Chapter Text
The first time Ferran Torres stepped into his new dorm at La Masia, the walls felt too white. He dropped his bag on the bed nearest the window, tugging open the wardrobe door and finding it empty except for a faint smell of wood polish. He grinned to himself. At least no one had left socks behind.
He sat on the mattress, bouncing once before leaning back on his elbows, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in a long while, he felt a nervous kind of peace. He was here. Barcelona. The dream. Even if it still felt surreal.
The room was quiet, but his head was anything but. What would the next months be like? Would the coaches like him? Would the boys accept him? He exhaled, a little laugh breaking out when he remembered what Aranxta had told him at the train station. Try not to annoy them in the first five minutes, Ferri. She had kissed his cheek, already rolling her eyes because she knew he would ignore her advice.
He had been here two nights now, still alone in the room. It was strange. The boys in the hall had already formed their friendships, sharing stories, teasing each other, playing ping pong in the common area until the supervisors yelled at them to be quiet. Ferran joined them, loud and quick to laugh, but he always came back to the room and found the other bed untouched.
The empty side of the room nagged at him. Who would it be? Someone he could joke with? Someone boring? He tried not to think about the possibility of a nightmare roommate, the kind who left toothpaste in the sink or didn’t like football as much as he did.
The suitcase on Pedri’s bed looked far too small for the life he was trying to fit inside it. Shirts folded with neat precision, boots wrapped in plastic bags, training kit stacked carefully in the corner. Still, the zip strained when he pulled it closed.
He sat down heavily beside it, glancing around his room. The posters on the wall, corners curling from years of tape. The shelf cluttered with trophies from local tournaments, medals hanging in uneven rows. The desk where he had done his homework, always with his papá reminding him not to let football take all his focus. It all felt too familiar to be leaving behind, too lived-in to suddenly become “home” only in memory.
“¿Pedri? ¿Ya terminaste?” His mamá’s voice floated up the stairs, full of impatience and worry, the two things she was best at.
“Almost,” he called back, though his throat was tight.
Rosy appeared in the doorway a moment later, apron still tied around her waist from helping at the restaurant earlier. She crossed the room in three steps, immediately tugging open the suitcase again.
“Mamá,” Pedri protested, but it was too late. She was already digging through, checking.
“You only packed two pairs of jeans? You’ll need more than that. And where are your sweaters? Barcelona gets cold.”
Pedri sighed, though affection softened it. “They gave me a list. I packed everything.”
Rosy clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “You say that, but I know you. You forget things. Always.”
“I’m sixteen, not ten,” he said, though he didn’t quite believe it himself. Sixteen felt both too old and too young for what he was about to do.
She smoothed the folded shirts anyway, her hands lingering longer than necessary. When she closed the suitcase again, her palm rested against the fabric as if holding it down might hold him here too.
“Come on,” she murmured. “Your papá is waiting in the car.”
🤎
The drive to the airport felt shorter than it should have. Pedri sat in the backseat with his brother Fer, who had insisted on coming even though he had training with the local team later. Fer nudged him in the shoulder every so often, not saying much, just the kind of rough affection that said more than words could.
Their papá, Fernando, kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against the radio where an old canción from the restaurant’s playlist played faintly. He didn’t speak either, but the weight in his silence filled the car.
Rosy, of course, never stopped fussing. She twisted in her seat to face Pedri every few minutes, asking if he had remembered his toothbrush, his ID card, the charger for his phone.
“Yes, mamá,” Pedri repeated each time, a rhythm of reassurance that barely covered the knot in his stomach.
Out the window, Tenerife blurred past. The streets he had biked down as a kid, the corner where he and his friends used to juggle a ball until their feet ached, the square where his mamá would wave to neighbours. All shrinking behind him, piece by piece.
He pressed his forehead lightly against the glass. Barcelona was waiting, the dream he had carried since he first touched a ball, since he first wore a Barça jersey too big for his small frame. But dreams were never this heavy. Dreams never looked so much like leaving.
🤎
At the airport, the air smelled of coffee and disinfectant. Pedri wheeled his suitcase beside him, feeling every clatter of the wheels against the tile.
