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Messi stands up when he sees Lamine walk over, which is nice of him.
They touched briefly before the game, like they were just two professionals about to share the field, like Lamine was just the young guy and Messi the old king.
And Lamine supposed that is what they were. That is what they had been for most of his life until some shady Argentine rag magazine had uploaded 'NEVER BEFORE SEEN' photos of a young, rosy cheeked Leo Messi with his 'ULTRA SECRET SCANDALOUS BABY.'
It had 'shook' the internet and the industry, of course, because apparently no one but the people closest to Messi and the very core of Barça had known. It was around when Messi's team released a statement confirming that the baby was indeed his and that he bad been encouraged to give it up shortly after the birth that Lamine started taking a closer look at the picture.
And so had the media.
What started as a fun 'jaja that baby looks like me' quickly turned into a big 'mierda that baby is me.'
The media and fans hurried to connect the dots between the young star player that had famously been adopted and given a chance in life and the baby Messi had given up conveniently around the time of his birth.
And then a photo had come out of the pair with Lamine's mother in the photo too. Two omegas, one baby. There was no more denial.
So Lamine's parents had told him the truth. Or rather, more details than they had shared with him before. All he had known was that his birth mother was an omega that had loved him very much but was not in a position to keep him and had chosen to leave him in the children's home his mum had eventually adopted him from.
"He knew we adopted you, he kept tabs on you back then— as much as he was allowed," Sheila said. "He…he had named you Andres, but supported the name change when we told him why we wanted Lamine Yamal. When I took you home, he sent money to help us take care of you. He used to call, even visit, to ask after you…"
"Why did he stop?" Lamine had asked quietly, staring down at the photos in hand. Different from the ones the media had released, these were softer. Lamine was younger, barely a few days old, and Messi— that is, Lionel, looks horribly young too.
"His father found out," his dad , who had gone over to his mother's house just to have that conversation, had said. "Forbade him, sent us a letter warning us away and some more money. I used to think he was a monster. Now…" he had looked at his omega son, up and coming, the same age Messi had been when he had ended up pregnant. "Well, I guess I understand why the thought he was doing the right thing."
When they had confirmed it, the world had gone insane. Everyone called for a reunion. Some people were way too happy, for good and bad reasons. Some called Lamine a nepo baby, some credited all his achievements to Messi. Some fans turned against him, those who hated Messi and did not want to be associated with anything about him.
Barça was exploiting the hell out of it. Their legend had birthed a baby legend! They took all the credit, the people who had known about the whole affair. It had made Lamine upset. To think he was a nepo baby, in a way. To think the team had made his mother give him up only to snatch him up for themselves eventually.
But Lamine knew the shitfest his PR had to deal with was nothing compared to what the Argentine was going through. Everyone wanted to dig into his teen pregnancy. Who was the father? Why hadn't he retired immediately to raised his kid instead of being irresponsible? Why hadn't he tried to raise the kid while playing and be a badass omega mum?
Messi had gone into lockdown, kept safe by the white and blue walls of the AFA.
There had been no reunion. Lamine said the same thing to the press every time they asked: Messi is an inspiration to all the kids in my generation. I love the people who raised me. No, I'm not resentful.
And he wasn't. He tried to think what he would do if he had a child in his arms at his age. It made him panic just at the thought.
He kept tabs on what Messi said, though.
"Lamine, eh, is an incredible talent. He is a bright young boy, a great player. I, I was not involved in his career. His talent and skill are all his. What? Oh. Oh, yes. Of course I'm proud. But I can't take any credit, I… just glad he's okay. That he grew up okay. He grew up great."
He wouldn't say who the father was. Option number one? A nameless fuck at a club for an irresponsible silly omega. But the people knew Leo Messi. They had known him since he was a boy. They had known, or so they had thought, his virtue.
Speculation and rumours spread. Accusations were launched. Someone had taken advantage of the GOAT of football. Someone had used and abused the most famous omega in the world and almost derailed the best career in the history of the sport.
"It doesn't matter who that alpha was," his dad told Yamal over and over. "You have me, you have your stepdad…Messi'll never say. Hell, maybe he doesn't know. Probably for the best. You don't think about that at all, okay?"
