Entry Test (3)
I figured there had to be a clear difference from the amateur level.
And there was a difference, no doubt about it. They definitely had plenty of edges over the CD Coslada players—in their fluid movements with the ball, their passing play, and especially their judgment in deciding what to do next after receiving it. They showed far superior qualities there.
But if I evaluated their overall level? Were the AD Alcorcon B-team players overwhelmingly better? The answer was no. There was a gap, sure, but not a heaven-and-earth chasm. Some of these prospects hadn't tasted pro ball yet, so their rough edges stood out plain as day to me.
At the same time, I could spot it crystal clear: who among them would make it pro, and who would get cut and drop back to amateurs. The former? Out of nearly thirty players, maybe 10 percent at best. That's like three guys, numbers-wise.
"That kid's got some chops."
One player in particular caught my eye. Name: Miguel Amaro. During the early stages of this mini-game, I zeroed in on his play.
First off, top marks for his off-ball movement. He had this instinct for drifting into the perfect spots to receive a pass. His dribbling was killer too—ball glued to his foot, keeping it close without letting it stray far, all with this snaky flexibility. Slim build, but he didn't get shoved off the ball easily. Told you his balance was on point.
"Oh ho?"
His passing was solid too. Not just mindless dribbling down the flank—he kept checking for teammates ahead and timing his passes just right. Pair up with that guy, and we'd rack up assists like crazy.
Whump!
"……."
Shooting, though? Problem city. Kid was young, core muscles underdeveloped, ankles weak by nature. No power shots, just weak girl kicks that sailed into easy spots for the keeper.
Defensive positioning was lacking too. He hustled hard, tons of activity, but his pressing was brainless—just charging in. Press smart: cut off one option completely, don't leave passes or forward runs open. That forces bad choices, and we snag the ball for a counter.
"...Hold up."
But how am I clocking these strengths and weaknesses at a glance? Goblin boost jacked up my soccer IQ too?
Thwack!
Right then, a midfielder grabbed the ball in midfield, spotted the press coming, and pinged it my way. The second I saw it rolling, my brain cleared—all thoughts gone. I pondered the best play after receiving... though "ponder" might be wrong. No deep thought needed; in that split second before it hit my foot, I'd already decided.
Constantly tracking opponents' positions meant I didn't need to look back—I pictured them perfectly. Even now, receiving with my back to goal.
Pat-pat!
One defender charging me.
My choice: don't trap it here. Just before it touched, tap!
One first-touch turn sent it forward, fooling the defender lunging from behind. He hadn't seen that coming—grabbed at me a few times before giving up.
Dude's hopeless. Center-back pushes up, press fails? Foul from distance at least—this a practice game? Leaving your lone CB to handle me solo?
"Drop back! Defensive cover! Focus!"
Coach Jordi Calavera's bellow echoed. Unlike that dummy CB, the last guy guarding the keeper's path stayed cool. No rash dives—dropped the line inside the box, kept distance, narrowed my angle.
Not gonna work.
"Hup!"
To narrow the angle, glue yourself close—block with your body. Knowing that, the remaining CB finally charged.
Here...
Poke!
Perfect shot feint duped the last CB too. Wide-open angle now. Not super close to goal—spot was a hair behind penalty distance. But this range...
Thwang!
Swish!
...easy goal. My left foot nailed the top corner dead-on, ripping the net. Keeper dove, but no chance against that Yas hin zone shot.
One first touch, one feint, one shot. Clean, quick—boom, first goal.
The AD Alcorcon B-team stared wider-eyed than before. No big thrill for me. Seen it with Coslada already. Same vibe as my first training there...
Swish!
Swish!
Whenever the ball hit my foot, I crafted valid shots effortlessly. Every one beat the keeper, shook the net. Never forced it—kept evading pressure, ghosting into good spots.
At Coslada, I was solo Ronaldo mode, ballhogging. Here? More Lewandowski: off-ball runs carving space, calm touches finding angles, dribbles shaking markers, and...
Thud!
Swish!
...leaping headers too. Versatile, the ultimate complete forward. That was today's concept.
Tweet!
Mini-game over. One player approached like he'd been waiting: Miguel Amaro, my top watch.
Damn, real recognizes real—he's coming straight to me.
But his opener threw me.
"Theo. Mind fixing my hair a bit?"
"...Huh?"
What fresh nonsense? I tilted my head; he deadpanned.
"Wanna make eye contact with the eyes on your occiput."
"……."
Uncommon dude alert.
A bunch of eyes stared at me, sparkling unnaturally bright. Not just fangirling my training heroics today. They expected more.
Definitely.
"So? How many goals?"
Uncle's question lit up the Corear staff's eyes. Aunt too. (Cool Elena excepted.)
Could just answer, but I milked it like an MC before the winner reveal.
"Four."
And boom.
"Yesssss!"
One staffer threw hands up like we'd won the league. Tiago.
"Told ya! Theo's my bestie now, right?"
"Ugh... Theo, why only four? You said they were nobodies..."
"Right? Damn. Thought I'd nailed it."
"Argh! My 10 euros! Heartbreaking, shit!"
"No, Tae-oh! One more goal, why exactly four...?"
Hold up. Did they... bet on my goal tally?
"Heh heh. Alright, 10 euros each, folks."
Tiago collected bills from Corear wallets. Elena skipped, of course.
"You guys bet?"
Aunt nodded faintly instead of answering, heading to the counter. Tiago, buzzing, spilled.
"Staff pool on your mini-game goals. I alone picked four—nailed it! Ahahaha!"
First time seeing Tiago this hyped. That gambler's glint... Bad road if he dives into betting. Snap out, Tiago—beginner's luck.
"Boss couple bet five, Chef Gonzalo seven. This guy's eight. Why so high? Haha!"
Listening soured my mood. I clapped Tiago's shoulder—counting his wad happily—and murmured.
"So... you bet the lowest goals among Corear folks?"
"Yup!"
Grinning like a fool.
...Why so sunny, asshole.
"As my friend, you should've bet at least seven. You thought I'd cap at four?"
He shook his head firm.
"Nah. If you tried, seven-plus easy."
"Then... you figured I'd take it easy today?"
"Yup. Coslada? Barely played, max form focus. Alcorcon's different—future teammates, so you'd scout 'em today."
Getting scary now. How long friends? Already reads me like this... That mad gleam felt creepy today.
"But hey, Theo."
Tiago finished counting, glanced at Elena, back to me.
"Something up with Elena?"
"Huh? No. Why?"
He whispered close.
"Her looks at you... off since earlier."
"...Huh?"
Felt nothing. We hadn't even locked eyes.
"Barely chat daily with her. What's off?"
"Hm... maybe not..."
Tiago tilted, peeked again.
"What?"
"Nah, probably not. Too hyped today, seeing things. Her eyes are always kinda... predator eyeing prey."
"No, what about her eyes?"
"Forget it. My bad. Haha!"
"...Tiago."
"Yeah?"
"Two ways to piss people off. Know 'em?"
"What?"
"One: trail off mid-sentence. Two:..."