June 15th, 2029. Two weeks after winning the tenth Champions League. The Loki family was back in Ibiza—same villa as last summer, another six-week escape from football.
Lucas was twenty-eight months old now. Not quite two-and-a-half, but developing at lightning speed. His vocabulary had exploded to maybe 200 words. He could hold simple conversations. He had opinions about everything.
"Dada, why we at beach?" Lucas asked that first morning, standing in the sand in his little swim trunks.
"Because the beach is fun. You like the beach."
"I like home."
"You said you wanted to come to the beach yesterday."
"That yesterday. Today I want home."
The logic of a toddler. Ironclad and infuriating.
Sofia laughed from her beach chair. "He's definitely your son. Changes his mind constantly but commits fully to each decision."
"I don't change my mind constantly."
"You've worn four different outfits today trying to decide which one was most comfortable."
"That's different. That's optimization."
"That's changing your mind constantly."
Ethan picked up Lucas and walked toward the water. "Come on, mijo. Let's show Mama we don't change our minds."
"I change my mind!" Lucas announced proudly. "I want ice cream!"
"It's 9 AM."
"Ice cream time!"
This was fatherhood at twenty-eight months. Constant negotiation. Zero logic. Perfect chaos.
And Ethan wouldn't trade it for anything.
July 2029 - Complete Disconnection
For six weeks, Ethan completely disconnected from football. No training. No gym sessions. No keeping fit for next season. Just rest. Family. Recovery.
He gained five pounds. His abs disappeared slightly. His agent, Ricardo, sent worried messages: The season starts in five weeks. You need to start training.
Ethan ignored them all.
One evening, Sofia found him playing with Lucas in the villa's pool, both of them laughing as they splashed water everywhere.
"You look happy," she observed.
"I am happy. Genuinely happy. Not 'I just won a trophy' happy. Just... content."
"When was the last time you felt like this?"
Ethan thought carefully. "Maybe never? Even as a kid, I was always chasing something. Trying to be better. Trying to prove myself. But right now, right here, I don't need to prove anything. I just need to be Lucas's dad."
"You've grown so much."
"Or maybe I've just finally figured out what matters."
That night, Lucas fell asleep on Ethan's chest while they watched the sunset. The weight of his son, the sound of his breathing, the trust in that tiny body completely relaxed against him—it was more meaningful than any trophy.
August 2029 - Return to Barcelona
The family returned to Barcelona on August 1st. Pre-season training started August 5th. The 2029-30 season was beginning.
But everything was different now. Xavi was the new manager. Flick was gone. The team that had won three consecutive trebles was being rebuilt.
Two new signings: a young Brazilian midfielder named Endrick (19 years old, €40 million from Palmeiras) and a Dutch center-back named Jurriën Timber (23 years old, €50 million from Arsenal).
The locker room felt different. Younger. Less experienced. More uncertain.
Xavi addressed the team on the first day: "We're not trying to replicate what Flick did. We're building something new. We'll still play beautiful football. We'll still compete for trophies. But this is my Barcelona, not his."
It was the right message. But also scary. Change was always uncomfortable.
Ethan's role was evolving too. At twenty-nine, he was one of the oldest players on the squad. A veteran. A leader. Someone younger players looked to for guidance.
After training, Endrick approached him nervously. "Ethan, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"How do you handle the pressure? Everyone expects Barcelona to win everything. How do you not let that crush you?"
Ethan thought carefully before answering. "You realize that your worth as a person isn't determined by whether you win trophies. You're valuable because of who you are, not what you achieve. The trophies are bonuses, not necessities."
"That's very zen."
"It took me until I was twenty-seven to figure it out. You're nineteen. You're ahead of schedule."
Endrick smiled, reassured. These were the moments that mattered now—passing wisdom to the next generation, helping young players avoid the mistakes he'd made.
September 2029 - Season Begins
The 2029-30 season started slowly. Barcelona won their first match 2-1 against Real Betis. Drew the second 1-1 against Girona. Won the third 3-0 against Getafe.
