Chapter 85
Chapter 85
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 85
Chapter Title: Regrets~ I'm Having Them~ -3
-----------------------------------------------------------------
“──!!”
“──!!”
Standing at the center circle for kickoff, I can hear vicious shouts coming from the stands.
They’re the kind of curses that make you want to wash your ears just from hearing them.
And it’s painfully obvious who all those insults are directed at.
“…”
I glance at senior Vlahović—
No, at Vlahović.
Despite the torrent of abuse being hurled his way, he maintains a blank expression, simply waiting for the match to start.
On the surface, he looks completely unfazed.
But he has ears.
There’s no way he can’t hear the fans’ voices, not when they’re this loud.
What must he be feeling right now?
If it were me…
I’d probably be on the verge of tears. I might’ve even told the coach I couldn’t play today and hidden at home.
Of course, he’s different from me.
He’s far more professional, far more mature.
There’s no way someone with a weak heart would be standing here.
Still—
There’s no way he’s actually fine.
Facing fans who once loved you, only to now hear them curse you…
That’s a horrifying thing.
Sure, he was the one who turned his back first.
But maybe that’s exactly why their resentment cuts even deeper.
“…“
I really wish the referee would just blow the whistle already.
The head referee, however, seems to be waiting for something—whistle in his mouth, eyes fixed on his watch.
To be honest, watching him endure what’s basically a flood of hatred doesn’t sit well with me.
Because I still like him.
When I was first dragged into first-team training, scared of everything and completely overwhelmed—
He was the first one to approach me.
That single line—“I like you”—gave me far more strength than he probably realized.
It was the same in my first match.
When I stood frozen in front of a defense stacked like an endless mountain range, unable to charge in—
The moment I spotted him among them, I found the courage to run forward.
At training.
In matches.
Just having him in front of me made me feel secure.
His already broad back felt as vast as the sea to me.
When he left the squad and I took his place, I felt it even more.
Only after playing directly in his position did I realize—
He’d been fighting a much harder battle than I ever imagined.
Yet he never once showed how difficult it was.
That’s why he was always such a dependable senior.
“──!!”
“──!!”
And now—
Tens of thousands of people are hurling curses at him.
I understand the fans’ feelings, but honestly…
I wish they’d stop.
If anyone has the right to question him, it’s me.
Why did it have to be Juventus?
Why did he have to leave for Juventus, only for us to face each other as enemies like this?
More than anyone, I want him to regret it.
So there’s no need to curse him.
Because even without that—
We’ll make him regret it through the match.
Piiiiiiik—!
After dragging it out, the referee finally raises his arm and blows the whistle.
As if I’d been waiting for it, I kick off.
At the same time, Vlahović runs toward Fiorentina’s half—
And I run toward Juventus’s.
We pass by each other, and the match begins.
Ta-ta-tat—!
I chase the ball relentlessly, doing my best to annoy the opponent.
We kicked off, but possession doesn’t stay with us for long.
Paaang—!
Paaang—!
I press hard as they circulate the ball at the back.
It feels like I’m about to catch it—
Yet the ball slips through our grasp every time.
As the ball moves far away from my assigned zone, I slow to a jog, exhale, and scan the field.
From the start, we’re pressing aggressively.
That was the coach’s instruction.
For the first 15 minutes of the first half—
Fight hard. Confuse them.
We’re following orders, but I’m not sure it’s working.
Our press is well-organized.
No one overcommits.
No one holds back excessively.
Sometimes we spread wide like a net.
Other times we compress tightly, herding them into corners.
Yet still—
They slip through like quick fish escaping a net.
Overall, it feels like they’re always one step faster than us.
Their technical quality is higher too.
As much as I hate to admit it.
“…”
It makes me wonder—
How did we beat this team last time?
Especially since it was at their home.
What’s different now?
……Ah.
Back then, Vlahović was on our side.
Paaang—!
I follow the ball with my eyes, sharpening my focus.
Using visual cues, I map the opponents’ positions and movements in my head.
And then—
I realize.
There are other reasons they escape our press so easily—
But the biggest one is numbers.
They simply have more.
Paaang—!
I see their number 10 receive the ball deep and break pressure.
With smooth footwork, he shakes off the press, finds space, passes—and moves again.
At every key connection point, he’s there.
Number 10. Dybala.
I have his jersey at home.
After our last match, he took mine and gave me his in return.
So he’s familiar—but that’s not what matters.
What matters is this:
He’s playing today as an attacking midfielder.
Meaning—
He’s operating outside his usual position.
By dropping deep and adding numbers, he’s tipping the numerical balance.
So why don’t we push one defender higher to match it?
Because we can’t.
Vlahović is planted in our half.
He’s not someone you can mark one-on-one safely.
His individual skill is outstanding—
And more than that, he knows how to use his teammates.
We need coordinated defense or team movement to shut down space around him.
Which means we have to keep numbers back.
And that makes it hard to push anyone forward.
