I supposed to just go home? I can’t-”

“Just sleep it off, or something.”

“I can’t sleep this off-”

“Xavi, I don’t know. I’ll call you in a few hours. Just give us time. Xavi, please.”

Pablo watched as Leo and Bojan ushered out their teammates, including a reluctant younger Xavi, who was still staring at his older self, wide eyed. Guardiola glanced out the door to make sure they were out of sight before slamming it shut and locking the door.

“Alright, then,” he turned around and crossed his arms across his chest, looking directly at Xavi. Xavi was still tightly gripping onto Pablo’s shoulder, which was beginning to feel slightly numb. “Xavi, what’s your plan?”

“I’ll get us a hotel room-”

“A hotel room, a- A hotel room?” Guardiola spluttered. “Xavi, are you out of your fucking mind?”

“I think I’ve been slowly losing my mind ever since I woke up in your office,” he answered dryly.

“You are mental,” Guardiola snapped. “I can’t image what would happen if you walked into a hotel and asked for a room and somebody recognized you,” he paused for a moment. “Besides, do you even have any money on you? Any cards? And even if you did have a credit card with you, or something else, how are you supposed to pay by using a card from fifteen years in the future? You’d probably be arrested for counterfeit fraud or something along those lines.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you’re right-”

“Exactly.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Pablo asked quietly, feeling more and more defeated as the minutes went by.

“You’ll stay with me,” Pep answered briskly. “It’s the only safe option. My wife and kids are out of the country visiting my in-laws for the next couple weeks, so we should be good.”

“No,” Xavi answered immediately. “I don’t want to trouble to you. I can talk to one of the older players, explain what’s going on, maybe Andrés or Carles or Víctor… Even Tito.”

“It’s probably best that as few people as possible learn about this,” Guardiola pointed out.

“Still. I don’t want to be burden, you’ve got enough to deal with yourself-”

“You’re not trouble for me,” he insisted. “What else do you want to do? You can’t exactly walk into your apartment, your girlfriend is there- And my Xavi, as a matter of fact. I don’t think he- You, I guess- has the strength to deal with this right now. You can’t really go to your parents’ house, either, or any of your siblings. That would mean quite a lot of explaining to do. And we’ve already ruled out any of the other players, Tito, or a hotel. That leaves me as your only option.”

If Pablo was being honest, he would much rather go with Guardiola than try to get a hotel room. He didn’t know the manager that well, but Xavi had known him since he was a teenager, and so many of Pablo’s current and former teammates had played under him and always talked about how great he was. He seemed like their best option. Not that Pablo was going to actually get a choice in the matter, Xavi would just take him to wherever he decided was the best option.

Xavi sighed in defeat. “Alright. We need to figure out what’s going on, though. If there’s any way of… Getting Pablo and I back home. We have possibly the most important game of our season tomorrow,” he paused for a moment. “Not to mention that I obviously really don’t want to relive the next two decades.”

Guardiola frowned, glancing at the nineteen year old and then back at Xavi. “You mentioned that game before, who’s it against?”

Xavi grimaced. “I’m not sure if we should tell you.”

“Oh, please. I already know enough about the future now, this won’t do any more damage. For all we know, me knowing more could actually help us.”

The other man sighed as he looked up to meet Guardiola’s gaze. “It’s against PSG. The second leg in the UCL quarterfinals - Our first UCL quarters in four years, in fact.”

Pablo immediately cringed, thinking about what had happened the last time they had been in the UCL quarters.

He was still playing for the youth teams then. It was during the height of Covid, and they had just been allowed to begin training again. August 14th, 2020. Kickoff was at 21:00. He would probably never forget sitting with Ale and Fermín and Txus in his old room at La Masia, watching as their team completely fell apart and as their idols looked entirely defeated. And just a year after the Anfield disaster, too.

Not to mention the shitshow last time Barça had played PSG at home.

“We won the first leg at Parc des Princes 2-3,” Xavi went on. “We’re at home for this leg, so we have a slight advantage.”

I wouldn’t exactly call the Montjuïc stadium “home”, Pablo thought to himself.

“What about me?” Guardiola asked, sounding a little too eager. “Earlier, you said I was supposed to be in Manchester - Do I coach United now?”

Xavi wrinkled his nose. “Thankfully, no,” he sighed, before giving his former teammate and a coach an answer. “You coach City.”

“City?” Guardiola choked, and Pablo stifled a laugh. “That’s even worse!”