His teammates didn't know what to do about it, no one did, so no one really acknowledged it. Someone said he could theoretically play for Argentina at the world cup, if he wanted, of they called him. Yamal had rolled his eyes.
He was Moroccan, he was Equatoguinean, and he was Spanish. He didn't need more flags. He didn't want them.
He thought of the few times he had met Messi as a boy. Had his mother recognised him? Why hadn't he said anything? And when he heard that Lamine Yamal, formerly Andres, was following in his footsteps, why hadn't he reached out?
All that ran through his head as he watched Messi stand up from the wet grass, face twisted in melancholy.
Spain had won. Lamine was a world cup winner at 19. But they had stomped all over the GOAT, in his last ever chance…and said GOAT was also his mum.
"Hey," Lamine said quietly as he reached Messi.
Lionel. Leo.
Messi.
They hugged briefly, because that's what people did after a match, aware of the world's eyes on them. Yamal resisted the urge to try and scent his fellow omega, just about.
"Felicidades," Messi said quietly, eyes downcast.
"Thank you," Yamal said. "Good game."
A wry quirk of the lips. "From your team," he said.
Messi went to step back, to go back to his perfectly acceptable wallowing, and Yamal stopped him with a hand on his arm.
Mesis looked at him, his demeanour exhausted.
"Can we talk?" Lamine said quietly.
Messi swallowed, looking small. He eyes flickered around and Yamal could smell his teammates approaching with concerned and protective scents.
"Please," Yamal insisted. "I'm not looking for anything, just…some answers."
Messi sighed, shoulders collapsing even further. "Celebrate with your team," he said at last. "I, eh, will find your people. Dinner?"
"Awesome, thank you," Yamal sighed in relief. He let go of him. "Thank you. See you then."
He returned to his teammates, seeing how the Argentine alphas surrounded Messi and hid him from view. He put the older omega out of his mind and joined in on the celebrations.
He was a world cup winner. He was unstoppable.
Messi was alone in the booth when Yamal and his mother stepped into the hotel restaurant. It was clear he had had it closed down just for their dinner, with every table empty except for his. The hostess led them over to the table and Yamal saw the moment Messi realised they were there. He noticed the quick breath he took and the way he shook his head before standing up.
Messi smiled, a tiny wobbly thing, and offered his hand out when they got there.
"Sheila, good to see you," he said, and oof'ed as he was pulled into a hug. He scented her back, shyly, shoulders loosening.
"It's been a long time," she said, stepping back. She smiled kindly, "thank you for agreeing to meet Lamine."
He smiled again briefly before turning to Lamine, offering a stuttering nod and sitting back down.
Yamal sat down in front of him, heart pounding.
Messi saw how his mother didn't follow suit and visibly panicked. "You're not staying?" He asked.
"I don't think so," she said gently. "I've said my part. I think this has to be just the two of you, no?"
After a moment, the man nodded. "Bye," he said, sitting back.
"Bye," she chuckled. "Espero afuera, cielo," she told Yamal, kissing his forehead. "Take your time. Eat well. You deserve it."
The players watched her go, the silent brittle in between them.
Yamal closed his eyes once she was gone, taking a deep breath.
A waiter arrived with some waters, staring between them not-so-professionally, and put down some menus. "Can I offer you something else to drink, sirs?" She asked in English, hands behind her back.
Yamal watched as Messi grabbed the glass of water and took a big gulp. "Eh, no, thank you," he said, smiling meekly.
She hurried away, no doubt to tell her coworkers how awkward the vibe at the table was.
Yamal turned to Messi, rubbing his nose. He opened his mouth—
"Your sire wasn't a rapist," Messi blurted out.
Yamal blinked, then stared. "Huh?"
Messi stared at him, bags under his eyes. "Your sire, the, the woman who—"
"She was a woman?" Yamal had imagined it would have been a man, like everyone had.
"Yes," Messi nodded. "And she's not a rapist or, or a creep. She was just a girl. She…I don't know where she is now, or if she's figured out about—" he gestured between them "—but she didn't do anything wrong."