After 3 matches:
Barcelona: 7 points (2-1-0) Real Madrid: 9 points (3-0-0)
Madrid were off to a better start. Mbappé had already scored five goals. Ethan had two.
But Ethan wasn't chasing anymore. He was twenty-nine. His body needed rest. Xavi was managing his minutes carefully—playing him sixty-five to seventy minutes most matches, resting him entirely for some.
September stats: 2 goals in 3 matches
Lower production than previous years. But strategic. Sustainable.
The media noticed:
Marca: "Is Loki Declining? Only 2 Goals in 3 Matches"
AS: "The Ten-Time Champion Looks His Age"
Sport: "Ethan Loki's Twilight Years Begin"
The criticism didn't bother Ethan. He knew what he was doing. Preserving his body for the matches that mattered. World Cup 2030 was coming next summer. That was the priority.
October 2029 - The Clásico
October 26th, 2029. The first Clásico of the season at Camp Nou. Barcelona vs Real Madrid. A chance to make a statement.
The match was tactical, tight, intense. Neither team willing to give an inch.
Forty-fifth minute: Mbappé scored just before halftime. A brilliant solo goal. 1-0 Real Madrid.
Sixty-seventh minute: Ethan equalized. A header from Pedri's cross. 1-1.
The match ended in a draw. Both teams took a point. Neither happy. Neither devastated.
But the post-match narrative was revealing:
Marca: "Mbappé Continues to Outshine Loki - The Torch Has Been Passed"
L'Équipe: "Two French Legends, But Only One Still in His Prime"
The media had decided: Mbappé was now the better player. Ethan's era was ending.
And strangely, Ethan was okay with that. Because it was probably true. Mbappé was twenty-nine and still hungry. Ethan was twenty-nine and content. Hunger mattered in football.
November 2029 - Ballon d'Or Ceremony
November 27th, 2029. Paris. The Théâtre du Châtelet. The Ballon d'Or ceremony.
Ethan sat with Sofia, both knowing this could be his eighth. The voting had been close:
Likely Top 3:
Ethan Loki (10 Champions Leagues, Copa del Rey, 29 goals) Kylian Mbappé (La Liga winner, 43 goals, incredible season) Vinícius Júnior (La Liga + strong individual season)
The betting odds were tight:
Ethan: 45% Mbappé: 40% Vinícius: 15%
It could go either way. Ten Champions Leagues was historic. But Mbappé had a statistically better year individually.
Didier Drogba walked onto the stage at 9:30 PM.
"Welcome to the 2029 Ballon d'Or ceremony."
The usual format began. Other awards. Building anticipation.
Then the main event.
"Third place... Vinícius Júnior, Real Madrid."
Vinícius stood, accepted the applause. Two players left.
"Second place..."
The pause was eternal.
"...Kylian Mbappé, Real Madrid."
Mbappé stood, his disappointment visible. Fifth time finishing second or third. Never first. The frustration was written on his face.
Which meant—
"And the winner of the 2029 Ballon d'Or is... ETHAN LOKI, BARCELONA AND FRANCE!"
EIGHT BALLON D'ORS.
Tied with Lionel Messi. Only two players in history at this level. The theater erupted.
Ethan stood, kissed Sofia, and walked to the stage. But he felt different this time. Not excited. Not ecstatic. Just... appreciative.
Drogba handed him the golden ball. The eighth one. The one that tied Messi.
"Eight Ballon d'Ors," Drogba said. "Tied with Lionel Messi. The only two players in history at this level. How does it feel?"
Ethan looked at the audience. Cameras everywhere. The world watching.
"It feels like I've achieved something I never thought possible," he said honestly. "When I started my career, winning one Ballon d'Or was a dream. Eight feels surreal. Unreal. Like it happened to someone else."
"You're tied with Messi. Do you chase nine? Become the outright greatest?"
