Ecosystem Destroyer (3)
That evening after the first training session wrapped up, a modest party kicked off at my aunt's place. The attendees? Predictably, just my aunt, uncle, and me—three people total.
"You know what Vitolo said? He said the players he cherished and nurtured looked like ordinary people out there. What a riot!"
My uncle was buzzing with excitement, already polishing off his first bottle of wine.
"Too bad I missed it."
"Same here. Damn. I'd love to sit in on every training session..."
"You know that's not possible, dear."
"R-right, of course I know that."
Uncle smacked his lips in disappointment under my aunt's icy glare. His role as kit manager—basically equipment handler—was limited to match days only. It was unpaid, and with him being the head chef at the restaurant, there wasn't much choice in the matter.
"But thinking about it, Vitolo's spot on. Coslada's players are amateurs through and through, but Theo here's a pro."
It felt good seeing him get so fired up, like it was his own achievement.
"Oh yeah, Vitolo said something else. He felt like he was watching prime Ronaldo."
"Ronaldo? The Portuguese one, Cristiano?"
"No, Brazil's Ronaldo."
"Ohhh! That Ronaldo? I remember him. Saw him during the World Cup here."
"...Let's not talk about the Korea World Cup, Jane."
Uncle's face fell into gloom, and my aunt burst out laughing.
"Hoho. Right, who did we beat to make the semis again?"
"...Damn it."
I just chuckled watching the two of them.
"Anyway, I was surprised Vitolo went as far as mentioning Ronaldo. He's a softie who hands out praise easily, but Ronaldo? That's high praise."
Vitolo had nailed it, really. The play I pulled off in that mini-game was straight out of Ronaldo's chaotic dribble playbook.
"Theo, Vitolo said he'll recommend you to his contacts. Until you get that trial, give it everything for Coslada."
"You bet. I can hardly wait for the next match."
"Heh heh. Perfect timing—the opponents are the league's second-place team. Beat them, and we climb to second. One step closer to promotion."
He was a die-hard Real Madrid fan, but with his brother owning the club, him handling kits, and Tiago working there as a server, Uncle had real affection for CD Coslada.
"Everyone's got serious fire for promotion."
"Exactly. That's why no one's griping about you joining. If we make it to semi-pro, we're taking the whole squad with us."
Uncle grinned as he added, "Semi-pro means salaries start flowing."
"Oh? Paychecks?"
"Not a ton, but better than playing for pocket change. And we'll amp up the benefits too."
"Big ambitions."
"Damn right. Told you—the owners aim to drag this team up to La Liga 2."
That sparked a question. Not the sole owner, sure, but what kind of fortune did Uncle's brother have to dream of hoisting a sixth-tier amateur club to second-division pro level? Probably not insane wealth, but maybe more than I imagined. The brothers seemed tight, too, so it looked like Aunt had married well. No special perks, but no starving on the streets either.
"Our nephew's playing his first game in Spain—should I come cheer you on?"
"Hell yeah! Let's just close shop for the day. If Theo goes full Ronaldo up top like Vitolo said, we beat Robledo and snag second place!"
CD Coslada's next foes were Robledo CF, same league group. I'd heard during training that the teams weren't on great terms. They'd been clashing for years without either promoting, and whenever Coslada built momentum toward the jump, Robledo always tripped them up. Recent form—five games, one win, one draw, three losses—had Coslada on the back foot, so everyone was itching to crush them.
...This felt less like rivalry and more like a one-sided beatdown. Robledo probably treated them like chum.
"Hold up."
I muttered under my breath, then scowled. Thinking it over, this pissed me off.
"Adrian, we're winning this. I'll slot one home every time it gets boring, just like in the mini-game."
Uncle looked straight-up moved.
"Yes! Theo! That's the spirit—I trust you! Nail a hat-trick, and whatever you want to eat, it's on me!"
"Hoho. Look at our Tae-oh's eyes—all man now. Guess Auntie's gotta go too."