Rosy hovered, smoothing his hair even though he ducked away. “You’ll call me, sí? Every night. No excuses.”
“Mamá…”
“Every night,” she repeated firmly, her eyes already glistening.
Fernando placed a steady hand on his son’s shoulder. “We’re proud of you,” he said simply, voice rough. He didn’t need more words. Pedri felt the weight of them sink into his chest.
Fer wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling him into a half-headlock that was both a hug and a warning. “Don’t forget where you come from, eh? And don’t let anyone push you around.”
“I won’t,” Pedri muttered, though his voice cracked. He pulled away, blinking hard.
The loudspeaker announced boarding for his flight. Everything happened too quickly then. Final hugs, Rosy’s arms clinging around him like she could still hold him back, papá’s brief but solid embrace, Fer’s muttered “you’ll smash it, little brother.”
And then he was walking away, turning once to wave. His mamá’s figure small in the crowd, wiping at her eyes. His papá standing straight, hand on Fer’s shoulder. Home framed in one last picture.
🤎
On the plane, Pedri sat by the window, backpack tucked against his legs. The seatbelt clicked shut but his chest still felt loose, untethered.
He pulled out the small notebook from his bag. The first page already held scrawled words from the night before, a promise to himself.
Don’t forget. Don’t waste this.
He stared at the words until they blurred, then pressed the pen to paper again.
I’m scared. I don’t know if I’ll fit in. But I have to try.
The engines roared to life, and Tenerife began to fall away beneath him.
He kept writing, the pen scratching quietly against the paper, as if the words might be enough to anchor him until Barcelona came into view.
The air in Barcelona was sharper, colder than the warmth Pedri had left behind in Tenerife. He stepped out of the terminal with his suitcase rolling unevenly behind him, scanning the unfamiliar signs, the voices carrying in accents he only half recognised. For a moment he hesitated, heart hammering as the flow of passengers moved around him, everyone else seeming to know exactly where to go.
He tightened his grip on the suitcase handle and followed the signs for taxis. When he finally slid into the backseat of a yellow-and-black car, the driver glanced at him in the mirror.
“¿A dónde, chico?”
“La Masia,” Pedri answered quickly, then added, “la residencia de FC Barcelona.”
The driver’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he only nodded and pulled into the traffic.
Pedri leaned his head against the window as the city unfolded around him. Wide avenues, buildings stacked with balconies, people rushing past in coats and scarves. He had seen Barcelona on TV, in matches, in glossy photos, but it looked different when you were small and alone in the back of a taxi.
The drive wasn’t long, but every turn seemed to stretch. His stomach twisted tighter with each passing block until finally the taxi stopped at the familiar red brick building, the crest on the gate gleaming in the afternoon light.
“La Masia,” the driver said, as though announcing a destination from a dream.
Pedri paid with shaky fingers, dragged his suitcase onto the pavement, and stood staring for a long moment. The entrance looked too big, too formal. His chest swelled with pride and fear in equal measure.
🤎
The staff who greeted him were kind, efficient, and brisk in a way that didn’t give him time to linger. They ticked his name off a list, gave him a folder of information, explained the schedule for meals and curfew. Someone, he didn’t catch the name, walked him through the hallways, pointing out the cafeteria, the common room, the gym. Pedri nodded along, clutching the handle of his suitcase tightly, too overwhelmed to ask questions.
The tour blurred quickly. What stuck in his memory wasn’t the details but the feel of the place: the echo of voices bouncing down the corridors, the faint smell of floor polish, the sound of a ball thudding against a wall somewhere outside. This was not just a school. It was a world built on football.
Finally, they stopped at a door near the end of a hallway. The staff member smiled, opening it for him. “This is your dorm. You’ll be sharing. Your roommate’s already here.”
Pedri’s pulse skipped. He stepped inside.
🤎
The room was small but neat, two beds pushed against opposite walls with identical desks and wardrobes beside them. One bed was clearly claimed, blankets rumpled, shoes scattered at the foot.