“Oh, they’re one of the best teams in the world right now,” Xavi reassured him. “They won the league in 2012 before you even took over.”

“Thank God. And you said I was playing Madrid?”

Xavi groaned. “How do you remember everything?” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Pablo to hear, before clearing his throat. “Yeah, you’re playing Madrid in the UCL quarters, you drew 3-3 at the Bernabéu last week and now you’re playing the second leg at the Etihad.”

“Etihad?”

“Man City’s stadium now.”

For a moment, Pablo thought his coach might say something about Guardiola’s success at City, and their recent UCL win, but he didn’t.

“Ah,” Guardiola was silent for a few moments, with an unreadable expression on his face as he drummed his fingers on a nearby small table. “Is there anything… Important that happened this year? Maybe there’s a reason why you’re in 2009 of all years.”

Xavi choked, and Pablo suppressed a laugh.

“Beats me,” the older man muttered.

Pablo grinned, and Guardiola swiveled around to look at him.

“Well?” he demanded.

“We won a few titles this season,” Pablo’s manager mumbled before he could say anything himself.

“We won the UCL, then?” Guardiola tried not to sound too excited.

“Possibly,” he winced. “I really shouldn’t say,” the manager paused for a moment. “Pep, it’s not important, anyways.”

“What if we’re supposed to help this team win the UCL this season, and then go back to 2024 and win it again?” Pablo suggested.

“Pablo, please, the adults are talking,” Xavi cut in, but Guardiola looked over at Pablo, seemingly interested in what he had to say.

“So, we are supposed to win the UCL in this season, then. Or, at least, in your timeline.”

Xavi froze, his expression rigid all of a sudden. “Oh fuck, that’s another issue,” he groaned. “We’ve messed with the past, Pablo. What if we get back and- And- You’re-”

“Not playing for Barça?” Pablo supplied. “I don’t think so, because we’d know otherwise- Unless we created some alternate universe and this is some MCU multiverse type shit, I think our memories would have disappeared, something along those lines.”

The two other men stared at him, and the room fell was completely quietly for a few moments.

“What’s that?” Guardiola asked, breaking the silence eventually. “The multiverse?”

“It’s not important,” Xavi snapped. “What’s important, is figuring out how the fuck….” he paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “This happened,” the coach gestured to himself, Pablo, and Guardiola.

“No, what’s actually important is getting the two of you out of here right now, unless you want to end up explaining to Laporta, the rest of the board, and possibly the Catalan police what your situation is.”

Pablo glanced back and forth at the two managers, waiting for his coach’s answer.

“Well, since you seem to know everything, Pep, where are we going, then?” Xavi chuckled, though Pablo noticed that he didn’t have any humor in his voice.

“I told you earlier. To my house.”

Chapter Text

Xavi Hernández was having what was easily the worst day of his life.

It had started off well. He got to bed at a decent time the night before. He woke up feeling refreshed, and he and his girlfriend made breakfast together. He headed made it to training an hour ahead of time, as required by the manager, and warmed up with his teammates without any difficulties.

Then, it all went to hell.

If someone had told him the day before that he would have spoken to his future self, he would have called that person mental. Yet, it had happened.

And then, while Xavi was on the verge of an existential crisis, Pep had the audacity to tell him to go “sleep it off”, in his own words. Not to mention, Leo quite literally dragged him out into the hallway, and then had the nerve to tell him to go home.

There was also that weird kid with the ACL injury, Pablo, who was supposedly his player in the future.

Shit, that was another thing. He coaches Barça in the future.

At his younger teammates’ insistence, Xavi eventually agreed to go home and take a break from football for the rest of the day. He swung by the dressing room quickly to grab his backpack and throw a jacket over his training jersey, and then headed out to the car park.

Before he reached his car, he heard his cellphone ding with a notification. He pulled it out of his pocket to see it was a message from Andrés.

hey is everything alright?

you’ve been gone for a while

Xavi grimaced. Pep didn’t seem like he was too thrilled with so many of them already knowing about the time travel incident (or, whatever the hell was going on back there), so he wasn’t sure what to tell his teammate. He couldn’t very well say, “Sorry, I just met an older version of me from 2024 and some kid who seems way too attached to me. I’m going home for now, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Andrés would call him insane and probably go to his apartment to check on him.