I made up my mind. Right in front of them, I'd show this nephew was the real deal.
The day before the match arrived, and I threw myself into training. I picked up some restaurant work on the side too, though I hadn't taken the front lines yet. Got tight with the staff quick, but cool-headed Elena stayed distant. After a month of scorching sex with Kim Hyo-jin, my urges weren't raging. More like, I was burning to plant roots in Spain and solidify my spot as a footballer.
Finally, game day. Vitolo announced the starting lineup. Top spot up front was, naturally...
"Theo, tear their defense apart from the front. Just like you showed in training."
Mine.
Deep down, I'd hoped for something special. Coslada's amateurs showed their level, so maybe the league's second-place Robledo CF would bring different heat.
But expectations crumbled five minutes in. They had all of Coslada's flaws. No real difference.
Tweet-!
One guy stood out, though. Robledo's number 10, pulling smart passes under midfield pressure. His presence explained why Coslada had been losing lately.
"Their ball connects to the final third better."
With him alone, Robledo built attacks smoother than us. Our guys pressed him, but his style—quick passes, constant movement—blunted it. Two or three rushed him? He'd slip it elsewhere, drawing heat and opening space for the receiver to exploit.
"Ball's not coming my way like this..."
Vitolo had ordered me to hold high, drop only on defense, and bomb forward on attacks. But in this flow, I needed to drop deeper, help build-up, and join the defense.
Tweet-!
Coslada fouled near the touchline, gifting Robledo a set piece. Grabbing water, I headed to Vitolo by the tech area. He read my mind and adjusted.
"Drop deeper, join the defense and build-up. When you get it, can you force through even if it's tough?"
I set the bottle down, nodded, and fired back short and sweet.
"That's my specialty."
The set piece resumed.
Tweet-!
They looped a long cross to the box, but we headed it clear first. I'd dropped lower, so I dashed to the loose ball.
"Hey! Hey!"
They spotted me dropping; our midfielder confirmed and pinged it precise to my feet. Close range helped.
I scanned ahead. Their backline retreated fast; others charged from the flanks to win it back before the center circle. No Coslada support.
Push forward? Dribble solo or recycle back and run. But really, only one viable option. The other hadn't worked in 15 minutes.
"Hup!"
Honestly, solo from behind the center circle to goal? Awkward back in the day. That shit worked maybe middle school. Sure, dribbling gods like Messi pierced high school or college lines sometimes, but not my world.
But.
Thud-!
Now? Different story. Deep breath in, out, long ball ahead, and charge. Like an 8-ton truck with busted brakes, I barreled on, unstoppable.
Flank defenders body-checked, shoved, fouled—desperate. I kept balance, blew past the circle.
Scanned again. Four defenders: two on me, two blocking the box. Could slow and pass, but nah—off the table this chance.
Thud-thud-!
Phantom dribble feinted the close one—tap to opposite foot, explode forward. Next? Direction shift and speed shoved him aside.
Then—
Scraaape-!
Sliding tackle from behind, cheese-grater desperate. But—
Whoosh-!
Brain lagged; body dodged instinctively. Stunned me too. Suddenly, penalty box doorstep.
Here, smart play's angle denial, space management. But this center-back charged blind.
Idiot.
Thud-!
Saw his dive, tapped opposite. Other center-back lunged; tapped back the other way. Box rules froze their hands...
Tweet-!
Shooting signal.
Thud-!
Keeper didn't dive. Laser to the corner.
70 meters, solo shred, goal. I bolted to the stands, hunting Aunt and Uncle...
"Theeeo!"
"Kyaaaah!"
They bounced like they'd storm the pitch. I flashed two fingers and yelled,
"Two more to go! Two more!"
And soon after.
Tweet-!
Thud-!
By halftime, five more identical runs and strikes rattled Robledo's net.
Early on, they cursed and swarmed. By the end? Heads down, resigned.
This half confirmed it. Amateur level...
"Gotta go pro quick—feels bad dominating like this."
Way too small a stage for me.