On top of it sat a boy, cross-legged, head bent over a phone. The device looked slightly scuffed, an older model, screen casting a faint blue glow over his face. His thumbs moved quickly across the screen as faint game sounds leaked from the speaker.
Pedri stood frozen in the doorway, suitcase still clutched.
The boy looked up, blinking, then grinned wide enough that it reached his eyes. “Hola. You must be my roommate.”
His voice was bright, full of easy confidence. Pedri swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of his own awkwardness. “Hola. I’m Pedro. Well… Pedri.”
“Ferran,” the boy said, dropping his phone onto the bed without hesitation. He jumped up, closing the distance with the kind of energy that made Pedri take a small step back before Ferran stuck out his hand.
Pedri shook it, his grip uncertain. Ferran’s was warm and quick.
“You took your time,” Ferran said, not unkindly, more like a joke. “I’ve been here for two days, thought maybe I scared off whoever was supposed to share with me.”
Pedri blinked, unsure if he should laugh. “I came late.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Ferran said easily, waving toward the other bed. “That one’s yours. The wardrobe’s empty. I checked.”
Pedri tugged his suitcase forward and set it beside the bed. He could feel Ferran’s gaze on him as he unzipped it, pulling out the neatly folded shirts his mamá had fussed over.
“You fold like my sister,” Ferran remarked, flopping back onto his bed, one arm behind his head.
Pedri glanced over, startled, not sure if it was a compliment or a tease. Ferran just smiled, clearly amused at his own comment.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but Pedri’s chest tightened with the weight of it. He concentrated on stacking his clothes carefully into the wardrobe. His hands needed something to do.
“So,” Ferran said suddenly, voice cutting through the quiet. “Where are you from?”
“Tegueste,” Pedri answered, not turning. “In Tenerife.”
“The Canary Islands?” Ferran’s tone lifted with surprise. “That’s far.”
Pedri nodded, still bent over the suitcase.
“You must miss it already,” Ferran said.
The words hit sharper than Pedri expected. He closed the suitcase slowly, pressing his palm against it for a moment. “…Sí.”
For once, Ferran didn’t push further. He just sat back on his bed, tapping his phone screen idly, giving Pedri space to keep unpacking.
It was strange. They were strangers. Yet as Pedri slid his last shirt into the wardrobe, he felt a flicker of something in the room. A spark of possibility, maybe.
He sat on his bed finally, exhaling quietly.
Across from him, Ferran grinned. “Welcome to La Masia, compañero. Looks like we’re stuck with each other now.”
Pedri didn’t smile back immediately. But after a moment, the corners of his mouth lifted, just a little.
The hum of voices from the hallway faded after curfew, leaving the dorm quiet except for the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere far down the corridor. Inside their room, the air felt heavy with newness, like both of them were still figuring out how to exist in the same small space.
Ferran sprawled across his bed again, tapping idly at his phone, feet hanging over the edge. His energy hadn’t dimmed even after training earlier; if anything, it seemed endless. He glanced up at Pedri, who sat perched on his own mattress, back against the wall, suitcase shoved neatly under the bed now.
“So, what position do you play?” Ferran asked suddenly.
Pedri looked up, startled. “Midfielder.”
“Ah, creative type,” Ferran said with a grin. “I’m a striker. Which means I’ll be scoring goals off your passes in no time. Easy.”
Pedri gave a small nod, lips pressed together.
Ferran waited, expecting more, but when nothing came he filled the silence himself. “I came from Valencia. The academy there. It was good, but this is better. Harder too, I think. Everyone’s so fast. I nearly twisted my ankle yesterday trying to keep up.”
Pedri glanced at him briefly, unsure if he was supposed to laugh. Ferran didn’t seem to notice, already rolling onto his side, propping his head on his hand.
“My sister says I talk too much,” Ferran continued cheerfully. “She always tells me to shut up. But I think it’s better than saying nothing. Silence is boring, no?”
Pedri’s fingers picked at a loose thread on his blanket. He murmured, “Sometimes silence is nice.”