Ethan thought carefully before answering. This was the moment to be honest.
"I don't know. I'm twenty-nine years old. I probably have two or three more years at this level. Could I win nine? Maybe. But I'm also a husband and a father. And those roles are more important than being the greatest footballer. So if I win nine, incredible. If I stop at eight, tied with Messi, that's also incredible. I'm at peace either way."
The answer was perfect. Mature. Honest. But the media wanted more.
"So you're not chasing the record?"
"I'm not saying that. I'm saying I won't sacrifice my family to chase it. If it happens naturally, great. If not, I'm satisfied with eight."
When Ethan returned to his seat, Sofia whispered: "That was perfect. You stayed true to yourself."
"I'm tired of pretending I'm still the hungry twenty-two-year-old. I'm twenty-nine. I have a son. My priorities have changed. And I'm not apologizing for that."
"Good. Because Lucas needs his father more than football needs another Ballon d'Or winner."
November 28th - The Morning After
Ethan woke to his phone exploding with messages. But one stood out. From Mbappé:
Mbappé:Congratulations on eight. You're tied with Messi now. That's legendary. But I'm done being second. Next year, I'm winning. I promise you that.
Ethan:Good luck. I mean that sincerely. Your time will come.
Mbappé:Will it? I'm twenty-nine. I've finished second or third FIVE times. At what point do I accept that I'll never be first?
Ethan:Never. You're too good to give up. Keep fighting. Your moment will come.
Mbappé:Thanks hermano. Enjoy number eight. You earned it.
Another message, from Messi:
Messi:Welcome to the club. Eight is special. Only you and I know what it feels like. Enjoy it. You've earned it.
Ethan:Thank you. For everything. For setting the standard. For being the greatest.
Messi:I'm not the greatest. We're both just lucky to have played in an era where we could achieve these things. The next generation will surpass us. That's how sports work.
Profound wisdom from someone who'd already walked this path.
December 2029 - Living With Eight
The month after the Ballon d'Or was chaos. Media requests. Sponsor obligations. Everyone wanting the eight-time winner.
But Ethan maintained boundaries. Family first. Football second. Everything else distant third.
One evening, Lucas asked a question that stopped Ethan cold:
"Dada, why you always on TV?"
"Because I play football, mijo. And people like watching me play."
"Why?"
"Because I'm good at it."
"Why you good?"
"Because I practiced a lot when I was young."
"Why you practice?"
The endless "why" phase had arrived. Every question spawned five more.
"Because I loved football. I wanted to be the best."
"Why?"
"I don't know anymore, honestly."
Sofia laughed from the kitchen. "That's probably the most honest answer you've ever given."
She was right. Why had Ethan dedicated his entire life to being the best? For glory? For validation? For proof that he mattered?
Or because he genuinely loved football?
Watching Lucas play with his toy footballs—just pure joy, no pressure, no expectations—reminded Ethan of why he'd started. Not to win Ballon d'Ors. Just because football was fun.
Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten that. But he was remembering now.
That night, Ethan updated his journal:
December 15th, 2029
Eight Ballon d'Ors. Tied with Messi. The only two players in history at this level.
The media keeps asking if I'll chase nine. If I'll surpass Messi. If I'll become the undisputed greatest.
And honestly? I don't care anymore.
Not because I'm not competitive. But because I've realized something: being the greatest footballer doesn't make you the greatest person.
Lucas asked why I'm on TV all the time. I couldn't give him a good answer.
Because the real answer is: I don't know why this matters so much.
I'm twenty-nine. I have maybe three more years at this level. Then decline. Then retirement.
Do I want to spend those three years chasing records? Or do I want to spend them being present?
The answer should be obvious.
So here's my decision: I'll keep playing. I'll keep competing. But I won't sacrifice my family to chase nine Ballon d'Ors.
If it happens, great. If not, eight is enough.
Eight is more than enough.
He closed the laptop, feeling at peace.
End of Chapter 86