The morning after winning his fourth Champions League trophy, Ethan Loki woke up in his London hotel room with a headache that felt like someone had taken a hammer to his skull. The celebration had gone until 4 AM. Champagne. Dancing. Singing. The team had rented out an entire nightclub in Mayfair, and every Barcelona player, coach, and staff member had lost themselves in the joy of back-to-back European titles.
Now, at 11:37 AM according to the digital clock on the nightstand, reality was setting in.
His phone showed 2,847 unread messages. Instagram notifications had stopped counting at 999+. Twitter—or X, or whatever they were calling it now—was exploding with his name. ESPN had already published an article titled "Ethan Loki: The Greatest of His Generation?" The Guardian went further: "At 25, Loki Has Already Surpassed Ronaldo's Legacy."
He scrolled through his phone with one eye open, the other still adjusting to the harsh sunlight streaming through the hotel curtains he'd forgotten to close.
A text from his mother, sent at 6:23 AM Paris time: I watched the match with your father and Marie. We cried when you scored the third goal. I'm so proud of you I can't find words. Come home soon. We miss you. Maman.
Another from Mbappé, sent at 3:12 AM: 4 Champions Leagues at 25. You're making the rest of us look bad, brother. But seriously—LEGENDARY. Call me when you wake up. We need to talk about something important.
Sofia had sent a voice message at 9:00 AM. He played it, her voice filling the quiet hotel room.
"Hi, amor. I'm back in Barcelona. I know you're probably still sleeping off the celebration, but I wanted to tell you—watching you last night, seeing you lift that trophy for the fourth time, I fell in love with you all over again. Not because of the goals or the trophies, but because of how you looked at your teammates afterward. How you made sure every single person got their moment with the trophy before you touched it again. That's who you are. That's why I said yes when you proposed. I love you. Call me when you're alive again."
He smiled despite the headache. Sofia understood him in ways nobody else could. She saw past the goals, the awards, the fame. She saw Ethan—the kid from Bondy who just loved playing football.
A knock on his hotel room door interrupted his thoughts.
"It's open," he called out, his voice raspy from singing Champions League anthems at three in the morning.
Pedri walked in, looking somehow worse than Ethan felt. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was sticking up in seventeen different directions, and he was still wearing his suit from last night, now wrinkled beyond recognition.
"We have a problem," Pedri said, collapsing onto the couch near the window.
"Good morning to you too," Ethan replied, sitting up slowly. Every muscle in his body ached. Twenty-five years old and he felt fifty.
"Koeman just called an emergency meeting. Noon. Conference room downstairs."
"Emergency? We literally won the Champions League twelve hours ago. What could possibly be an emergency?"
Pedri looked at him with an expression Ethan couldn't quite read. Concern? Fear? Something else?
"Real Madrid just signed Mbappé."
The words hung in the air like smoke from a grenade.
Ethan's headache suddenly didn't matter anymore. He sat up fully, now wide awake.
"What?"
"It's all over the news. Announced thirty minutes ago. Five-year contract. Free transfer from PSG. He's going to Real Madrid."
Ethan grabbed his phone and opened Twitter. The first headline confirmed it:
OFFICIAL: Kylian Mbappé signs for Real Madrid. Five-year deal. Joins Los Blancos July 1, 2024.
His best friend. His brother. The other half of "The Princes of Monaco." Now playing for Barcelona's biggest rival.
"Fuck," Ethan whispered.
"Yeah," Pedri agreed. "Fuck."
The conference room on the hotel's third floor was packed by the time Ethan arrived at 11:58 AM. Every Barcelona player was there, most of them looking as hungover as Ethan felt. Lewandowski sat in the corner sipping black coffee with the intensity of a man trying to will himself back to life. Gavi had his head on the table. Ter Stegen wore sunglasses indoors.
Koeman stood at the front of the room next to two men Ethan recognized immediately: Joan Laporta, Barcelona's president, and Mateu Alemany, the sporting director.
"Gentlemen," Laporta began, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd been dealing with crisis management for the past two hours. "I know you're all celebrating. You should be. What you achieved last night was historic. But football doesn't stop for celebrations. As you may have seen, Real Madrid have made a significant signing."
"Significant is an understatement," Lewandowski muttered. Several players laughed, but it was uncomfortable laughter.
"Mbappé to Madrid changes the landscape of Spanish football," Alemany continued. "They're building a team specifically to challenge our dominance. Mbappé, Vinícius, Bellingham, Rodrygo—that's potentially the best attack in world football."
Ethan felt his jaw tighten. He knew what was coming.
"Which brings us to you, Ethan," Laporta said, looking directly at him. "Real Madrid are building their team around Mbappé. We need to show the world that Barcelona has the best player on the planet. That means we're going to invest everything in making sure you have the support you need."
"What does that mean?" Ethan asked.
"It means we're bringing in reinforcements. Two world-class midfielders. A new left-back. A backup goalkeeper. Whatever it takes to ensure you have the platform to be the best."
