Unstoppable Guys (4)
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First love is usually hard to come by. Even more so if it's unrequited.
Miguel Amaro's first love—and crush—was his childhood friend, Lisa. She had a stunning smile, a great personality, and was smart enough to excel in school. They'd grown up next door, thick as thieves, and Miguel had fallen for her early on.
But unfortunately, Lisa saw him more as a close buddy than a guy worth dating. He dropped hints, but they went nowhere. Still, Miguel didn't give up. If she'd started dating some other boy their age, he might've swallowed his tears and moved on. But Lisa showed zero interest in boys all the way through high school.
Above all, she'd publicly declared her ideal type was a "pro soccer player." That gave Miguel rock-solid faith that their one-sided thing wouldn't end there.
He trained like a madman to become a pro. Juggling the ball whenever he could, Miguel chased two rabbits at once, sweating buckets.
Then one day.
"Hey... Miguel."
"Yeah?"
"Who was that guy earlier?"
"...Huh?"
Tragedy struck.
Ander Ramon, the goalkeeper he'd befriended at AD Alcorcon's youth academy. The guy was already popular with the neighborhood girls thanks to his good looks, and Lisa fell for him at first sight. That was the spark.
Miguel hadn't even introduced them. They'd just bumped into her on the way home from training and exchanged hellos.
"So that's the girl you're into?"
Miguel had already confessed his crush to Ander, so he trusted the guy to respect bro code. Especially since Ander's standards for girls were sky-high—Lisa wouldn't cut it, he'd thought.
But...
"I'm dating Lisa now."
"...What?!"
In just a few months, Ander became Lisa's first boyfriend.
A betrayal too deep for words boiled inside him.
"How... how could you do this? You knew how much I liked her..."
"What can I do? I like her too, and she likes me a ton. It's not my fault she doesn't see you that way."
Ander didn't look sorry at all.
"You... you fucking bastard!"
Thwack!
Miguel's fist flew first. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't hold back.
But overpowering Ander, who was already pushing 190cm, was a tall order.
"Don't delude yourself, Miguel. Lisa's not yours. So why act like she is?"
Miguel had no comeback.
"You hit first, so you're in the wrong. Apologize."
The club pressured Miguel to say sorry too. Fair enough—he'd thrown the first punch.
But he never got the chance, or the will. Ander up and left AD Alcorcon's youth academy for Getafe's.
It wasn't because of their beef. The Getafe deal was already done, so he'd ignored Miguel and started dating Lisa anyway.
'...Damn it all.'
His one burning drive to go pro—gone.
But he didn't wallow. If anything, he dove into soccer harder, to drown out the pain.
"Welcome to the Alcorcon family, Miguel."
And finally, he signed his pro contract at seventeen.
He was thrilled, but it stung that he couldn't share the joy with Lisa.
In the end, Miguel decided to forget her. He had to. He couldn't cling forever.
So he unfollowed her on SNS, cut all ties.
Deep down, he hoped she'd notice and reach out. But Lisa was head over heels for Ander.
He was working through the heartbreak, trying to erase her from his mind, when Ander signed pro with Getafe's B team. Old wounds ripped open.
Rage surged. He wanted to score on that asshole starting keeper today, vent everything.
But.
"Your shots still lack power, huh? How do you expect to debut in the pros like that?"
He failed. Three shots, all saved by Ander. The team lost 3-0, limp and lifeless.
His pride in tatters. Stolen first love was bad enough—now this taunting? Miguel seethed, itching to deck him. But he held back. Different teams now; another punch could mean real trouble.
Ander knew that, which was why he provoked.
And today, facing off again.
Miguel was steeling himself when Ander, chattering nonsense, dropped a nuke.
"You know that purity ring Lisa wore? I took it off her the other day."
"......!"
Now Miguel wanted to kill him. Unwanted images flooded his mind, agony crashing in.
What the hell did that scum have going for him...? Why... why her...?
