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There was no training the next day, which made the evening a loose one.
Messi was going through next week's schedule on his phone. De Paul was stretched along the sofa with his own, saying nothing. When De Paul went quiet at this hour it generally meant the algorithm had brought him something, and the quality of what the algorithm brought could not be guaranteed.
"Leo."
"Mm."
"Say, hypothetically." De Paul rolled onto his side. "You get in a time machine with everything you know now. Way back. Would you still find me?"
He knew it was a game. Knowing that doesn't stop a question like it from costing a second. Messi kept his eyes on his screen and answered evenly.
"...I would."
"Oh."
"I'd find you sooner, probably."
Having said it, his face went warm enough that he felt obliged to add: "That was the question."
De Paul's whole face came up. He turned bodily toward Messi and shifted in close, delighted.
"Great. Let's do the math." He put out a hand and started on his fingers. "You at eighteen, what year is that?"
"Eighteen would be..." Messi counted back. "2005."
"2005." De Paul stared at the ceiling and added something up with great concentration. Then he turned, beaming, like a man delivering good news. "Ah. Then you come to Loreto Primary."
"...I'm sorry, what?"
"I'm in fifth grade. There was an after-school football club - Tuesdays and Thursdays. I'll be down at the far end of the field, kicking a ball around."
Messi's shoulder gave a small involuntary jump.
"Rodri."
"You were already a regular starter in La Liga and playing for the national team by then." De Paul was thoroughly pleased with himself. He had the face of a man with no idea what he was saying. "So you come over and offer to show me a few things. Football was the only thing I knew about. I'd have gone with you on the spot."
"And I'm easy to spot, I was the biggest kid there. Blue jacket. There was a hole in the knee that-"
"Rodri."
"What?"
"That's just kidnapping."
De Paul stopped mid-sentence. A silence followed.
"...Ah."
"An eighteen-year-old walks onto a primary school field and tells an eleven-year-old to come with him. That's not a love story. That's a news item."
The picture assembled itself in front of him. An eighteen-year-old fresh to the Barcelona first team appears on a primary school field and leaves with an eleven-year-old. The sort of image that gets a man his debut-season headline on the wrong page of the paper.
"It wasn't sinister. It's community coaching."
"A grown stranger removing a child from school grounds to teach him football is community coaching."
"Not a stranger. Future-" De Paul attempted a definition, failed to locate a serviceable noun, and trailed into mumbling. "...Look, we know each other. There's just a time difference."
"A time difference." Messi put his fingers to his forehead. "Try that one at the police station."
De Paul bumped a shoulder into him in protest. The sofa rocked. Something passed between them that was mostly laughing.
"Forget it. I'm not taking the time machine."
"Why not."
"Now is better. Don't turn me into a kidnapper."
"You're not a kidnapper. You're a coach."
"Look at your phone."
Beside him, the quiet arrived obediently. That was what bothered him. The man had just asked, in complete sincerity, to be found. And the one who had cut him off was Messi.
"You get here on your own." Messi picked his phone back up. "You grew up on your own, went pro on your own, made the national team on your own, and followed me all the way to my club. That's enough."
The space beside him went quiet.
When he turned his head De Paul was looking at him. A face that cannot hide anything was failing, once again, to hide anything. The mouth had already gone.
"Leo. That thing you just said."
"What."
"I should have been recording."
"There won't be a second one."
De Paul laughed and laid his head against Messi's shoulder. His share of the sofa expanded to something near eighty percent, and Messi lodged no objection.
"No, but seriously." De Paul mumbled it somewhere near the back of his neck. "I'd find you sooner. That. Say it again."
"No."
"Once."
Instead of answering, Messi lifted his phone and turned his attention to next week's schedule. The screen was exactly where he'd left it. Not one line of it had gone in.
He didn't move the head off his shoulder.
The heat in his ears, he decided, was down to the fact that the living room was too warm.