Chapter 595: The Never Was

Chapter 595: The Never Was

Then..

Before he ever knew what it meant to wear a crest, Lorenzo Piatelli knew what it meant to hear one.

The Mestalla — when it really came alive — didn’t just cheer.

It thundered.

It rumbled through bone.

It made your chest feel too small for your breath.

And that night, from the very top of the east stand, nine-year-old Lorenzo sat in a folding plastic seat, cradling a hot bocadillo, and watched a miracle wearing number 10.

Messi.

Barcelona’s Messi.

Argentina’s Messi.

His Messi.

Valencia were already two down but it didn’t matter.

Because Messi picked up the ball on the right touchline — and then he was gone.

One defender, then another.

A feint, a shimmy, a nutmeg so clean it could’ve belonged in a ballet.

And then the shot — low, venomous, far post, grazing the paintwork as it whipped past Diego Alves.

The stadium erupted, the away fans outroaring the Mestalla faithful but could they really be blamed?

They were watching something that they hadn’t thought was possible, from old to young.

Lorenzo, with a smile on his face, found it hard to hate something beautiful even if it was doing damage to his team.

He just whispered, “That.”

His mother looked over, eyebrows raised.

“That?”

“That’s what I want to do.”

He wasn’t from Valencia.

Born in Navarro, a town 130km from Buenos Aires unlike Messi himself.

His family moved when he was seven.

Spain was supposed to be the bridge — to something more stable.

His dad worked in construction.

His mom taught Spanish to ex-pats.

They never pushed football.

But Lorenzo didn’t need pushing.

Every free moment was a ball.

By eight, he joined a youth side in Alboraya.

By nine, they told him he should try out for Valencia’s academy.

He did. And by ten, he was in.

It wasn’t flashy.

Lorenzo wasn’t tall. Or quick. Or explosive.

But he was clean.

His touches were soft, passes sharp.

He understood space.

The right shoulder to press, the weight of a through ball, the split-second where a window appeared and vanished again.

Coaches called him an old soul in a young player’s boots.

By 16, he had trained with the senior squad.

By 17, he’d made his debut — a fifteen-minute cameo against Leganés where he didn’t score, didn’t assist… but left the pitch to applause because the ball just looked right at his feet.

He wasn’t a striker.

More a drifting 10 like Izan, but without the unpredictability.

A second forward who could read the game like a book already written.

But things changed.

The injury came suddenly.

It always does.

Mallorca.

A Nothing game.

The long ball went up and Lorenzo went for a challenge.

The defender didn’t jump.

Contact.

He came down sideways, left leg locked.

And the sound — the awful, organic crack — silenced everything.

Shattered patella.

He didn’t cry.

He bit down on his sleeve and waited for the stretcher.

Rehab said six months.

It became nine, ten and then 12 months.

He returned at 18.

Not rusty — just… replaced.

A boy had arrived.

Fifteen years old but taller than he was at that age.

Faster, unpredictable and the closest thing he had seen to his idol Messi but the boy just seemed to have something else.

Something he couldn’t place a finger on but it was there.

He didn’t look like the kind of player who took your place.

He made all you did look like you were the stand in and he was it.

While Lorenzo tried to find rhythm in the U23s, Izan tore through La Liga like a bullet through paper.

Fans chanted.

Journalists wrote and records were made worthless and lay broken in his wake.

Valencia was his now.

And Lorenzo?

Forgotten and pushed to the edge.

He wasn’t bitter. Not really.

But he felt… empty.

Then the offer came.

Trabzonspor.

Turkey. An opportunity to reset.

Valencia included a buy-back clause — €10 million.

He packed his bags.

Quietly.

Without a goodbye post.

And there, in cold Turkish nights, playing in front of 12,000 people instead of 50,000 — he rebuilt.

False 9. Back-to-goal play. 1v1s on the half-turn.

He began scoring goals for fun and rediscovering another side of him he never knew he had and most of all — belief.

When Hugo Duro injured his hamstring in preseason, Valencia called.

They didn’t just pay the clause.

They paid €15 million — five extra, out of “good faith.”

Because they believed again.

Now…

The smell of sautéed onions and warm sourdough floated across the open-plan kitchen.

The sun had barely crept past the curtains, but the Hampstead estate was already alive.