"Please. Beat that bastard so bad he can't sleep tonight."
With Cha Tae-oh's unreal finishing, Miguel figured they could land a satisfying blow on the prick.
This was his one shot at revenge.
Tweet!
The match kicked off.
Personal grudges usually mess up your game, but not for Miguel. He stayed ice-cold, sharper, deadlier.
Tap-tap!
From the left flank, he shredded their defense. No flashy skills—just direction changes that melted them away.
Pass to Cha Tae-oh infiltrating the box...
Thwang!
Splash!
This reliable striker never wasted chances. Even without Miguel's key passes, Tae-oh broke through and scored.
Thwang!
Splash!
By the 10th minute, Tae-oh turned three on-target shots into a hat-trick.
But it didn't feel good.
"You should've stopped him up front! Why let me concede?"
"I tried! That guy's just—"
"This goal's on you, not me. Block properly, and I wouldn't concede."
Ander's shameless blame game.
And then.
"Hey, Miguel."
Tae-oh approached with serious eyes.
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The type I hate most in the world? Blame gamers.
Back in college soccer, at Gimpo United—every team had at least one. Their win? My credit. Loss? Your fault. Seeing those selfish pricks always made me want to crush their fragile egos.
Today was no different.
"Unbelievable."
Honestly, at least one of my three on-target shots was saveable. And the guy didn't even dive for it? Then blames his teammates?
Made me think Miguel's beef with the keeper wasn't just about the girl.
"See how they're pushing the line up?"
Getafe B, down three early, seemed more focused on playing their game than chasing the win. Aggressive from the start, they pushed even higher after two goals.
Opening space behind. Miguel exploited it with speed and dribbling, creating chances galore.
"They'll hog possession to run out the clock. We'll spend more time defending."
Miguel listened quietly.
"On the counter, pass to me and sprint up the line."
"Not carrying it yourself?"
"Nah, I'll handle that. If I go left, cut central. If I go central, you overlap left. I'll ping it into space ahead of you."
"So... finish it?"
Miguel sounded doubtful. He knew his shooting and finishing weren't great.
"Miguel, knock and the door shall open."
"Hm..."
"And don't you wanna stick it to that guy? Score a beauty yourself."
Miguel nodded slowly.
Truth was, this wasn't just about his grudge. The guy needed goal confidence. For next season, when I hit the pros, we'd be a perfect duo.
Tweet!
Play resumed.
Jordi Calavera was strict on defense but gave attackers freedom. Creativity breaks walls.
Five minutes in.
Our midfielder intercepted and fed Miguel, who one-touched to me and bombed forward.
Two defenders latched on.
I nudged the first touch forward, shrugged off their rough stuff, and drove on.
They hacked from behind, yellow-card desperate...
Tap!
I sidestepped instinctively, kept momentum, surged ahead.
Two defenders, two attackers.
The fullback tracking Miguel kept glancing back. I dragged central to left, messing his head.
Miguel cut inside; fullback shoved marking to the center-back and stuck to me.
Tap!
I wheeled central. Fullback hounded. Center-back hesitated, sensing my move, pausing on Miguel.
That split second.
Whip!
Lofted pass into space ahead of Miguel, just off the center-back.
The defender lunged, but too late—foot speed beat him.
Not perfect, though. Keeper rushed out on my pass.
Tiny angle. One-on-one...
Tap-tap!
Miguel's magic. Shot feint into la croqueta, nutmegging the keeper.
Hands flailed too late.
Open goal.
Just roll it in for the tap-in...
"...Huh?"
Miguel didn't shoot. He charged into the box, right to the line...
Thwang!
Then unleashed hell, ripping the net like venting every ounce of rage.
Splash!
The keeper stared blankly from behind.
...Me too, beside him.
No celebration. Miguel trudged over—not to me, but the keeper struggling up beside me.
He leaned in low.
"This goal's on you, Ander. You fucking bastard."