After a moment, he eventually wrote out a short but believable reply to his friend. He left out the details about the time traveling, but tried to keep it somewhat true, especially considering Andrés must had seen that bloke from security pull him out of training earlier.

yeah, I’m good

Pep just needed my help with something

He got a reply from Andrés just a few seconds later.

oh ok

hey do you know where Pep is anyways? nobody knows where the hell he’s been

I think Tito’s getting a little worried

we are all tbh

Xavi groaned. He knew perfectly well where Pep was, he just couldn’t say it. Not unless he wanted Andrés to potentially have a heart attack, like he nearly did when he first saw his older self.

he’s with a couple kids from the academy

that was what he needed my help with

It took a bit longer than before for Andrés to reply.

ah

just let me know if you need anything

Xavi breathed with relief. His teammate was certainly not convinced that everything was fine, but at least he wasn’t going to question Xavi about it.

I will

thanks mate I’ll see you tomorrow

He stuffed his phone back into his pocket and unlocked his car, getting into the driver’s seat, and drove the ten minutes to his apartment.

His girlfriend was at work, so he was alone. As he entered the front door cautiously, he was almost afraid that an elderly version of him, or worse, someone else, would pop out from being the door or something. But thankfully, that didn’t happen.

He could hear his phone dinging with notifications, probably from the team’s group chat, but he ignored it for now, and instead headed straight to his bedroom.

Xavi collapsed onto the bed almost immediately, kicking his shoes into the floor beside it and taking off his jacket as he did so. He knew his girlfriend would be beside herself if she knew he was laying on their bed in his dirty training clothes, but he was in too much shock to care about that. She wouldn’t be home until that evening, anyways, so he would have time to throw the sheets in the laundry, if necessary.

A future version of him was there. In Barcelona. In 2009.

An older version of him, who looked nearly the same just with a slightly receded hairline, was existing at the same time as Xavi. A version of him that would be forty-four years old. Xavi couldn’t wrap his mind around it. If he hadn’t seen it himself, he wouldn’t have believed it.

In fact, he still didn’t want to believe it. A part of him was thinking- Mainly hoping- That this was all just some wild dream and he would wake up and he wouldn’t be dealing with some time traveling version of himself.

But he also knew that this was too mental for even his dreams.

Fuck.

****

Xavi would have preferred simply pulling up some YouTube highlights from the sextuple winning team if he wanted to to take a trip down memory lane, but he supposed time travel was another option.

Pep had just sent a very short message to Tito and the other assistant coaches, saying there was a personal emergency and he had to leave training early, but would get back to them soon.

“Well, you’ve probably done a brilliant job at scaring them,” Xavi warned him as they made their way out to Pep’s car in the car park. “‘Personal emergency’, you couldn’t have been any more vague. They’re going to think you’ve wound up in the hospital somehow-”

“No, nobody will think that,” the other manager waved his hand dismissively, opening the driver's door. “It’ll be fine.”

Xavi sighed, but he knew he wasn’t going to win this argument, and reluctantly opened the passenger’s side door. Before getting in, he looked over at Pablo, who was standing awkwardly by the backseat.

“Come on, Pablito,” he muttered, and his player nodded anxiously, climbing into the seat behind him.

 Pep started the engine, and the three of them sat in silence for a few moments as he pulled out of the car park, the only sound coming from the radio, a Coldplay song on low volume.

Nobody spoke until a few minutes later, when they pulled up to a red light.

“How old are you again, kid?” Pep asked, glancing up at the rearview mirror.

“Nineteen,” came Pablo’s stammered reply.

“Oh, yeah? What position?”

Xavi rolled his eyes. Of course Pep’s mind immediately went to football.

“Midfield. Central midfield.”

“He can play on the left wing as well,” Xavi put in, cracking a smile, and he heard Pablo groan. “But he doesn’t like it very much,” he added quickly.

“Similar to Andrés?”

“A little, yeah,” Xavi could practically see the wheels turning in his former coach’s brain. “You can’t play him, though.”

“Why not?” Pep and Pablo both said at the same time.

Xavi sighed, exasperated. “Pablito, you know why,” he then gave his former manager a scornful look. “Ignoring the many, many other issues with that-”

“What issues? It’s only Getafe, just to give Andrés or- well, you- a bit of rest.”

“He wouldn’t be registered in the league, for a start-”

“We add him as a La Masia kid, simple. He’s still young enough for Juvenil A.”

“That’s not going to work. You don’t think people are going to be wondering about some teenager nobody had heard about suddenly debuting for the first team out of nowhere?”

“Well-”

“In any case, he’s injured.”

“It’s not that bad-” Pablo started to say from the backseat.

