Ce matin, le centre d'entraînement de Barcelone à Sant Joan Despí avait une atmosphère particulière. 12 août 2024. Premier jour de la préparation d'avant-saison pour la saison 2024-2025. L'air semblait plus lourd, chargé d'une énergie qu'Ethan n'avait jamais ressentie en quatre ans au club.
Peut-être était-ce parce qu'ils défendaient deux titres consécutifs en Ligue des champions, chose qu'aucune équipe n'avait réalisée depuis le triplé du Real Madrid entre 2016 et 2018.
Peut-être était-ce dû au mercato estival explosif, avec l'arrivée à Barcelone de deux milieux de terrain de classe mondiale et d'un nouveau latéral gauche, le tout pour soutenir la domination continue d'Ethan.
Ou peut-être — probablement — parce que tout le monde dans le football espagnol savait ce qui allait se passer.
La présentation de Kylian Mbappé au Santiago Bernabéu il y a trois semaines avait attiré 85 000 fans. 85 000 personnes venues spécialement pour voir un joueur brandir un maillot et saluer le public. Les rues de Madrid étaient noires de monde. La cérémonie avait été retransmise en direct dans soixante pays. Les réseaux sociaux du Real Madrid avaient gagné sept millions d'abonnés en quarante-huit heures.
Le message était clair : le Real Madrid était de retour. Et il comptait bien détrôner Barcelone.
Ethan se gara à sa place habituelle, la numéro 10, juste à côté de l'entrée principale, à 8 h 47. L'entraînement ne commençait qu'à 9 h 30, mais il aimait arriver en avance. Il appréciait d'avoir le temps de se préparer mentalement avant que le chaos ne s'installe.
Son téléphone vibra lorsqu'il coupa le moteur. Un SMS de Sofia, qui était déjà au travail dans les bureaux de son journal à Barcelone :
Bonne chance aujourd'hui, mon amour. N'oublie pas, ce n'est que le premier entraînement. Pas besoin de marquer vingt buts avant midi. Je t'aime. -S
Il sourit et rangea son téléphone dans sa poche. Elle le connaissait trop bien. Elle savait qu'il avait tendance à se mettre une pression inutile, surtout en début de saison.
L'espace d'accueil du centre d'entraînement était en pleine effervescence. Les nouveaux joueurs s'informaient. Les équipes de médias s'installaient pour les interviews obligatoires du premier jour. Les nutritionnistes préparaient des plans alimentaires personnalisés. Les kinésithérapeutes organisaient les examens médicaux.
« Ethan ! » Marc, l'un des attachés de presse, l'interpella avant qu'il n'atteigne les vestiaires. « Une question rapide : nous préparons un reportage sur les nouvelles recrues. Peux-tu nous expliquer en trente secondes ce que représente l'arrivée de Joshua Kimmich et Bruno Guimarães dans l'équipe ? »
Ethan s'y attendait. Barcelone avait dépensé sans compter cet été : 130 millions d'euros pour les deux milieux de terrain, auxquels s'ajoutaient 50 millions d'euros pour le latéral gauche Alex Grimaldo, en provenance du Bayer Leverkusen. Le club était déterminé à conserver sa domination.
« Avoir des joueurs de classe mondiale comme Josh et Bruno nous fait progresser tous », a déclaré Ethan, adoptant un discours formaté, habitué aux médias. « Ils apportent leur expérience, leur talent et leur mentalité de gagnants. Je suis impatient de jouer avec eux. »
"Any thoughts on the upcoming Clásicos against Mbappé?"
There it was. The question everyone wanted to ask.
"Kylian is a world-class player and a friend. But when we face Real Madrid, friendship doesn't matter. We're defending our titles. That's all I'm focused on."
Perfect answer. Professional. Diplomatic. Revealed nothing.
Marc seemed satisfied and let him go.
The Barcelona locker room was exactly as he remembered—blue and red lockers, each player's name engraved on a metal plate. But there were new names now. Kimmich. Guimarães. Grimaldo. Fresh blood to complement the existing core.
Pedri was already there, lacing up his training boots.
"You're here early," Ethan said, dropping his bag in front of his locker—still number 10, still between Lewandowski and Ter Stegen.
"Couldn't sleep. Too excited." Pedri looked up, grinning. "First day of defending our Champions League title. You feel it?"
"Yeah. I feel it."
More players started arriving. Gavi, looking fully recovered from his ACL injury that had kept him out most of last season. Araujo, bigger somehow, like he'd spent the entire summer in the gym. Ter Stegen, the eternal professional, nodding at everyone but saying little.