"You never told her?"
"I had no way to reach her," Messi said, hands splayed out pleadingly. "She was only in Barcelona for a week— she was a student, from Morocco."
Yamal smiled down at the table. "I am Moroccan," he said.
"Si," Messi nodded. "When I found out where your father was from, I knew God had taken you to the right hands."
Yamal sniffed, relaxing slightly. "How did you meet her? In a club?"
Messi grimaced and Yamal laughed.
"Yes and no," Messi said. "Outside of a club. I was there with the boys from Barca, she was there with her friends. She was on a trip, a vacation from university. Neither of us liked the ambiance and we met outside in the alley. She offered to walk me home," Messi shrugged, cheeks red. "Alphas."
"So she was a good person," Yamal said. "The media—"
"They're dogs," Messi shook his head, staring at him with firm eyes. "I know they have been saying, writing, very awful things. I'm sorry. Her name was Lina and she was very beautiful. Had no idea about football or who I was…it was nice." The older man looked at him, eyes running over his face. "You look a lot like her. Heh, thankfully you didn't get my big nose and ears," he chuckled self-deprecatingly, looking down.
Then he looked up, alarmed. "I didn't sleep with her that night," he rushed out. "I don't— well, there's nothing wrong with a hookup."
Yamal could not believe he was having this conversation with football's biggest star.
It's your mum, he told himself, watching as Messi rubbed his face.
"I managed to keep it secret from the club," he said, "but we saw each other the next few days. I invited her to my house the day before her flight back home." He blushed again, then chuckled. "I doubt she remembers me, but, Lamine," Lionel looked at him, "I don't doubt she would have loved you very much if I had been able to tell her."
Yamal smiled bitter-sweetly. "I'm sorry you weren't able to," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you were alone. If it happened to me, god…I'd be lost."
"I was lost," Lionel admitted, playing with his napkin. "I thought it was all over. I could never— it was suggested that I— but I couldn't, it wouldn't have been right," he said, then sighed. "I don't want to sound like, like a priest. Ay, this is very hard for me to talk about."
"It's okay," Yamal said.
"Is not," Lionel said back. He covered his face for a minute, taking a few breaths. "The club wanted me to get rid of it. Of you. I wouldn't, even when they threatened to let me go."
Yamal shivered, imagining himself in that situation.
"But they had invested too much in me," Lionel sniffed, sitting back with a settled face. "And knew it could be scandal if I spoke up. So they let me have the baby. But it was," he swallowed, "hard. They wouldn't change my routine. I trained, I played, I dieted. I think they were hoping I would have a miscarriage."
Yamal rubbed his lower face, overwhelmed. "How can you love them so much?" He whispered. "After all that?"
Lionel looked at him with anguish. "They gave me football," he said, shrugging slightly. "And after giving you up…that was everything I had. I am so happy you are with them, Lamine. It's the best home a player can have."
Still, Yamal wasn't sure if he would ever look at the Barça emblem the same again.
Lionel reached into trouser pockets, taking out his wallet. "Here," he said, opening it to dig a small photo out of it. He pushed it forwards.
Yamal looked at the small quare photo of himself as a baby. A newborn, really. It was black and white, which he thought was funny, but it was definitely him. He went to touch it.
"Please be careful," Lionel said, then cringed.
Yamal looked at him. "You carried it all this time?" He whispered.
Lionel smiled shakily. "I had to stay away," he said, voice breaking. "But I never forgot my pup."
Yamal sniffled, bursting into tiny sobs.
Lionel stood up quickly and walked over to his side, crawling on the booth to hug him.
Yamal buried his nose in the man's neck, taking in his scent. It was immediately a familiar comfort, even if he didn't remember being in that position before.
"Why didn't you approach me?" He asked eventually, the pair of them curled up around each other. "Eventually. When you outgrew your father's reach, when you left Barca?"
Leo sighed, Yamal tucked under his chin. He shook his head. "To avoid the mess of the past weeks," he said eventually. "The accusations throw at you, the digging in my past. I…don't like the press."
