I Will Save You All (1)
The next day, instead of heading to the B-team training ground, I made my way to the club house at AD Alcorcon's training facility. It was because of a phone call I'd received that morning.
"Our coaching staff all agreed on this."
The meeting room held Jordi Calavera, the manager, along with a few people I'd never seen before.
"We don't need to run any more tryouts."
Truth be told, I'd had a hunch ever since they called me in early that morning. Still, this was a pro club—I figured they'd at least watch me for a week before offering a contract. But my performance yesterday must've blown them away.
I'd secretly hoped for a pro deal, but as Jordi Calavera had hinted yesterday, it turned out to be a semi-pro contract. Not even with the A team, but the B team—no weekly salary or anything. Just win bonuses and training stipends, basically like a part-time gig.
The point of this semi-pro contract was simple: to let me play in Segunda Federacion matches. I had to be officially signed and registered to suit up for real games.
That said, semi-pro contracts like this had no real binding power. Pro contracts were different, of course. Especially in Spain, where the law required a buyout clause in every contract—a set amount you could pay in one lump sum to unilaterally terminate the deal with the club.
The semi-pro contract I was signing today didn't even have one of those.
"Welcome to the Alcorcon family, Theo."
After I finished signing, Jordi Calavera extended his hand as the representative of everyone in the room. I flashed a grin and shook it firmly.
With the paperwork done, I headed to the B-team training ground alongside Jordi Calavera again, chatting along the way.
"Now the club's bigwigs will be keeping an eye on you—the ones with the power to push through a pro contract."
He grinned and added,
"Word's spreading fast after that training session yesterday. You made quite the impression."
I smiled back.
"It's rare to wrap up tryouts and sign in a single day. You're a pro already, so you're something of an exception, but still."
"Got it."
"And the B team desperately needed a striker."
AD Alcorcon's B team was languishing near the bottom of the league table, teetering on the edge of the relegation zone. If they finished there, next season it'd be the fifth-tier Tercera Federacion.
Their biggest headache? No goal scorer. Soccer's all about who puts more in the net. You can defend like hell and keep a clean sheet, but no goals means a draw at best.
With no reliable finisher, they were suffering—then I showed up like manna from heaven. Win-win all around. They get a solid striker, and I get my shot at semi-pro games.
"Show them what you've got, and the club will bend over backward to keep you. They'll offer an A-team pro contract."
"Fingers crossed."
A pro deal meant a real salary, plus a work visa. No more language school nonsense. I'd gone a few days, but honestly? Nothing to learn. Natives teaching their own language? My Spanish was already native-level, slapping them silly. It was a total waste of time for me.
"That said, you'll stick with the B team for the rest of the season, no matter how well you do."
"Regulations?"
Jordi Calavera nodded and gave me the quick rundown on La Liga rules. In short: In Spain, B teams and youth squads aren't subsidiaries—they're affiliated clubs tied to the A team. Sending players down from A to B counts as a loan, and vice versa.
Other leagues let you freely call up reserves or youth players, but in Spain, anyone 18 or older can only be registered during transfer windows. Miss that, and you're stuck—no call-ups when the market's closed.
Exception: Homegrown players who've been with the club since age 15 for at least three years. But I was still 20, birthday pending. Even with a pro contract, winter window's closed—no A-team action this season.
"Truth is, semi-pro contracts like this weren't even possible for our club before."
"Why not?"
"Because AD Alcorcon's a pro club."
B-team players are nominally on loan from the pro A team. Even in semi-pro leagues, they're pros. They get livable wages and go full-time.
"But the rules loosened up. Pro clubs' B teams can now sign up to five semi-pro players. No youth academy kids, though."
"Makes sense."
No instant pro deal was a bummer, but nail it here and it'd come quick. My heart raced at the thought.
"Anyway, you'll be with us through the end of the season. Let's make it count."
"You got it."
Jordi Calavera grinned.
"Oh, and start looking for an agent, just in case. You'll need one for pro negotiations—it's a hassle without."
His eyes said he was sure I'd land pro terms soon. I chuckled softly and asked,
"Manager, where are we in the table right now?"
"13th. Shaky ground."
His face darkened a bit. The fourth-tier Segunda Federacion split into five regional groups of 18 teams each. Bottom five per group drop to Tercera Federacion. 14th through 18th: relegation zone.
"How far from 14th?"
"Just two points."
"Next opponents?"
"15th. Three points behind us."
Tight as hell.
"Even the last-place team is only five points off."
"Normal?"
"Pretty much. Three-point swings decide survival all the time."
Meaning every match could flip our fate.
"...I see."
I nodded slowly. To keep pushing forward, you need motivation. It keeps you grinding even when you're beat. The pro contract dream was fuel enough, but I added another goal.
"I know exactly what I need to do."
First, drag us out of the bottom. Nothing wounds the pride more than your team going down with you on it.
*
After training, I headed back to the restaurant and shared the semi-pro contract news. Everyone celebrated like it was their own win. I barely talked Aunt and Uncle out of popping champagne and free shots before things calmed down.
Then it was server time. As Aunt predicted, I quickly became the talk of the neighborhood: the buff, handsome Asian guy. I handled the women's tables; Elena stuck to the men's, as usual.
"What're you up to after shift?"
"Wanna grab a drink?"
"Club together?"
Plenty of women hit on me outright. Half seemed joking, half dead serious. I turned them all down. No one caught my eye, soccer came first anyway, and I already had Yuko—a perfect sex partner.
We'd agreed on once a week. Busy schedules, plus too much sex might mess with my game. She pouted a little but went along— I held the reins here.
My routine stayed locked in until match day: morning workout, language school, training, evening shift, sleep.
"Don't just stand there after a pass! Keep moving! Find better space, or drag their defenders away if you can't!"
Jordi Calavera was fired up.
"Soccer's a team game. Run with your teammates, not solo. You freeze up, your passer faces double- or triple-teams, and we lose the ball! Stay focused—think on your feet!"
Relegation breathing down our necks, next game against 15th place—he was all-in on stealing those three points. Hell, he wasn't just coaching from the sidelines; he was out there running drills himself.
His passion fired up the whole AD Alcorcon B team. Me too. I dialed back the solo heroics, buying into his team-play mantra, focusing on meshing in.
Funny thing: the less I forced the spotlight, the more I shone. Made sense—days in, and the attack revolved around me.
No new tactics. Just their old patterns, now punctuated by me. That one tweak? The missing puzzle piece they'd craved.
Finishes that fizzled before? Suddenly crisp with me in the mix. Morale skyrocketed.
I hoped this vibe lasted beyond training—not a flash in the pan, but through the next game, the one after, straight to season's end. I wanted that unbreakable confidence: we beat anyone.
One way to make it happen.
"Theo, when chances come, shoot—don't hesitate or pass. Solve it yourself. You're our starting striker now. Everyone expects goals from you, trusts you most."
"Yes, manager."
Win.
Tweet—!
No matter the opponent.