When Pablo Gavi, FC Barcelona's golden boy, finds out the team is signing a female player from La Masia, he's furious. Football isn't for girls, and he's not about to let some newcomer ruin the team's chemistry-or his spot on the pitch. But when a v...
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The music was loud, the lights were dim, and the air was thick with the smell of victory—and maybe a little too much cologne. We'd just won the Supercopa, and the team had decided to throw a party at one of the fanciest venues in Barcelona. Honestly, I didn't even know who organized it. All I knew was that one minute we were lifting the trophy, and the next, I was being dragged into a car with Ferran and Pedri shouting, "¡Vamos, Gavi! ¡Es hora de celebrar!"
I laughed as I stepped inside, the bass from the music vibrating through the floor. The place was packed—not just with the team, but with friends, family, and a few people I didn't even recognize. Not that it mattered. Tonight was about us. About me. About the fact that we'd just added another trophy to the cabinet, and I'd played my heart out to make it happen.
"¡Oye, campeón!" Ferran's voice cut through the noise as he shoved a drink into my hand. He was already grinning like an idiot, his hair messy and his tie loosened. "You were on fire today, hermano. That pass to Lewy? Increíble."
I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but I couldn't stop the smile from spreading across my face. "What can I say? I was feeling inspired."
Pedri appeared out of nowhere, slinging an arm around my shoulders. "Inspired? More like possessed. Did you see the way he ran today? Like a maniac." He laughed, and I shoved him lightly, almost spilling my drink.
"Call me a maniac again, and I'll show you possessed," I shot back, grinning. Pedri just rolled his eyes and took a sip of his drink.
The night went on like that—laughter, teasing, and the kind of camaraderie that only comes from winning something big. At one point, Ansu grabbed the mic and started belting out some reggaeton, and the whole team joined in, shouting the lyrics at the top of their lungs. I didn't even know half the words, but that didn't stop me from jumping in.
"¡Gavi, canta!" someone yelled, and I shook my head, laughing. "No way. You don't want to hear that."
"Come on, hombre," Ferran insisted, pushing me toward the mic. "For the team!"
I hesitated for a second, then grabbed the mic and started singing—badly. The team erupted into cheers and laughter, and I couldn't help but laugh too. This was what I loved about these moments. The pressure of the game was gone, and all that was left was this—pure, unfiltered joy.
As the night wore on, I found myself sitting on one of the couches, watching the chaos unfold. Xavi was in the corner, deep in conversation with the coaching staff, but even he looked relaxed for once. Lewandowski was trying to teach Marc ter Stegen some Polish dance moves, and it was going about as well as you'd expect. And Frenkie? Well, Frenkie was just Frenkie—dancing like no one was watching, even though everyone definitely was.
I leaned back, feeling the exhaustion start to creep in. My legs were sore, my throat was dry from singing (and maybe shouting a little too much), but I didn't care. This was worth it. Every drop of sweat, every bruise, every moment of doubt—it was all worth it for nights like this.