In short—
Our press isn’t working, ultimately because of one man.
Vlahović.
That’s my conclusion.
“Press them!”
“One more step!”
I hear my teammates shouting from behind.
But their voices sound strangely desperate.
From the back, they can only watch and cheer—
They must feel frustrated. Maybe even guilty, wanting to help.
But if anyone breaks shape and steps forward, space opens up.
Vlahović and the attackers won’t miss that.
And then we’re in danger.
That instinctive sense of danger hits—
Just as Dybala glances forward and pulls back his left foot.
Bweooooong—!
A lofted pass sails into our half.
My gaze follows the ball.
I see senior Torreira, our defensive midfielder, step out of position—
And in that space stands Vlahović.
Dropping into the gap, he brushes off Nastasić with his back and prepares to jump.
Paaang—!
He leaps and cushions the ball with his chest.
On landing, he shields it with his body and arms, muscles Nastasić away, opens an angle—
Paaang—!
And releases the pass to the right.
A perfectly weighted through ball pierces our back line and finds the winger—
And what happens next—
I don’t want to see.
Thwack—!!
We concede first.
After conceding, we change tactics.
We have no choice but to drop back.
We can’t win the fight in their half, so we tighten up our own.
Paaang—!
Paaang—!
But that doesn’t make things easier.
Giving up the press lets them hold the ball comfortably and probe for weaknesses.
Dangerous moments come one after another.
Paaang—!
Dybala receives the ball high up.
Again—space created by Vlahović.
From the front of the penalty arc, he shoots without hesitation.
Bweooooong—!
Thankfully, it sails over the bar—but it’s close.
The shot itself was sharp—
And worse, if he’d passed again, it could’ve been far more dangerous.
Because Vlahović was already making a run into the box.
If it were me, I would’ve passed.
“…“
“…“
Our eyes meet—just for an instant.
But they definitely meet.
He’s looking at me.
And suddenly—
An unexplainable desire wells up inside me.
I want to make him feel regret.
Just like I struggle without him in front of me—
I want him to struggle without me behind him.
My mind spins rapidly, every sense sharpening.
Something flashes, like a camera shutter—
And as I drop deeper, I shout to Romero.
“Push up!”
Romero moves forward.
I keep dropping back.
Play resumes with a goal kick.
Noticing my movement, senior Terracciano signals to the defenders—
Then opts for a short goal kick instead of a long one.
Paaang—!
Paaang—!
The opponent presses immediately.
We’d been forced into long kicks all game because of that press—
But this time is different.
I’ve dropped back and added numbers.
Paaang—!
A quick pass comes to me.
And in the next moment—
I do three things at once.
“Right side! Run!!”
I read the opponents’ positions and shout for Romero to make the run.
At the same time, I cushion the pass with the outside of my left foot and turn.
In training, my brain always warned me—
Three things at once is too much.
This time, it stays silent.
Bweooooong—!
I thread the pass while turning.
I don’t even check Romero’s position—
I pass first.
The difference between the right timing and the wrong one is a split second.
That’s true in training.
Even more so in a real match.
Especially against a strong opponent.
All I can do is trust that Romero is running at the right time, in the right direction—
And pour every ounce of precision I have into the pass.
Shraaaah—
The ball slices into the right half-space—
Between their left center-back and left fullback.
Romero bursts past the defense toward it.
He’s not as big as Vlahović—
But he’s fast.
And balanced enough to shoot first time.
This can be a goal.
Please—
Bweooooong—!
Romero reaches the ball a step ahead of the defender and strikes with his right foot.
What comes next—
Is exactly what I want to see.
Thwack—!!
In that instant, I understand why people hope.
Because the thrill of seeing Romero answer that hope—
Is incredible.
Ta-ta-tat—!
Vlahović starts to make a run behind the line—
Then stops and turns back.
“Hey!”
Ta-ta-tat—!
A moment later, it happens again.
This time he shouts, even raises his hand—
Still no pass.
The timing was there.
But the midfielder on the ball doesn’t see it.
“Hoo…”
Vlahović shakes his head, exhaling in frustration.
The first half ends 1–1.
Now it’s the second half, just past the 10-minute mark.
He’s been battling defenders alone, constantly trying to break the line—
Vlahović is clearly tired.
When teammates miss passing windows in that state, irritation is inevitable.
“…”
Vlahović glances at Lee Jian.
The conceded goal from the first half flashes in his mind—
That beautiful, defense-splitting pass.
And memories from months ago, when those passes arrived at his feet.
Compared to that—
His current teammates feel frustrating.
“──!!”
The crowd still hurls abuse at him.
But he doesn’t care.
Nothing makes him regret choosing to transfer.
Nothing—
Except one thing.
Just one thing.
That he can no longer play alongside a player like Lee Jian.
Paaang—!
As if to rub it in—
Lee Jian glides past pressure, escapes tight space, and launches another attack.
Watching him, Vlahović thinks—
If he were in front of him right now…
He would’ve added another goal to his career.