Then the new signings walked in together.
Joshua Kimmich at thirty-one was still one of the best midfielders in world football—a leader, a technician, someone who could control tempo and dictate games. Bruno Guimarães, twenty-six, was more dynamic—press-resistant, progressive with his passing, exactly what Barcelona needed to transition from defense to attack.
"Gentlemen," Kimmich said in accented Spanish (he'd been learning for months in preparation), "it's an honor to be here. I've watched Barcelona dominate Europe for two years. Now I want to help make it three."
"Four," Ethan corrected. "We want four in a row. No team has ever done that."
"Four then," Kimmich agreed with a smile.
Lewandowski, who'd played with Kimmich at Bayern Munich for years, pulled his former teammate aside for a conversation in German. Watching them, Ethan realized how much experience was in this locker room now. Lewandowski (thirty-five), Kimmich (thirty-one), Ter Stegen (thirty-two), and even younger veterans like himself who'd won everything.
This wasn't a team building toward greatness. This was a team already there, trying to stay there.
Hansi Flick walked into the locker room at exactly 9:15 AM. The German manager had replaced Ronald Koeman at the end of last season—a controversial decision given Koeman had just won back-to-back Champions Leagues, but Barcelona's board wanted a new direction, a new philosophy.
Flick had won everything at Bayern Munich. A sextuple in 2020. A Champions League. Multiple Bundesliga titles. He understood how to manage elite players and how to maintain success.
"Good morning," Flick said in Spanish that was somehow worse than Kimmich's despite being the head coach. "Before we go outside, I want to make a few things clear."
The room fell silent.
"Last season, you won the Champions League. Congratulations. That achievement will be remembered forever." He paused. "But this season, that means nothing. Every team in Europe will be hunting you. Every opponent will play the match of their lives against Barcelona. You will get everyone's best shot, every single week."
He let that sink in.
"So we cannot relax. We cannot assume we will win because we have the best players. Real Madrid have added Mbappé. Manchester City have added new players. Bayern Munich are rebuilding. The competition is better than ever."
Flick clicked a remote and a tactical screen descended from the ceiling—some new technology the club had installed over the summer.
"We're going to press higher than last season. We're going to control the ball more. We're going to be more aggressive in transition." Diagrams appeared on the screen showing pressing triggers and passing patterns. "This means everyone works harder. Everyone runs more. There are no passengers on this team."
Ethan watched the tactics unfold on screen. Flick wanted to play with a higher defensive line, pressing opponents in their own half, forcing turnovers, creating quick counter-attacks. It was aggressive, risky football—the kind that could lead to either dominance or disaster.
"Ethan," Flick said, turning to look directly at him, "you scored forty-three goals last season. This season, I want fifty."
The locker room went quiet. Fifty goals in a single season was absurd. Only Messi and Ronaldo in their absolute primes had reached those numbers consistently.
"Fifty," Ethan repeated.
"You're the best striker in the world. You have the best supporting cast in football. Kimmich and Guimarães will create chances. Pedri and Gavi will link play. Lewandowski will occupy defenders. You should score fifty." Flick's expression was serious. "Can you do it?"
Every player was watching Ethan now. This was the moment. The challenge. The gauntlet thrown down.
Three moves ahead, Ethan could already see the path:
Move one: Accept the challenge publicly. Show confidence.
Move two: Use it as motivation throughout the season.
Move three: Actually deliver. Prove he was worth the investment, worth the pressure, worth being called the best in the world.
"I can do it," Ethan said. "I'll do it."
Flick nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now let's go train."
The first training session under Flick was brutal.
They started with a fitness assessment—sprints, agility drills, endurance tests. Ethan had stayed in excellent shape over the summer (he always did), but even he felt the intensity.
Then they moved to tactical work. Flick had them practice his new pressing system, where the forwards would press the opponent's center-backs while the midfielders cut off passing lanes. It required perfect timing, perfect coordination, perfect fitness.
"Higher! Press higher!" Flick shouted from the sideline. "If you press half-heartedly, they'll pass through you!"
They ran the drill again. And again. And again. Sixteen times in total before Flick was satisfied.
Then came the passing drills. Rondos, but faster than they'd ever done before. Seven players in a circle, two in the middle, one-touch passing at maximum speed. If you took two touches or misplaced a pass, you went in the middle.
Ethan went in the middle three times. He was rusty, his touch not quite sharp yet after a summer where he'd mostly rested after the Euros.
