Chapter Text
The crunch of Louis Vuitton and Nike suitcase wheels on the fine Mallorca gravel sounded more like a march than a vacation. The July sun beats down mercilessly, reflecting off the lenses of designer sunglasses that each of the sixteen boys wore like armor.
Normally, at this time of the year, TV screens would be exploding with tactical graphics, friendly matches highlights, and commentators screaming hysterically. But La liga had made the most bizarre decision in media history: this year's summer football was suspended. In its place, the new official format approved for internal club points and autumn training immunity was Love Island: FC Barcelona Edition. The stakes were no longer a silver trophy, but the title of "The Perfect Couple."
To the outside world, forcing Spain’s most historic club into an isolated reality show seemed insane. But to anyone following the books, it was the only economic move left. Barcelona’s infamous financial crisis had finally peaked, and Netflix had paid billions for the exclusive rights to film the squad—enough to wipe out the club's massive debt in a single summer.To force the players to take the show seriously without messing with the actual football tactics, the board introduced a clever system of Internal Privilege Points. The show wouldn't affect who started on Saturday night—performance on the pitch remained sacred. Instead, the points dictated their entire lifestyle for the upcoming season. The top-performing "couples" would win autumn training immunity from Hansi Flick’s brutal fitness drills, millions in tax-free lifestyle bonuses, and extra vacation days. The losers? They faced massive salary fines, strict midnight curfews, and endless mandatory PR events for the club's worst sponsors. Suddenly, romance wasn't just a game; it was a battle for their personal freedom and bank accounts.
And the cameras, strategically hidden throughout the villa's lemon trees, were already rolling.
"This doesn't feel okay," Gavi snapped, slamming his backpack onto the massive marble floor in the hallway.
“Angry Bird,” as the press called him, wore a black shirt buttoned all the way to his throat despite the thirty-five-degree heat. He was already biting his nails, glaring at a robotic camera on the wall.
"Why did they take my phone?What if my mom calls? And why is that thing on the wall moving? If it takes one more step toward me, I'm taking it down."
"Gavi, calm," Lewandowski intervened, elegantly lowering his glasses down his nose as he inspected his surroundings with a hunter's precision. "Discipline. If the regulations say we hand over electronic devices to eliminate digital distraction, we hand them over. Instead, look at this kitchen." He took long strides toward the granite countertop, flinging the fridge open. "I hope the producers understood my grocery list. If I see a single gram of refined sugar in this house, I am going on strike and sleeping on a sun lounger."
Behind them, the rest of the group was already scattering through the villa—a mass of muscle, tattoos, and pure confusion.Cubarsí and Marc Bernal walked shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the high ceiling like they had just stepped into a massive stadium, clutching their backpacks tightly.
Raphinha noticed their wide, slightly overwhelmed eyes and immediately slung a heavy comforting arm around Bernal’s shoulders, giving him a warm, reassuring grin. "Relax, kids," Raphinha said, his deep voice instantly calming the tension.
"It's just a villa with too many cameras. Stick close to me and Fermín, alright? If anyone tries to play games, I've got your backs."Fermín beamed, practically vibrating with excitement next to him, already nodding in agreement.
In all this chaos, Ferran Torres stood completely still in the middle of the living room. The collar of his linen shirt was perfectly starched, and his eyes were locked onto a single target: Pedri.Pedri, who had just walked through the door, looked like he had been teleported directly from a beach in Tenerife. His palm-tree print shirt was completely unbuttoned, revealing a thin gold chain, and his face wore that lazy, half-asleep smile.They were best friends. They had been inseparable for years, sharing everything from post-match recovery sessions to inside jokes that no one else in the vestiar understood. But being forced into a Love Island format changed the rules. Ferran’s performance anxiety—that familiar, heavy shadow—was already whispering in his ear: What if this show ruins what we have? What if someone else tries to couple up with him? What if you lose your best friend on national television?
„Shark mentality,” Ferran told himself, feeling his heart start to beat a bit too fast in his chest. “Visualize success. Alpha predators don't hesitate. A shark doesn't ask for permission, he establishes his territory.”But despite the inner monologue that sounded like a self-development podcast, Ferran’s palms were sweaty.
Taking a deep breath, Ferran crossed the room and intercepted Pedri just as he was leaning against the kitchen island.
"Pedri. Listen," Ferran said, keeping his voice low so the others wouldn't hear, though his fingers nervously twitched against his pockets. "I analyzed the statistics of this tournament before we got here. The structure requires a fast, stable connection to stay in the game. Since we're already... you know, as close as we are, it only makes sense strategically. We couple up. It's pure business, keeping our positions secure. What do you say?"
Pedri stopped, blinking slowly, his half-asleep expression melting into a soft, Knowing smile. He looked at Ferran, immediately catching the slight tension in his best friend's shoulders and the way Ferran was biting his lower lip—a dead giveaway that the "Shark" mask was hiding a lot of nerves.
Pedri reached out, his hand resting warmly on the back of Ferran's neck, squeezing gently. "Ferri, you don't need a business strategy or statistics to talk to me," Pedri said softly, his tone completely relaxed and full of affection.
"Of course we're coupling up.I'm not letting anyone else take my favorite person in the villa, and besides, you're the only one who actually knows how to deal with me when I'm grumpy in the morning. We stay together. No matter what."
Ferran felt all the trapped air in his lungs release in a rush of pure relief. The heavy weight in his chest dissolved, replaced by a warm glow. His confident “The Shark” smile snapped right back onto his face, and he bumped his shoulder playfully against Pedri's.
"Obviously. Top-tier partnership. I didn't doubt it for a single second," Ferran said, his voice steady now, anchored by the familiar comfort of his best friend.
Suddenly, all the massive screens in the villa lit up simultaneously, illuminating the living room in bright shades of pink and neon. A sharp electronic beep echoed through the speakers, making Gavi jump into a boxing stance, fists clenched.Text appeared on the screens in large, block letters:
"The moment has arrived. The opening whistle has blown. Boys, choose your beds and get ready for your first night in Paradise. But beware: the first warning comes faster than you think. Anyone who fails to defend their position leaves the pitch."
In the kitchen, Lewy held up a bag of oats toward one of the cameras, flashing it like a yellow card. Over by the glass doors, Raphinha laughed, nudging Fermín as they started heading toward the stairs to claim a room.The new championship had begun, and in the Mallorca villa, the rules of the game had just changed forever.