As Rio walked onto the main pitch with Mateo, the air felt different.
On one side of the field stood the U18 squad.
A group of nervous teenagers adjusting their shin guards and looking like they were about to take a calculus exam they hadn’t studied for.
On the other side stood the Girona First Team.
Even though they were sitting in the relegation zone, up close, they looked like monsters.
They moved with a casual, predatory grace that screamed professional.
"Look," Mateo whispered, nudging Rio. "That’s Stuani. I heard he eats raw eggs, shell and all, for breakfast."
Rio swallowed hard. Cristhian Stuani, the veteran striker, was juggling a ball while chatting with a physio. He looked calm. Deadly calm.
He looks like he could snap me in half like a twig, Rio thought.
"He is stiff," a voice echoed inside Rio’s head. It was Cruyff. "Look at his hips. He turns like an old truck. If you run at him, he will fall over trying to catch you."
"Don’t listen to the Dutchman," Maradona’s raspy voice cut in. "That man is a killer in the box. But you aren’t a defender, kid. You’re a winger. Your job is to make the fullbacks cry. Look at that one over there. The bald one. He looks sleepy. Wake him up."
Rio tried to suppress a nervous giggle.
Hearing the ghosts of football legends trash-talk professional La Liga players was surreal.
"Rio? You okay?" Mateo asked, looking concerned. "You’re twitching."
"Just visualizing," Rio lied. "Visualizing... running."
"Right. Well, stick close to me. We don’t want to look lost."
They jogged over to join the U18 group. Usually, the academy players were loud and boastful, but today, everyone was silent.
They all knew what was at stake. One spot. Maybe two. A life-changing contract.
Suddenly, a whistle blew.
The chatter died instantly.
Michel, the manager of the First Team, walked into the center circle.
He didn’t look like the friendly tactician Rio had seen on TV interviews. He looked tired. His eyes were dark circles of stress.
Beside him stood Coach Martinez, the U18 manager, looking equally grim.
"Listen up!" Michel’s voice carried across the pitch without a megaphone. "I don’t have time for speeches. I don’t have time to hold your hands. We are in a war. Five games to save this club."
He paced back and forth, eyeing the young players.
Rio felt Michel’s gaze sweep over him for a microsecond before moving on.
"I was going to run drills," Michel continued. "I was going to have you dribble through cones and show me your step-overs. But frankly? I don’t care about tricks. I don’t care if you can balance the ball on your nose like a seal."
He pointed a finger at the First Team players warming up.
"We are playing a match. Ninety minutes. Full pitch. U18s versus the First Team reserves and available starters. I want to see who hides and who fights. If you hide? You stay in the academy. If you fight? You come with me to play against Real Betis."
A shockwave went through the U18 group.
A real match? Against the pros?
Rio’s heart sank. A match meant tactics. A match meant positioning. A match meant... selections.
Please, Rio thought. Just let everyone play.
Coach Martinez stepped forward, holding a clipboard that looked like the book of judgment.
"We will play a standard 4-3-3," Martinez announced. "I have selected the starting eleven based on this season’s performance metrics and consistency."
Rio felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Consistency. That was the word that killed him. He was consistently fast, yes, but he was also consistently terrible at keeping the ball.
I’m not going to be picked, Rio realized.. I’m the worst player here. Why would they start me against the First Team?
"Don’t panic," Pele’s voice was calm, almost regal.
"Patience, boy. A match is long."
Martinez began reading the names.
"Goalkeeper: Pau."
"Right Back: Sergi."
"Center Backs: Mateo and Joan."
Mateo pumped his fist silently. Rio patted his friend on the back, trying to feel happy for him, but his own anxiety was screaming louder.
"Midfield: Lucas, Marc, and Dani."
Three names. None of them were Rio. He wasn’t a midfielder anyway, but he was hoping for a miracle position change.
"Left Winger..." Martinez paused, adjusting his glasses.
This was it. Rio’s position. He held his breath.
"Alejandro," Martinez said.
Rio’s shoulders slumped. Alejandro was technically sound. He wasn’t fast, but he could cross the ball.
"Striker: Victor. Right Winger: Pol."
"The rest of you," Martinez said, looking up from the clipboard, "grab the yellow bibs. You are on the bench. Be ready to sub in. But don’t expect charity minutes. You only get on if someone gets tired or plays poorly."
Rio walked over to the pile of yellow mesh vests. He felt numb.
He walked to the sideline and sat on the cold aluminum bench.
"Hey," Mateo whispered, leaning down before running onto the pitch. "Don’t worry. Alejandro will get tired after twenty minutes against those pros. You’ll get your shot."
"Yeah," Rio forced a smile. "Go smash them, Cap."
As Mateo ran off to join the starting eleven, Rio leaned back, staring at his neon pink boots. They looked ridiculous now. Flashy boots for a benchwarmer.
I have the La Gambeta feint, Rio thought bitterly. I have the Clockwork Eye. And I’m going to spend the match watching from the side. What a joke.
"A joke?"
The voice in his head was loud and sharp. It was Hand_Of_King.
"You think this is a joke? Kid, sitting on the bench is an art form! You think I played every minute of every game when I was a rookie? No!"
"Actually, I did," Pele interjected smoothly. "But I was special."