Ferran raised his eyebrows, but then smiled like he’d just learned something interesting. “Fair enough. I’ll keep talking then, and you can be the silent one. Balance.”
Pedri didn’t answer, though the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
🤎
The minutes stretched, Ferran filling them with chatter as easily as he breathed. He talked about his dog back in Valencia, a Belgian shepherd who always tried to steal food from the table. He described how his papá had left when he was younger, how Aranxta basically raised him, how she made the best tortilla he’d ever eaten. He said it all like the words weighed nothing, tumbling out without hesitation.
Pedri listened, nodding occasionally, letting the rhythm of Ferran’s voice fill the room. It was easier than speaking. Easier than trying to explain the knot in his chest, the ache of leaving home still raw under his skin.
Every so often Ferran asked a question, simple things. “Do you have any pets?” “What’s your favourite team?” “What music do you listen to?”
Pedri answered softly, barely above a murmur. One-word replies, sometimes two.
“A dog,” he said when asked about pets. “Nilo.”
“Barça,” when asked about teams.
“Mostly Spanish songs,” when asked about music.
Ferran never pushed for more, though his eyes lit with curiosity each time.
🤎
At one point Ferran sat up suddenly, pointing at Pedri. “You know, you’re mysterious.”
Pedri blinked. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Ferran insisted. “You barely talk. You sit there with your serious face, like you’re thinking about something very important. But you never say it.”
Pedri looked down quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m just tired.”
Ferran tilted his head, studying him for a moment. Then he flopped back down with a grin. “Alright, mysterious. We’ll figure you out later.”
Pedri let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
🤎
The clock ticked closer to midnight. Ferran yawned but still scrolled through his phone, muttering about memes that Pedri couldn’t quite see. Pedri lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on him.
He felt the pull of homesickness sharp in his chest, memories of his mamá’s voice, the smell of the restaurant, Fer’s teasing laughter. It all felt impossibly far now.
Across the room, Ferran spoke again, voice softer in the dark. “It’s strange, huh? Being here.”
Pedri turned his head slightly. “Sí.”
“Feels like another world,” Ferran said. “But I think… I think it’ll be good. Hard, but good.”
Pedri didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure yet if he believed that.
Ferran’s phone buzzed once, then went quiet. He yawned again, rolling onto his side. “Buenas noches, compañero.”
“Buenas noches,” Pedri whispered.
For a long time after Ferran’s breathing steadied into sleep, Pedri lay awake. The silence finally returned, wrapping around him. But it didn’t feel quite as heavy now.
The alarm rang far too early. Pedri opened his eyes to a blur of pale light seeping through the curtains, the sound sharp in the quiet room. For a moment he forgot where he was, then the ache in his stomach reminded him. Barcelona. La Masia. The start.
Across the room, Ferran groaned, throwing an arm over his face before fumbling blindly for the clock. “Already? Madre mía.”
Pedri pushed himself up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool under his feet. The uniform training kit lay folded at the end of his mattress, crisp and unfamiliar.
“You ready?” Ferran asked, already rummaging in his wardrobe with the kind of energy that made Pedri wonder if he’d really been half-asleep a moment ago.
Pedri nodded, though his throat felt dry.
They changed in silence at first, the rustle of fabric and the faint thud of drawers filling the room. Ferran hummed under his breath, some pop song off-key, tugging the shirt over his head and running a hand through his messy hair.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said suddenly, catching Pedri’s quietness. “The mornings, I mean. They feel horrible at first, but after a while they don’t.”
Pedri gave a small shrug, lacing up his boots carefully.
🤎
The hallway buzzed with voices as boys spilled out of their rooms, some still yawning, others already laughing too loudly. Ferran greeted nearly everyone they passed with a cheerful “hola,” tossing smiles like they cost nothing. Pedri kept his eyes lowered, suitcase still a ghost in his chest, his steps steady beside his roommate.
The cafeteria was crowded, trays clattering, the smell of toast and coffee heavy in the air. Pedri’s stomach clenched tighter at the sight of food, a wave of nausea pushing up his throat.
