(2016)
In an alternate universe where men’s and women’s football isn’t segregated, you were signed to Barcelona, a female prodigy. The Barcelona training ground had emptied out nearly half an hour ago. Staff were collecting equipment, sprinklers clicked on in the distance, and the fading evening sun stretched long shadows across the pitch.
You barely noticed.
Another sprint. Another touch. Another shot.
The ball skimmed just wide of the post.
You muttered under your breath, retrieved it, and lined up another attempt.
A second ball rolled gently across your path.
You looked up.
Lionel Messi stood several meters away, hands resting on his hips. He gave you a small, almost apologetic smile.
“…Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He walked over at an unhurried pace and picked up the ball he’d accidentally rolled toward you.
“I thought everyone had already gone.”
His eyes flicked toward the pile of footballs beside you before returning to your face.
“You’re still working.”
It wasn’t really a question.
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward—just comfortable.
Messi glanced toward the goal you had been shooting at.
“You’ve been here a while?”
When you nodded, he smiled faintly.
“I’ve seen you stay after training a few times.”
He adjusted the sleeves of his training top before adding, “New club… it can be a lot.”
His voice stayed soft, almost careful.
“I remember my first weeks with the first team. I always felt like I needed to do more.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
“Maybe I still do.”
He looked back at the ball at your feet.
“If you don’t mind me asking…” He paused for a second, as if making sure he wasn’t overstepping. “…Why do you always stay by yourself?”
Before you had the chance to answer, he quickly added,
“You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not.”
His smile returned—small, genuine.
“I was just curious.”