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The house felt different that week. Not chaotic, exactly, Pedri and Ferran were too seasoned for chaos by now, but buzzing. Like something huge was about to happen. Twice.
And it was.
Alora’s boots sat by the front door, newly broken in. Mateo’s ballet tights had been laid out on his bed since Tuesday. Pedri’s schedule reminders were taped to the fridge in his neat handwriting, while Ferran’s phone alarms kept going off every few hours because he refused to trust his own memory. Somewhere between training sessions, press duties, and keeping the laundry from turning into a mountain, their children were about to take two massive steps forward. And somehow, it still didn’t feel real.
Mateo
The recital hall was packed with parents and abuelos and a few too many iPads. But none of them mattered to Mateo.
He stood backstage in his pristine white tunic, tights snug, hair gelled immaculately, his curls only half-tamed, because even his ballet teacher admitted there was no fighting them. His cheeks were pink, but his posture was proud. He looked like a proper little prince.
“Remember,” his teacher whispered, crouching beside him. “You are Prince Siegfried. Strong, graceful, and kind.”
Mateo gave a single, serious nod.
In the front row, Ferran adjusted the bouquet he was holding like it was the Champions League trophy. Pedri leaned forward in his seat, phone already recording. Neither of them had blinked since the curtain rose.
And when Mateo stepped onto the stage, the whole world fell away.
He was beautiful.
Every movement was precise, but full of feeling. His fingers curved elegantly, his lines were clean, and his expression was so focused it made Ferran’s chest ache. There was no hesitation in him. No doubt. He moved with certainty and softness all at once, leaping and landing with a grace most adults couldn’t fake.
Pedri had to put his phone down halfway through, blinking rapidly.
“Look at him,” Ferran whispered. “Pedri, look at him.”
“I’m trying,” Pedri choked. “But I can’t see through my eyes.”
When Mateo’s solo ended and the audience erupted in applause, he bowed low, and the tiniest smile tugged at his lips. He spotted them in the crowd, Ferran whistling like a teenager, Pedri pressing a hand to his heart.
Backstage after the show, Mateo launched himself at them, arms wide, face shining.
“Did you see me?” he breathed.
“You were a star, bebé,” Pedri said, pulling him into his arms. “You owned that stage.”
“You were perfect,” Ferran said, planting a kiss to the top of his head. “A real royal. Your teacher cried. I saw her.”
Mateo beamed, gripping the flowers like a trophy. “Next time, I want a sword.”
“We’ll talk to wardrobe,” Pedri said.
Alora
Three days later, it was Alora’s turn. Not a stage, but something far more real, and, in her mind, more terrifying.
The office at La Masia was quiet, sun streaming through the windows, casting a glow across the framed jerseys on the walls. She was perched on the edge of the couch, posture stiff despite years of media training through her parents. Her new boots, identical to Ferran’s custom pair, sat neatly beside her.
Ferran leaned beside her, arm resting casually along the back of the couch. But his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm behind her shoulder.
Pedri was with Mateo outside while they waited.
The academy director laid a thick stack of papers on the desk in front of them. Her name was typed in bold at the top.
“You’ve shown discipline, sharp instincts, and real promise as a striker,” he said, flipping through her profile. “This is the official offer. Training begins next month.”
Ferran didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The way his chest rose a little deeper, how his eyes flicked to Alora and softened, that said enough.
Alora picked up the pen. Her hand trembled for half a second before she anchored her elbow, took a breath, and signed.
And that was it.
She was part of La Masia.
That evening, the whole family sat on the floor of the living room. Pedri had made chocolate mousse, because it was Alora’s comfort dessert. Mateo was still in his “royal” rehearsal cape and had placed his program from the recital on the bookshelf like a shrine. Ferran kept pacing the room and trying not to cry every time someone mentioned the word “signing.”
Alora leaned into her mamí’s side, bowl in her lap, while Ferran flopped onto the floor beside Mateo, who was trying to reenact the entire Act II sequence using a spoon and a stuffed unicorn.
“You’re gonna play in the same kit as Papá,” Mateo told Alora, eyes wide.
“I know,” she said, grinning like it still hadn’t sunk in. “It’s weird.”
“It’s epic,” Ferran corrected. “You’re gonna be unstoppable.”
“She already is,” Pedri said softly, running a hand over her hair.
Later, when the dishes were done and Mateo had finally stopped pirouetting and gone to bed, Ferran found Alora in the hallway staring at the framed photo of her dads holding the Champions League trophy.
He came up beside her quietly.
“Think you’ll win one of those?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she said, voice quiet. “I’d settle for a Liga title.”
He laughed, bumping her shoulder gently. “Ambitious, huh?”
She looked up at him. “I just want to play. I want to do what you do.”
Ferran wrapped an arm around her. “You already are. And one day, you’ll do it even better.”
She smiled, but didn’t respond.
Then, after a pause, she added, “Mateo really was amazing, huh?”
“Yeah,” Ferran said. “You both were.”
She nodded. “We’re lucky.”
“No, Alora,” Ferran said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’re lucky. You two? You’re something else.”
- sofía ✎ᝰ.