They found a table near the window. Ferran loaded his tray with bread, fruit, and juice, dropping into his seat with ease. Pedri sat opposite, his own tray nearly empty except for a glass of water.
“You’re not eating?” Ferran asked, already tearing into a piece of toast.
“Not hungry,” Pedri murmured.
Ferran raised his eyebrows but didn’t press. He chewed happily, speaking around bites of bread. “I heard the older boys train on the other pitch. We’ll probably be with the new group today. I wonder how hard they’ll push us. Hopefully not too hard, because my legs still hurt from the warm-up yesterday.”
Pedri listened, fingers curling around his water glass. The cafeteria noise swelled and blurred, but Ferran’s voice stayed clear, a steady thread through the chaos.
“…and they say sometimes the coaches come to watch matches here, even the big ones. Can you imagine? Xavi just standing there while you mess up a pass?” Ferran laughed at his own joke.
Pedri tried to smile, though it was faint.
Ferran didn’t seem to mind carrying the conversation alone. He talked about Valencia, about the boy who had snuck his phone into training once and been caught, about how the showers here were too cold. Pedri nodded now and then, grateful for the distraction, for the way Ferran’s words filled the empty spaces where homesickness tried to creep in.
When Ferran finally noticed his untouched glass of water, he leaned back, studying him for a moment. “Nervous stomach?”
Pedri’s ears burned. “Maybe.”
“It’ll pass,” Ferran said simply, no judgment in his tone. “First days always feel like that.” Then he grinned. “By next week you’ll be stealing toast off my tray.”
Pedri looked down quickly, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest twitch.
🤎
After breakfast, the boys spilled out toward the pitches in a stream of navy tracksuits. The air outside was cool, sharp with morning, and the grass glistened under the sun.
Pedri walked beside Ferran, pulling his jacket tighter. His heart thudded with each step closer to the field, nerves prickling like static in his chest.
Ferran bounced lightly on his toes as they reached the gate. “Ready?” he asked, flashing a grin.
Pedri drew a slow breath, eyes fixed on the stretch of green ahead. “I think so.”
“Good,” Ferran said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Because this is it. First impression. Let’s not look like fools.”
Pedri managed a quiet laugh, nerves softening just a fraction. The whistle blew across the field, sharp and commanding, pulling them forward into the day that waited.
He felt relieved to finally be on the pitch. He knew football - unlike everything else here. When he was on the pitch - passing, running, scanning, scoring - there wasn’t time for thinking about his mamá, or home, or anything besides the ball at his feet. As it always had been, football was a distraction. A much-needed one.
The training session left Pedri’s legs aching, but there wasn’t much time to think about it. After a quick shower and a change into the neat uniform polo shirt and jacket they’d been given, he found himself following the stream of boys down the hall toward the buses that waited at the gates.
Two coaches stood by the door, ticking names off a clipboard as each player climbed inside. The bus smelled faintly of leather and aftershave, its seats already half-filled with voices and laughter. Ferran nudged Pedri forward.
“Come on, sit with me. Otherwise you’ll end up with one of the older lads, and trust me, they’re not as fun as me.”
Pedri hesitated, then slid into the seat by the window, his bag balanced awkwardly on his knees. Ferran dropped beside him, stretching his legs into the narrow aisle.
As the bus rumbled to life, the conversations rose, a mix of accents and quick Spanish, shouts of “pásame eso” as snacks were thrown between rows. Pedri leaned into the window, watching the city roll past. Wide streets, scooters weaving between cars, kids in other uniforms heading to their own schools. Everything looked bigger than it had on the island, louder too.
Ferran tapped his knee against Pedri’s. “Hey. You nervous about school?”
Pedri blinked, caught off guard. “…A little.”
“Don’t be,” Ferran said, with the kind of confidence Pedri wished he could borrow. “It’s just school. Same boring lessons, different walls. Plus we get to sit together, so it’ll be fine.”
Pedri nodded, though his stomach tightened anyway.
🤎
The private school building was modern, tall glass windows reflecting the afternoon sun. The La Masia group spilled into the courtyard together, a pack instantly recognisable in their matching jackets, boots swapped for polished black shoes that looked too stiff on most of them. Other students in neat blazers and skirts turned to stare, some whispering behind their hands.