The room fell silent. Every player understood what was being said: the club was building around Ethan. He wasn't just the captain anymore. He was the franchise.
"The Ballon d'Or race next year will be you versus Mbappé," Koeman added. "Barcelona versus Real Madrid. The two best players in the world at the two biggest clubs in the world. Every Clásico will be watched by a billion people. Every goal will be analyzed. Every performance will be compared."
Ethan leaned back in his chair, processing this new reality.
His best friend was now his biggest rival.
The Princes of Monaco were now enemies.
"I can handle it," Ethan finally said. "Whatever you need me to do. I'll do it."
"We know you will," Laporta said with a smile. "That's why we're giving you a new contract. Eight years. €40 million per year. Release clause of €1 billion. You'll be the highest-paid player in football history."
The room erupted. Players congratulated him. Slapped his back. Made jokes about becoming his friend for the money.
But Ethan barely heard them. His mind was already three moves ahead.
Mbappé at Real Madrid meant every Clásico would be a war. It meant the pressure would multiply tenfold. It meant he'd have to be perfect, every single match, just to stay ahead of his best friend.
It meant the next chapter of his career would be the hardest yet.
Later that evening, after the team had flown back to Barcelona and Ethan had finally made it home to his apartment in the Pedralbes neighborhood, he called Mbappé.
His friend answered on the second ring.
"I was wondering when you'd call," Mbappé said. In the background, Ethan could hear traffic. Paris, probably.
"Real Madrid?" Ethan said. "You couldn't have picked literally any other club?"
"Come on, hermano. You know Real Madrid has been my dream since I was a kid. Zidane played there. Ronaldo played there. It's the biggest club in the world."
"Barcelona is the biggest club in the world."
"We can agree to disagree on that." Mbappé laughed, but it sounded forced. "Look, I know this makes things complicated. But it doesn't change us. We're still brothers."
"Brothers who are about to go to war every time we play each other."
"That's football. Messi and Ronaldo were rivals and they had mutual respect. We can do the same."
Ethan walked out onto his balcony. The Barcelona skyline stretched before him, the Mediterranean glittering in the distance. This city had become home. This club had become his identity.
"The media is going to make this about me versus you," Ethan said quietly. "Every goal I score, they'll compare to yours. Every match, every trophy, every award. It's going to get ugly."
"Let them talk. We know the truth—we push each other to be better. Always have." Mbappé paused. "Remember when we were kids at Monaco? We promised each other we'd become the best in the world. Well, here we are. Both at legendary clubs. Both at the peak of our careers. This is what we dreamed about."
"The dream didn't include playing for rival clubs."
"No, but that's what makes it interesting." Mbappé's voice changed, became more serious. "Ethan, listen to me. You have four Champions Leagues. Two Ballons d'Or. You're building one of the greatest careers in football history. I have zero Champions Leagues. Zero Ballons d'Or. I need this move. I need to prove I can win at the highest level. You understand that, right?"
Ethan did understand. That's what made this so complicated.
"I understand," he finally said. "But don't expect me to go easy on you in the Clásico."
Mbappé laughed, and this time it sounded genuine. "I wouldn't want you to. Bring everything you've got. Because I'm bringing mine."
They talked for another twenty minutes about football, about life, about the upcoming Euro 2024 tournament where they'd be teammates for France one more time before becoming eternal rivals.
When Ethan finally hung up, Sofia appeared on the balcony beside him, two glasses of wine in her hands.
"You okay?" she asked, handing him one.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Everything's changing so fast. Mbappé at Madrid. New contract. New pressure. And we still have the Euros coming up."
"You'll be fine. You're Ethan Loki. You score hat-tricks in Champions League finals." She leaned against him. "But you're also human. It's okay to feel overwhelmed."
"What if I can't keep up? What if Mbappé at Madrid is better than me at Barcelona?"
"Then you'll work harder. Train more. Become better. That's what you always do." She looked up at him. "But also—and this is important—remember to actually live your life. We're getting married next year. I want my husband to be present, not consumed by rivalry with his best friend."
He kissed the top of her head. "You're right. I know you're right."
"Of course I'm right. I'm a journalist. We're always right."
He laughed despite everything.
They stood on the balcony until the sun set over Barcelona, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that reminded Ethan of Monaco sunsets years ago, when he and Mbappé were just kids with impossible dreams.
Those dreams had come true.
Now came the hard part: staying at the top.
Three moves ahead, Ethan could already see it:
Move one: Win Euro 2024 with France. Show everyone that he and Mbappé could still be teammates, still be brothers, even if their club careers had diverged.
Move two: Start the 2024-25 season with a statement. Score in the first Clásico. Prove that Barcelona was still the best team in Spain.
Move three: Win a third Ballon d'Or. Cement his legacy as the player of this generation.
The game had changed. The stakes had risen. His best friend was now his greatest rival.
But Ethan Loki had always thrived under pressure.
And he wasn't about to stop now.
End of Chapter 51