“It’s his ACL,” Xavi cut in pointedly. He glanced over behind his shoulder, meeting Pablo’s eyes. “Nice try, but you’re not playing, kiddo. Certainly not against Getafe, those terrorists will break your legs.”

Pep looked mildly disappointed, but thankfully he didn’t push it.

“You’re a La Masia boy?” he asked, and Pablo nodded. “When did you debut? Under Xavi?”

“A little over two and a half years ago,” Pablo replied. “Under Koe-”

“The manager before me,” Xavi said quickly, shooting a glance at his player in the backseat. He was determined not to give away any other major news about the future, even if it didn’t matter much at that point. “I came in a few months after he had debuted.”

“Ah.”

The car fell silent again. Pep’s expression was unreadable, but Xavi could hear Pablo tapping his foot over and over again in the backseat. He had noticed before that the kid tended to do that whenever he was anxious about something.

It wasn’t until they were pulling into the driveway of Pep’s Barcelona mansion that Xavi finally spoke up again.

“Damn, I haven’t been here in years,” he chuckled.

The other man frowned. “Why not?”

“Oh, no, you just bought a new place a couple years ago. 2021, I think? It was Rafa Márquez’s old mansion, actually.”

Pep parked the car and shut the engine off. “Alright, then.”

The Guardiolas’ former Barcelona residence looked the same as Xavi had remembered it. A large front lawn with a pool in the back, somewhat humble yet still classy at the same time.

“Our housekeepers already came, so we should be all alone,” Pep told him, pulling out a lanyard full of keys from his jacket’s front pocket, fumbling for a few moments before he found the correct one. He unlocked the front door and pulled it open, revealing a large front hall, and he stepped inside casually. Xavi gestured at Pablo to follow him, and he obliged. Xavi went inside after him, closing the door shut as he did so.

“Xavi, you’ve been here before, of course, but Pablo, would you like a house tour?” Pep asked with a chuckle, and Pablo laughed awkwardly. He seemed to notice Pablo’s anxiousness, and cleared his throat before turning to Xavi. “Coffee? Tea?” he paused for a moment. “Wine? Champagne?”

Xavi laughed. “Water’s fine, thank you.”

“Pablo?”

“Yeah, same as him. Thanks.”

Pep led the way over to the kitchen, and handed each of them a glass of water before sitting down.

All three of them were silent for a few moments. Xavi glanced at the teenager sitting next to him, who was clutching the glass in one hand but hadn’t taken a single sip yet.

“Well, then, what’s next?”

Xavi ran his hand through his hair. “Well, I don’t know. I mean, what the hell are we supposed to do? This isn’t exactly something we can just google and find the answer to.”

“Look, you two can stay with me for as long as you need to. My family won’t be back until late May, so that gives us a bit of time before I have to explain this mess to my wife. But in the meantime, there’s got to be some way we can figure out how this happened.”

Xavi rubbed his forehead. “You know, I’m just praying I’ll wake up at my desk in my office and this was all some bad, stress-induced nightmare.”

His former coach chuckled. “That would be nice.”

“I definitely don’t think this is going to help with my stress at all,” Xavi muttered. “Anyways. Pep, I have absolutely no idea what to do. I’m completely lost. I mean, we’re stuck fifteen years in the past. We have no idea what’s happening in me and Pablo’s world, if time’s going on without us or not, or if-”

“Oh, God,” Pablo gasped, speaking up for the first time since they had sat down. “What if we’re missing, and everyone’s looking for us, and we’re never going to get home-”

He was breathing heavily, and was still clutching the glass. He was gripping it so tightly that his hand was starting to turn red, and Xavi flinched.

“Kiddo, hey, hey, it’ll be alright,” Xavi said in a low voice to his player, turning around so he was facing him. He placed one hand on the kid’s shoulder gentle, and reached for the glass of water with his other hand, setting it on the table. Pablo’s shoulders were hunched over, and his eyes were red. “We’ll get home, I’m positive.”

“But how?"

Xavi didn’t have an answer to that. Pep was staying silent, awkwardly drumming his fingers on the table.

“We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out, everything will be fine, we’ll get home, and we’ll beat the hell out of Lucho and those Parisians.”

Pablo cracked a smile, and Xavi ruffled his hair affectionately.

“Thanks, Mister,” he said, at the exact same time as Pep croaked out, “Lucho?”

Pablo inhaled sharply, and Xavi’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“Lucho. Is that the same ‘Lucho’ I’m thinking of?”