"Oh, shut up, Pele," Maradona snapped. "Listen to me, Rio. This is perfect. Look at the pitch. Look at the First Team right-back. Who is it?"
Rio squinted. "It’s... Arnau. He’s a regular starter for the first team."
"Exactly," Cruyff said. "Arnau is a modern fullback. He likes to attack. He runs forward constantly. By the sixtieth minute, his lungs will be burning. His legs will be heavy."
"And that," Maradona laughed, a wicked sound, "is when you come in. A fresh Ferrari against a tire with a puncture. If you started now, he would pocket you with his experience. But in the second half? You will be a nightmare."
Rio blinked. He hadn’t thought of it that way.
"Analyze the game," Cruyff instructed. "Don’t just sit there sulking like a child who dropped his ice cream. Watch Alejandro. Watch what Arnau does to him. Learn the defender’s patterns. Where does he turn? Does he dive in? Does he stand off?"
Rio sat up straighter. The despair began to fade, replaced by a focused intensity.
The referee blew the whistle, and the match began.
The difference in level was immediately obvious. The First Team moved the ball with terrifying speed.
The U18s were chasing shadows. Within five minutes, Mateo was sweating buckets, screaming orders just to keep the defense organized.
Rio watched Alejandro on the left wing. The boy was trying. He received a pass, looked up, and tried to cross. But before he could even wind up his leg, Arnau was there.
Arnau simply muscled him off the ball, took it, and calmly passed it forward.
It happened again and again. Alejandro couldn’t get past him. He was too slow. Arnau didn’t even respect him... the pro defender was playing halfway up the pitch, leaving huge gaps of space behind him because he knew he could recover.
Space, Rio thought, his eyes narrowing. There is so much space behind him.
"You see it?" Total_Football_14 whispered. "That acres of green grass behind the defender? That is your kingdom, Rio. But Alejandro cannot conquer it because he lacks the pace. Arnau is arrogant. He thinks he owns the flank."
Rio watched as the First Team scored. 1-0. A simple tap-in.
Then 2-0. A header.
The U18s were getting slaughtered. Coach Michel stood on the sideline, arms crossed, looking unimpressed. He shook his head, scribbling something on his notepad. He looked like he was crossing names off a list.
By halftime, the score was 3-0. The U18 players walked off the pitch with their heads down, gasping for air.
Alejandro looked like he was about to throw up. His face was beet red, and he was limping slightly.
Coach Martinez gathered the team.
"Disaster!" he yelled. "You are playing like scared children! You are showing them too much respect! We need speed! We need to stretch the play!"
He looked around the huddle. His eyes landed on the bench.
Rio’s heart stopped.
Martinez’s eyes scanned the yellow vests. He looked at Rio. He hesitated. He looked at the other winger on the bench, a tall boy named Javi.
Pick me, Rio screamed internally. I’m the fastest. I’m the only one who can punish that high line.
Martinez sighed.
"Javi. Warm up. You’re going in for Victor. We’ll switch to two strikers."
Rio felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Not him. Again.
He slumped back. It’s over. I’m not playing.
"Stop pouting!" Maradona yelled in his head so loud Rio actually winced. "The game isn’t over until the fat lady sings, or until the referee blows the whistle! Look at Alejandro!"
Rio looked. Alejandro was sitting on the grass, holding his calf. The physio was talking to him. Alejandro shook his head, grimacing.
"Coach!" the physio called out. "Alejandro is cramping. He’s done."
Martinez cursed under his breath. He looked at his bench again. He had used his striker sub. He needed a winger.
He looked at Rio. The only winger left.
Martinez rubbed his temples, as if he was making a decision he knew he would regret.
"Lance!" he barked.
Rio jumped up so fast he almost knocked over the water cooler.
"Yes, Coach!"
"Get that bib off," Martinez said, sounding tired. "You’re on. Left wing."
Rio stripped off the yellow vest, revealing the red and white jersey underneath.
"Listen to me, Rio," Martinez said, grabbing Rio by the shoulder and pulling him close. "I don’t want you trying to be Messi. I don’t want you trying to dribble through three players. You see Arnau? He’s tired. He’s been overlapping all game."
Martinez pointed a finger at the pro defender.
"Kick it past him," Martinez ordered. "And run. That is all you do. Can you do that?"
Rio nodded, his throat tight.
"Yes, Coach. I can run."
"Good. Don’t embarrass us."
Rio walked to the sideline.
He looked out at the massive pitch. It looked like a battlefield.
"Okay, kid," Pele said, his voice serious. "This is it. You have 45 minutes. But you only need ten."
"Open the inventory," Cruyff commanded.
System, Rio thought.
The blue screen flickered into life over the real world.
[Item: La Gambeta Feint (Ready)]
[Item: The Clockwork Eye (Ready)]
"Don’t activate them yet," Maradona warned. "Wait for the moment. Wait until he thinks you are nothing. Wait until he relaxes. Then... you kill him."
Rio stepped onto the white line.
He looked at Mateo, who was wiping sweat from his eyes in the center of the defense. Mateo saw him and grinned, giving a thumbs up.
The referee blew the whistle for the second half.
Rio Lance, the worst player in the academy, took his first step onto the pitch.