Whatever It Takes (4)
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Their jaws hung slack, showing no sign of closing anytime soon. With about ten minutes left in regular time, the scoreboard blazed 7 - 0.
Sitting in one corner of the stands, watching the match, Iñigo Chapé murmured his assessment around the 35th minute of the second half.
"The level is different... the level is..."
It wasn't a general review of the AD Alcorcón B players. It was an evaluation meant solely for Cha Tae-oh, the player now subbed off and leaving the pitch.
Why the hell is a player like that here?
In that moment, the question felt more enigmatic to Iñigo Chapé than the Seven Wonders of the World.
Tae-oh had scored five goals today. Fewer than the seven he'd netted in the direct matchup against UD Socuellamos last time, but his overall impact and performance were in no way inferior.
His soccer intelligence to precisely read and predict opponents' positions, movements, and paths. His solid physique and excellent balance. Elastic sprints at insane speeds. Superb aerial ability from remarkable jumping power. On top of that, exquisite technique for perfect press resistance exactly when needed, fantastical ball touches, tank-like dribbling charges, and ice-cold finishing in front of goal that never missed. Cha Tae-oh even had the linking play to make great use of his teammates around him—he wasn't just a spotlight hog; he elevated the form of those around him too.
"Perfect" was almost too modest a word. No exaggeration at all.
Even accounting for this being a fourth-division league, Tae-oh's level had already soared far beyond the pro wall.
Of course, he couldn't be absolutely sure. This was semi-pro level, after all, and it was hard to guarantee that play would hold up against top pros. Plenty of hot youth prospects who lit up their academies vanished without a trace on the pro stage.
But one thing he could be certain of: Cha Tae-oh wouldn't fade into obscurity on the pro scene.
"...Gulp."
He swallowed hard enough to hear it. Sudden fear and impatience washed over him. Anyone else watching would surely make the same assessment.
Iñigo Chapé hurriedly scanned the surroundings. With a hawk's eye, he picked out people in the stands who didn't seem like regular fans. Total attendance was barely 200, so spotting other teams' scouts wasn't hard.
His brow furrowed slightly as he eyed the crowd.
Damn.
Five had pinged on his radar. They might not be, but their expressions screamed scout.
Reports will go in for sure...
With Tae-oh on a non-exclusive semi-pro deal, whichever pro club offered first would snag him.
No way in hell!
Few La Liga clubs scouted this fourth division closely. They usually focused on youth levels or Segunda back home. Instant-impact talents rarely popped up here anyway.
So competitors for Tae-oh would be other Segunda sides.
No more delays.
Spanish bureaucracy was notoriously slow, but he'd already greased the visa wheels as fast as possible. Iñigo Chapé shot to his feet. The match wasn't over, but he bolted from the stands—not leaving the stadium, but heading to the dressing room to intercept Tae-oh on his way in.
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Beep—Beeeep!
The ref blew for full time. I rose slowly from the bench, strolling toward the pitch.
The CD Guadalajara players looked like they'd found peace at last. Some had that vacant stare, like reality was crashing back in.
Hmm. Had I handed them a bit too much peace?
"Theeeo!"
Miguel Amaro barreled into me, teammates hot on his heels. Crushing a relegation battler and now the league's third-place side by 7? They were buzzing with pride.
"Let's give Theo a bump!"
"Hell yeah! Great idea!"
"Come on, move it!"
Under Miguel's lead, they charged like they meant to launch me into orbit.
"Wait, hold up! Calm down, guys!"
My word carried more weight than our captain's these days, but not right now. These hyped-up kids grabbed my limbs and started tossing me sky-high, catching me on the way down. Repeat.
First time getting bumped in my life... Honestly? Not bad. Just embarrassing.
We hadn't even won the league—just two blowouts—and here I was, getting the hero treatment. Felt awkward.
But after it ended, thinking it over, I got it. Twelve goals and four assists over two games. Sixteen attacking returns. Even I had to admit, those were ridiculous numbers.
"We're gonna keep winning like this, right?"
"Feels like we can't lose."
"Ten games left... Full sweep gets us top five easy?"
"Th-then playoffs?!"