Komi stood by the stovetop, humming softly, spatula in one hand and a bowl of eggs in the other.

The light from the windows framed her like a scene from a film—one of those unspoken moments of routine that you don’t realize you’re storing until much later.

Izan sat perched on the glass island, still in grey sweats, hair tied back lazily.

Miranda was beside him, nursing a short glass of dark roast, fingers flicking through a digital magazine on her iPad.

Across the room, Olivia sat cross-legged, sleeves pulled over her hands, spoon clinking against the rim of a ceramic bowl.

She didn’t speak much this early.

Hori, predictably, had chosen the couch.

Her blanket still wrapped around her like some ancient Roman robe, she had balanced her breakfast on the side table and was eating slowly while a muted football show played on the mounted TV but she wasn’t watching.

It was calm.

The kind of rare morning where no one was rushing to a car or clicking into a call.

Until Miranda, still scrolling, turned her screen toward Izan without looking up.

“Recognize him?”

Izan leaned in slightly, brow creased.

It was a clean shot — someone had captured the photo perfectly mid-stride.

Lorenzo Piatelli.

Shirt damp with sweat, expression caught somewhere between pride and disbelief.

The caption: “Valencia’s Second Coming — Lorenzo Piatelli or The Next Izan?”

Izan scoffed gently.

“I heard of him. Back when I was still at Valencia,” he said, brushing a crumb off the counter.

“Never met him, though. He was with the first team back when I was in the U14s, And when I joined the u18s, he was injured already or something.”

Miranda raised a brow.

“You never crossed paths?”

Izan shook his head.

“Just stories. People used to say, ‘Hope you don’t end up like Piatelli’ when a new kid started shining. That was the phrase.” He tilted his head toward the photo again.

“Didn’t even know what he looked like.”

Miranda smiled behind her mug. “Well, now you do.”

He squinted, then chuckled. “They’re calling him the second me?”

Olivia glanced over now, curious.

“Apparently,” Miranda replied.

“There’s three headlines with that phrasing. One of them’s Spanish, but yeah.”

Izan leaned back and whistled once. “Must be fun, huh?” he said.

“Man’s 20, probably just getting his feet back and suddenly he’s supposed to be seventeen again.”

“You’d hate it,” Olivia said, grinning as she tucked into another spoonful.

Izan shook his head.

“I’d be flattered but no one wants to be the second-hand version of something. I’m glad I didn’t get any tag of that sort when I was coming up. I’d be a bit irked'”

Miranda chuckled.

“He probably is.”

Komi turned from the stove, setting down a plate stacked with toast.

“Who’s irked?”

“Piatelli,” Hori chimed in from the couch without looking.

“The Pseudo-Izan.” She bit into her toast.

Izan laughed, finally reaching for his plate.

“Piatelli,” he repeated under his breath, then shook his head.

“Glad he’s back though. The guy’s been through it. The broken kneecap, Turkey football… brutal.”

Miranda sipped again.

“Valencia bought him back for more than his clause. Must’ve believed.”

“They always believed,” Izan said, voice quieter now.

“They’re just like that. You show them even a flash of something real, they never forget.”

He took another bite and checked the time.

“Training?” Olivia asked, already knowing the answer.

He nodded, wiping his mouth.

“Yeah. Back to Colney in an hour. UCL’s back soon.”

Miranda glanced at the calendar on the wall.

“Dinamo Zagreb. 7th League Phase match.”

He nodded again.

Then stood and dusted his palms, stretching slightly. “Time to go.”

Komi passed him his packed duffel from the side chair.

“Don’t forget gloves,” she said, smiling gently.

“Weather’s trying to punish us again.”

Izan leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“Yes, boss.”

Olivia came over and wrapped her arms briefly around his middle. “Go easy on them,” she whispered.

He grinned.

“Not possible.”

He made his way toward the hallway. Hori called out lazily from behind the couch, “Tell Piatelli I said ‘hi,’ when the comparisons start getting to your head.”

Izan raised a hand, not turning.

“Could have told him yourself before you came to London.”

“We only watched Valencia because you played for them. With you gone, did you think we’d watch another game?”

Izan chuckled and just like that — he was out the door.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit. Byeee. Also tell me about your ideas and anything you think needs changing. As I said, I wanted to try something different so leave your comments telling what you think and what should be done or whether I shouldn’t continue down this path.

Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.