Pedri felt the weight of the glances pressing into him. He ducked his head, gripping the strap of his bag tighter.
Ferran, of course, seemed unaffected. He waved at a group of girls who giggled in response, flashing the easy grin that never seemed to leave his face. “See? Already popular,” he whispered dramatically to Pedri, who rolled his eyes but said nothing.
They were led into a classroom where desks had already been arranged in pairs. Their teacher, a woman with sharp glasses and a brisk tone, pointed out seats. Pedri found himself placed in the middle row, Ferran sliding into the desk beside him with a triumphant grin.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me again,” he said, tapping his pen against the desk.
Pedri opened his notebook quietly, smoothing the page flat.
🤎
The hours blurred with lessons - maths, history, Spanish literature. The teacher spoke quickly, chalk squeaking against the board, while some of the La Masia boys whispered among themselves, barely pretending to pay attention.
Ferran leaned back in his chair halfway through, sighing loudly enough for Pedri to glance at him. “Boring, isn’t it?” he whispered.
Pedri shrugged, eyes on the board.
“You actually like this?” Ferran pressed, eyebrows raised.
“It’s school,” Pedri murmured.
Ferran snorted softly. “You’re one of those serious types, aren’t you?”
Pedri didn’t answer. His pen traced careful notes, though his mind drifted to the field waiting for them later, to the ball at his feet, to something he understood better than this classroom.
By lunchtime, the La Masia boys had taken over a corner of the cafeteria, their uniforms neat but their laughter loud enough to draw more stares. Ferran dropped into a chair with his tray, tugging Pedri into the seat beside him.
“You eat so little,” Ferran remarked again, noticing Pedri’s half-filled tray.
“Not hungry,” Pedri muttered.
“Always not hungry,” Ferran teased, but softer this time, like he knew pressing further would push too much. Instead he launched into a story about a disastrous cooking attempt with his sister, arms waving animatedly until one of the older boys threw a grape at him to shut him up.
Pedri listened quietly, fork pushing food across the tray without eating much. Ferran’s voice filled the empty spaces once again, keeping the silence at bay.
🤎
By the time the final bell rang, Pedri’s head felt heavy, the long hours pressing on top of the nerves that still sat stubborn in his stomach. The bus ride back to La Masia was quieter, some boys dozing against the windows, others with headphones in.
Ferran leaned against the seat, arms crossed behind his head, eyes half-closed but mouth still moving. “That wasn’t too bad, right? Could’ve been worse. At least no one made fun of us yet. Maybe they will tomorrow.”
Pedri tilted his head to the glass, watching the city blur by. “Maybe.”
Ferran chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk enough for both of us. They’ll like us.”
Pedri wanted to believe that. He let his eyes close briefly, the rumble of the bus and Ferran’s voice mixing together into something almost steadying.
When the bus finally pulled back into La Masia, the sun had started to dip low, the evening training waiting. Pedri stepped down with his bag, legs tired but heart beating faster. The second session of the day loomed, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready - but at least, for now, he wasn’t facing it alone.
The cafeteria at La Masia hummed with noise that night, the scrape of chairs, the clatter of trays, the overlapping voices of dozens of boys who had spent the day together on the field and in classrooms and still somehow had things left to say. The air was heavy with the smell of roasted chicken and rice, bread rolls stacked high in baskets along the counter.
Pedri carried his tray slowly down the line, movements sluggish from the second training session that had left his legs trembling. His stomach turned just at the sight of food. He forced himself to take a scoop of rice and a piece of chicken, though the smell clung too thick to the back of his throat.
He sat down in his usual spot near Ferran, who was already halfway through his plate, talking animatedly with two other boys about a drill they’d done. Ferran’s hands moved as much as his mouth did, gesturing wildly until one of the others told him to calm down before he spilled his water glass.
Pedri stared down at his plate. He shifted the rice around with his fork, taking tiny sips of water, pretending to eat. The noise around him blurred into a hum, like the walls were closing in tighter with every second.