In Segunda Federación, group winners auto-promote. Second through fifth from each of the five groups—twenty teams total—battle in playoffs. Top five go up to Primera Federación.
Their ambitions rising made me smile inside. Yeah, that fire meant they'd fight back even from deficits.
"Theo, be straight with me."
"What?"
"Remember your fourth goal?"
"Fourth? Oh, the one you assisted?"
"Yeah. Honestly, didn't think you'd take it and finish."
"Just a blind pass?"
"Nah, not that... I trusted you'd run there, so I hit it without looking."
Guy's brutally honest sometimes.
"Anyway?"
"You actually went there. Made me think..."
Miguel Amaro fixed me with pure, innocent eyes.
"You got superpowers or something? Read minds?"
What a weirdo. I chuckled softly.
"Answer's in what you said."
"My words?"
"Yeah. You said you figured I'd go there."
"True, but... how'd you even think to run that way?"
"Flip it. Why'd you think I'd go there?"
He pondered, then answered.
"Looked like a chance if you infiltrated."
"Exactly. Best route—we both knew it."
Miguel really was a cut above the rest here. Beef up the physique, fix the girlie shot, and he'd thrive in La Liga.
We were chatting idly, heading into the dressing room, when—
"Theo."
Jordi Calavera called me over. A tall guy with sharp eyes stood beside him.
"Let me introduce our club's technical director, Iñigo Chapé."
Technical director. The moment hit me—this was it. My heart started pounding.
Iñigo eyed me steadily, then blurted,
"Free tonight?"
"Nope."
"Perfect. Dinner together? Got something to discuss."
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We ended up at a Korean spot in Madrid. He asked what I wanted; I said "anything" to avoid Corear drama if he learned I was Alcorcón's TD. Good call.
His thoughtfulness in picking Korean food for me felt appreciated.
"Normally I'd talk to your agent, but word is you don't have one yet. Right?"
"Right."
He sipped water, then cut straight in.
"I hate beating around the bush. Let's get to it."
"Go ahead."
"We want a pro contract with you. Make you a true Alcorcón man."
Before I could reply, he pressed on.
"Heard you came on a student visa. Language school. One year."
"Yes."
"Pro deal with us? No visa worries. We'll fast-track a work visa."
Obviously. I held my tongue.
"You've got pro club experience in Korea last year, so salary to match. Enough to focus purely on soccer, no money stress."
I just listened quietly.
"I rate your talent sky-high. For real. You've been semi-pro two weeks, and here I am offering pro already—feel that?"
"Yes."
"I'm certain you'd start in La Liga 2 right now."
His eyes held zero bullshit.
"Next season, I'm building the team around you as our number-one striker option. Might sound like hot air if you don't know our situation, but you'd see I'm serious."
I nodded slightly. Tiago the La Liga know-it-all had filled me in on Alcorcón A's setup.
"Can't promise starting spots—that's the coach's call. But squad-building? That's mine."
Manager meant director-level transfer power; head coach didn't. Most were head coaches. True managers were rare without massive results in modern soccer.
"As director, I promise: next season, you're our top striker option."
I knew it wasn't bluff. Segunda clubs like Alcorcón couldn't easily splash on a starter striker financially.
But.
"Heard you brought in a new forward this season?"
He nodded.
"Selling next. Not a starter? His agent's already shopping him, even without us pushing."
One season to cut bait? Surprising—they usually gave two.
"No pressure to sign now. Get an agent first. Hell, I can hook you up."
Said that, but his vibe screamed decide fast and ink it.
"One question."
"Shoot."
"Money or opportunity—which do you prefer?"
I couldn't help a smirk. Sounded like "Daddy or Mommy?" to me.
"...Obviously both."
He'd hoped for "opportunity." Back in the day, I'd have kissed ass to please a club bigwig.
But brimming with skill confidence now? Zero nerves facing Iñigo Chapé. Straight ball it was.
"You said you hate circling the drain, right?"
"Yeah."
"Me too. So be blunt."
He looked more tense than me. I grinned.
"First off, what's the weekly pay ceiling you're thinking?"
"Well..."
"Oh, plus appearance fees, win bonuses, obviously?"
"That's..."
"And goal bonuses—can't skimp there, right?"
"......"
You weren't planning to lowball me, were you?