"Come on, capitán!" Gavi shouted with a grin. "You're supposed to be the best in the world!"
"I'm warming up!" Ethan shouted back, but he was smiling too. This was good. The banter, the competition, the intensity. This was what he needed.
After ninety minutes of tactical drills, they moved to shooting practice.
Flick had set up a specific exercise: crosses from different angles, with Ethan having to finish first-time. No touches to control. Just read the flight of the ball and strike.
Cross from the right. Ethan attacked it with a diving header. Top corner.
Cross from the left. Volley with his right foot. Bottom corner.
Cross from deep. Bicycle kick attempt. Missed by inches, but the technique was perfect.
"Again!" Flick called. "You'll need to score goals like this when teams park the bus against us!"
They ran the drill twenty times. Ethan scored seventeen. The three he missed haunted him more than the seventeen he made.
That's what separated good players from great ones—great players remembered their mistakes more than their successes.
Lunch was in the facility's cafeteria at 1:00 PM. The nutritionists had prepared individualized meals for each player based on their specific dietary needs.
Ethan's plate: grilled chicken breast, quinoa, steamed vegetables, a small portion of sweet potato, and fresh fruit. Approximately 700 calories, perfectly balanced macros.
He sat with Pedri, Gavi, and the two new midfielders.
"So," Guimarães said in Spanish that was better than both Kimmich and Flick's, "what should we know about playing with you? What do you need from your midfielders?"
It was a smart question. Professional. Bruno clearly wanted to integrate quickly.
"I need three things," Ethan said between bites. "One: passes into space, not to feet. I'm faster running onto the ball than controlling it standing still. Two: when you see me check to the ball, play it immediately. I'm creating space for someone else to run into. Three: trust your quality. Don't be afraid to try difficult passes. I'd rather you attempt something ambitious and fail than play it safe."
"That's very different from Newcastle," Bruno said with a slight smile. "Eddie Howe wanted us to play conservative football."
"This is Barcelona," Pedri interjected. "Conservative isn't in our vocabulary."
"What about set pieces?" Kimmich asked. "I took corners at Bayern. Do you prefer near post, far post, driven, floated...?"
"Depends on the defense," Ethan replied. "But generally, I attack the space between the penalty spot and the six-yard box. If you can put it there with pace, I'll get there."
They spent the next thirty minutes talking tactics. It felt good, this kind of football conversation. These were elite professionals who understood the game at the highest level, who could discuss nuances and details that casual fans would never notice.
Lewandowski joined them midway through, adding his own perspective from years of experience.
"The most important thing," the Polish striker said, "is understanding each other's movements without the ball. Ethan and I have played together for two years now. We know when to swap positions, when to create space for each other, when to combine. You two—" he gestured at Kimmich and Bruno "—need to learn that. Watch us train. Study our games. Learn the patterns."
"How long does it usually take?" Bruno asked.
"For most players? Three months, maybe four." Lewandowski looked at Ethan. "But if you're intelligent and watch carefully, you can do it in six weeks. We need you ready by the first Clásico in October."
There it was again. The Clásico. The match that everyone was already circling on their calendars.
October 26th, 2024. Barcelona vs Real Madrid at the Santiago Bernabéu.
Ethan Loki vs Kylian Mbappé.
Two and a half months away. Seventy-five days. Enough time to get sharp, to build chemistry with the new players, to prepare for the biggest match of the season.
The afternoon session was lighter—recovery work, stretching, some light tactical discussion in the film room where Flick showed them footage from Real Madrid's pre-season matches.
Mbappé looked dangerous in the clips. Fast, clinical, confident. He'd already scored four goals in three friendlies for Madrid.
"He's going to be a problem," Flick said, pausing on a frame where Mbappé had just beaten three defenders with pure pace. "He's the fastest player in world football. Our defenders need to be smart about positioning, about not giving him space to run into."
"We also can't just focus on him," Araujo pointed out. "They have Vinícius, Bellingham, Rodrygo. That's four world-class attackers."
"Exactly," Flick agreed. "Which is why we need to control the game. If we have the ball, they can't hurt us. Possession is our best defense."
They watched more footage. Real Madrid under Carlo Ancelotti played a 4-3-3 that was flexible, could shift to a 4-4-2 or even a 4-2-3-1 depending on the game state. They were pragmatic, willing to sit deep and counter or press high if needed.
It was going to be a fascinating tactical battle.
Training finally ended at 4:30 PM. Seven and a half hours at the facility. Ethan was exhausted but satisfied. This was what he needed—intensity, focus, a clear goal.