"So you never would have told me," Yamal said, shifting back to look at him.
"Maybe one day," Leo said honestly. "When your career was more settled. Maybe after today, after your victory. It's not, eh, worth thinking about."
They sat back down, facing each other, and called the waiter. It was all American food, so they got some nice meaty dishes. Lamine figured he deserved a big meal, given he had just won the most important trophy of his career.
"What do we do now?" Yamal asked while they waited. "Do you…I mean—" he blushed, "you know my family, but I don't know yours."
Leo looked at him, cheek twitching. "You will go back to Spain now, no? Celebrate there," he said. "You have a break after?"
"Yes, I'll take a holiday," Yamal nodded. "We all can. I, I thought I might go to the beach, but I haven't planned anything. We just won, so…"
Leo winced slightly at the reminder, but nodded. "Come to Argentina," he said. "When you're done back home. My father, he is sick. He would like to meet you, if you want to."
Yamal wasn't sure if he did. "And your mum?"
"Of course," Leo smiled. "And your uncles, your aunt…I want you to meet them. I want you to enjoy my home. Maybe…it can be a bit of your home too."
"I'd like that," Yamal smiled, then he chuckled sheepishly. "If you think I'll be welcome after today."
Leo chuckled too. "Are you kidding? A son of Messi? You'll be adored," he said. He'd make sure of it.
"And you never thought of having more pups? I mean, I know you're still playing in Miami, but after this world cup or some day…" Yamal said after their dishes were delivered to the table. He looked down at his steak, cringing. Perhaps it was an insensitive question to ask an older omega.
"Oh, I can't," Leo said, shrugging. "Barca had me get surgery as soon as I recovered from childbirth. I don't have a uterus. I don't have anything."
Yamal put his fork down. "They made you get a hysterectomy?" He gasped out. "How old were you? Twenty?"
"Still nineteen," Leo said, looking at him worriedly. "Are you upset?"
"Of course I'm upset!" Yamal said, shaking his head. "That's so unfair."
"They said I was irresponsible," Leo said quietly, looking down at his food. "At the time, I just wanted to be let back out in the field. I'd have agreed to anything. I guess I did."
"Couldn't they just put you on birth control? What if you did want to have pups later?" Yamal exclaimed, outraged.
Leo shrugged again. "I just wanted football," he said helplessly.
"So why not tie your tubes?" Yamal kept going. "Why put you through such a big surgery? How wasn't it in the news? Any of it, you barely missed any matches— I checked."
"I played through my recovery," Leo murmured. "Wanted to proof myself. I was just as good as before, so. It was okay."
Yamal rubbed his face.
Leo reached out to touch his arm. "Please don't be mad," he said awkwardly. "I'm okay. I, I don't need pups. I don't even have an alpha," he chuckled self-deprecatingly. "So why even talk about it?"
Yamal sighed, collapsing against the back of the seat. His mother was from a different generation. Things were uglier for omegas in sports back then; perhaps Messi would never understand the depth of his mistreatment. Perhaps he wouldn't care.
"You really don't have an alpha?" He asked eventually. "What about…? I don't know— Neymar?"
Leo burst out laughing, loud and shameless.
Yamal laughed with him, taking in the scene and the happy scent that filled the table.
"God, no," Leo said, rubbing his eyes. "Ney is a friend. A good friend, but um, not a great alpha. Also not interested. No one's interested, not really. Except some fans, but that's…creepy."
"No one's interested?" Yamal laughed. "You're Messi. You're the most famous omega in the world. People worship you."
"They worship the athlete," Leo said, not sounding upset. "Not the man. Certainly not the omega."
Yamal ate, humming dubiously.
"So you're telling me nothing happened with Ramos?"
"Ramos? Why would you—?"
"What about Kun Aguero?"
"Kun's a friend!"
"Pique?"
"Ew. Please change the subject."
"Suarez? Beckham?"
"No way and that's my boss."
"How about Dibu Martinez? Your goalkeeper? I've seen you guys, eh? He's tall."
"And mated."
"…Ronal—?"
"I will throw these potatoes at you, pup or not."