“Pedri,” a voice cut through the sound.
He looked up sharply. One of the assistant coaches, a tall man with tired eyes, was standing at the end of the table. His gaze flicked to the plate in front of Pedri - still full.
“Come with me for a moment.”
Pedri’s stomach dropped. He glanced at Ferran, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing as Pedri pushed back his chair and followed the coach to a quieter corner near the serving counter.
The coach crouched down so his voice wouldn’t carry. “Why aren’t you eating?”
Pedri swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the floor. “Not hungry.”
“You’ve been ‘not hungry’ since you arrived,” the coach said gently, but there was steel beneath his tone. “That’s two days in a row you’ve barely touched your meals. Training here is hard. If you don’t eat, you won’t recover. And if you don’t recover, you won’t last.”
The words hit like a kick to the chest. Pedri’s throat tightened, shame crawling up the back of his neck.
“I know it’s hard being away from home,” the coach continued, voice softening. “But you have to take care of yourself. You’re here because you’re good enough, but talent means nothing if your body breaks down. Understand?”
Pedri nodded mutely, biting the inside of his cheek.
“Good. Now sit back down and eat. Slowly if you need to, but finish what’s on your plate.”
Pedri forced out a quiet, “Sí.”
Back at the table, Ferran gave him a searching look as he sat down again. Pedri ignored it, picking up his fork with hands that shook slightly. The first bite of chicken tasted like sawdust, but he chewed and swallowed, pushing past the nausea. Bite after bite, until the plate looked less intimidating. He didn’t taste any of it, but he finished.
Ferran didn’t comment, though Pedri could feel his eyes flicker toward him every so often.
🤎
Later, in the dorm, exhaustion settled heavy over the room. Some boys were already out cold, others whispering in hushed voices across bunks. The faint glow of a streetlamp outside filtered through the window, painting soft orange lines across the floor.
Pedri sat on his bed, staring at his folded blanket, the teddy bear tucked half-hidden beneath the pillow. He felt raw, like his skin was too thin. The coach’s words replayed over and over - if you don’t eat, you won’t last.
Across the room, Ferran still hadn’t stopped talking. He sat cross-legged on his bed, animated even as the day wound down. “And then in the second drill, did you see how Mister nearly tripped over himself? I thought he was going to land face-first in the grass. If it had been me, I’d never hear the end of it.”
Pedri pressed his palms into his eyes. His chest felt tight, his body heavy with exhaustion and shame and homesickness that ached like a bruise.
“-and tomorrow, I bet they’ll-”
“¡Cállate!” The word snapped out of him before he could stop it, sharp and cutting.
The silence that followed was immediate, like the whole room had sucked in a breath. Ferran froze, mouth half-open, eyes wide.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Ferran closed his mouth, his expression shuttering. Without another word, he turned onto his side, pulling his blanket up over his shoulder. The chatter that usually filled every space around him vanished into the dark.
Pedri sat frozen, the word still ringing in his ears. Guilt rose hot in his throat. Ferran hadn’t deserved that. He hadn’t meant it, he just hadn’t been able to breathe, not with all the noise, not with everything pressing down at once.
Slowly, Pedri lay down on his side, facing the wall. His chest ached. He pulled the teddy bear from under the pillow, clutching it tight against his chest like he hadn’t since he was little. The fur was worn, the stuffing uneven, but it smelled faintly of home, of nights in Tenerife when everything had felt safe.
He pressed his face into it, trying to muffle the sound of his breathing. Tears came hot and relentless, sliding down his cheeks, soaking into the fabric. He curled tighter, shoulders shaking, guilt and homesickness tangling until he couldn’t tell which hurt more.
He wanted his mother’s voice, his father’s hand on his shoulder, his brother sneaking into his room to talk until they both fell asleep. Instead, he had a dorm full of strangers and Ferran, silent now because Pedri had pushed him away.
He hated himself for it. He hated how much he wanted to take it back.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged him under, tears drying on his face, the teddy bear clutched tight in his arms. The last thing he felt was the hollow ache of regret, lodged deep in his chest.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.