Fifty goals this season. The challenge Flick had set.
As he drove home through Barcelona's afternoon traffic, his phone rang. Mbappé's name appeared on the car's display.
He almost didn't answer. But they were still friends, even if they were about to become enemies on the pitch.
"Hey," Ethan said, accepting the call through the car's Bluetooth.
"Just finished my first training session at Madrid," Mbappé said. He sounded tired but happy. "Ancelotti is already talking about you. He's obsessed with stopping you in the Clásico."
"Good. Tell him it won't work."
Mbappé laughed. "He showed us film of every goal you scored against us last season. Five goals in two matches. He's terrified."
"He should be."
"I'm not." Mbappé's tone changed, became more serious. "I know you're the best right now. But I'm coming for that spot. This season, I'm going to show everyone that I'm just as good."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
"October 26th. Bernabéu. That's when it really starts."
"I've already marked my calendar."
They talked for a few more minutes about training, about adjusting to new teams, about the pressure they were both feeling. Then Mbappé had to go—Ancelotti wanted all the players for a team dinner.
When the call ended, Ethan sat in traffic for a moment, thinking.
Mbappé was right. October 26th was when everything changed. That was the match that would set the tone for the entire season, maybe for the next several years of Spanish football.
Barcelona vs Real Madrid. The two best teams in Spain, maybe in Europe. The two best players in the world.
Three moves ahead, Ethan could see exactly how it needed to play out:
Première étape : dominer les premiers mois de la saison. Créer une cohésion avec les nouveaux joueurs. Prouver à tous que Barcelone reste la meilleure équipe d'Espagne.
Deuxième étape : marquer lors du premier Clásico au Bernabéu. Affirmer son talent. Prouver qu'il était toujours meilleur que Mbappé, toujours le meilleur au monde.
Troisième étape : remporter le Ballon d'Or en novembre. Consolider sa légende. Réaliser un triplé.
Mais avant tout, il devait se concentrer sur le premier match. Le coup d'envoi de la saison était donné dans douze jours, le 24 août contre le Real Betis au Camp Nou. Cinquante mille supporters étaient attendus pour assister au début de la défense du titre du FC Barcelone.
Il devait être prêt.
La circulation s'est finalement fluidifiée et Ethan est rentré chez lui en voiture, pensant déjà à la séance d'entraînement du lendemain, à la façon dont il pourrait améliorer sa connexion avec Kimmich et Bruno, à la façon dont il pourrait commencer la saison par un but, par une déclaration.
Sofia l'attendait lorsqu'il franchit la porte de leur appartement à 17h47. Elle avait préparé le dîner : des pâtes aux légumes grillés, l'un des rares repas vraiment sains de son régime strict approuvé par son nutritionniste.
« Alors, comment c'était ? » demanda-t-elle en l'embrassant tandis qu'il laissait tomber son sac d'entraînement près de la porte.
« Intense. Flick veut que je marque cinquante buts cette saison. »
« Cinquante ? C'est… »
« C'est de la folie. Je sais. Mais je lui ai dit que je le ferais. »
Elle l'observa un instant, puis sourit. « Bien sûr que si. Tu n'as jamais reculé devant un défi de toute ta vie. »
Elles ont dîné ensemble, discutant de leur journée. Sofia avait été chargée de couvrir le Real Madrid cette saison, une promotion qui la mettrait en contact direct et régulier avec Mbappé et toute l'équipe madrilène.
« Ça va être bizarre », a-t-elle admis. « Interviewer sa plus grande rivale chaque semaine. »
« Surtout, ne tombez pas amoureuse de lui. Il est plutôt charmant. »
« Je t'épouse, idiot. Je suis insensible au charme des autres footballeurs. » Elle marqua une pause. « Bien que Bellingham soit plutôt beau garçon… »
"Hé!"
Elle rit et lui jeta un morceau de pain.
C'était ce dont il avait besoin. Cette normalité, cet amour, ce rappel que le football n'était pas tout. Qu'il était bien plus que des buts, des trophées et des rivalités.
Mais demain, il retournerait à Sant Joan Despí. Retour à l'entraînement. Retour à la préparation d'une saison qui pourrait définir à jamais son héritage.
Cinquante buts. Premier Clásico en octobre. Troisième Ballon d'Or en novembre.
La pression était énorme. Les attentes étaient impossibles.
Et Ethan Loki était impatient de prouver qu'il pouvait tous les surpasser.
Fin du chapitre 56