In 2009, Luis Enrique was coincidentally the manager of Barça Atletic (though Xavi had for far longer).

Xavi had forgotten that.

This just keeps getting worse and worse…

“I know a couple Lucho’s,” Xavi said, his expression neutral.

“Yeah, so do I,” Pep looked at him oddly, as if he was hesitating about questioning Xavi further.

“Anyways,” Xavi said nonchalantly, changing the subject before the other man could ask him another question. “Thanks, Pep, really, we appreciate your help so much, really. I don’t know what we’d be doing without you right now.”

“Probably getting questioned by the police.”

Xavi chuckled. “That’s fair.”

The three of them were silent for a few moments. Pablo was still staring down at the floor, but at least he seemed to have calmed down.

“I’ll go get the guest rooms set up,” Pep announced after a minute. He started walking towards the nearby set of stairs, before pausing, and looking back at the two time travelers. “Listen, I’m sure we’re going to figure this out, okay? There’s got to be a rational, reasonable explanation for all of this. And we’re going to figure out what’s going on.”

Xavi gave him a grateful look, but if he was being honest, he didn’t have much faith.

****

Andrés knew something was very wrong.

First, Xavi mysteriously gets pulled out of training to go talk to some random kid. Then, Piqué goes to talk to Pep, and doesn’t come back. And finally, Pep left without even saying goodbye to everyone, just sending a simple message about a “personal emergency” that scared the hell out of half the team. Not to mention, Leo and a couple of the other academy kids came in halfway through training, giggling to each other like teenagers (which, to be fair, they practically were) and looking like they were keeping some major secret from everyone else.

“It’s just so weird, isn’t it?” he said to Víctor as they got changed in the dressing room after training was over. “This whole morning.”

“Tell me about it,” Víctor unlaced his boots. “You haven’t heard from Xavi, have you?”

Andrés shook his head. “No. I wonder who that kid was.”

“No idea.”

“You talking about Xavi?”

Andrés looked up to see Puyi sitting down in the bench across from him, tapping his foot anxiously.

“Yeah. And everything else.”

“Like, wherever Pep went off to,” Víctor added. “Why those four are acting so suspicious,” he tilted his head in the direction of Messi, Busquets, Pedro, and Krkić. “Where Pep is. And where Geri is.”

“You heard the boss, he has a personal emergency,” Xavi heard Tito called out. The assistant manager hurried over, crossing his arms. “Don’t bother him, alright? It’s probably something important with his family.”

“Really?” Víctor didn’t seem sure. “He didn’t tell you anything?”

Tito shrugged. “I know as much as you all do, to be honest. But I heard you talking about Geri, he messaged me earlier to say that he wasn’t feeling well and Pep told him to go home.”

“What about Xavi, then?” the keeper persisted.

Tito hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know. The last time I saw him was the last time you all saw him.”

The more Andrés thought about it, the more worried he got. What if something terrible had happened to Xavi, and nobody knew about it? He had to at least make sure he was alright

“I’m going to message Xavi,” Andrés announced, looking at Tito.

The coach nodded. “Let me know what he says.”

He just shot a simple private message to his friend, and prayed he would reply soon.

hey is everything alright?

you’ve been gone for a while

Thankfully, it didn't take long.

yeah, I’m good

Pep just needed my help with something

“He says Pep needed his help with something,” Andrés read aloud. “No idea what, though.”

“Does he know where Pep is?” Tito asked, frowning.

“I’ll ask.”

oh ok

hey do you know where Pep is anyways? nobody knows where the hell he’s been

I think Tito’s getting a little worried

we are all tbh

He got a reply just a second later.

he’s with a couple kids from the academy

that was what he needed my help with

“Apparantly, he was helping Pep out with some academy kids?” Andrés said, confused.

“Oh, well that makes a bit of sense, then,” Tito said. “That was who the kid he went to go talk to early was- it was just an academy kid.

Andrés wasn’t entirely convinced, but he didn’t want to interrogate his friend over messages.

ah

just let me know if you need anything

Xavi replied to him quickly.

I will

thanks mate I’ll see you tomorrow

“He says he’ll be here tomorrow,” Andrés filled in his friends and coach. “I guess we’ll get the whole story from him then.”

“I suppose so,” Tito patted his shoulder. “I’m headed out, okay? I’ll check in on Pep later today if we still haven’t heard from him. But I’ll see you all tomorrow morning.”

“Bye, Tito,” Andrés said, but his mind was still on Xavi.

Something was definitely very off.