#38 The Unstoppable Guys (7)
“Come on in. I’ve been waiting for you. Theo, and Miguel. I didn’t get the names wrong, did I?”
The first person we met was Dario Terraz, the current interim coach. Around 180cm tall with a lean build, he had kind eyes paired with a sharp gaze. There was a sense of softness mixed with keen edge to him—that was my first impression of Dario Terraz.
“I’ve heard all about your exploits. Segunda Federacion isn’t exactly low-level, and you guys were incredible.”
Dario Terraz smiled at me and continued.
“They say you climbed to the top of the scoring charts in just seven games? I couldn’t believe my ears at first. Ha ha. So, how many goals have you scored in total so far?”
“Forty-six goals.”
“...In how many games?”
“Nine games.”
Dario Terraz’s eyes went blank as his mouth dropped open. Yeah, even saying it myself, it sounded absurd.
“No wonder the chairman mentioned you...”
He muttered under his breath, then snapped back to attention and turned to Miguel Amaro.
“I’ve heard about you too. They say your dribbling is top-notch. You’ve been setting up Theo a lot, right?”
“It’s all thanks to Theo. This guy reads my mind, seriously.”
“...Huh?”
“He always knows exactly where I’m moving and positions himself perfectly to receive the pass. Every time. Without fail. And when he does, it’s a goal.”
Dario Terraz seemed to catch on that we weren’t your average players. Honestly, even I was amazed by it myself. I didn’t have to overthink it—my body just naturally moved to the spot where I could best receive the pass and create a scoring chance. Like I’d known the answer all along.
“Anyway, I have high expectations for both of you. The club’s watching you closely too. It’s a shame I won’t get to coach you personally and prepare for games together.”
There was still no word on a permanent head coach appointment. If Dario Terraz got the job full-time, we might play under him next season. But the odds? I had no idea. Tiago thought they were low. Pulling off great results as interim and building real hype for the next season was a tall order.
“I think that’s enough intro. Rubén Soriano will show you the rest.”
Right on cue, someone approached from behind.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Rubén Soriano, the captain of this team.”
Rubén Soriano looked like a Viking warrior straight out of a foreign drama—build, beard covering his jaw, and all. His deep voice practically screamed, I’m the real deal, a true man!
“You two have been a hot topic among the players. Everyone’s dying to see you. Me included, ha ha!”
Rubén Soriano let out a hearty laugh and flashed a warm, friendly smile. He looked like a total macho gym rat on the surface, but that smile made him seem like the cozy neighborhood uncle. It didn’t feel out of place at all.
“Follow me. I’ll introduce you to the teammates.”
Rubén Soriano led us around, introducing the AD Alcorcón players one by one. Thanks to Tiago’s briefing, nothing felt unfamiliar to me. He’d kindly used his spare time to fill me in on who the starters were, who the key guys were. He even promised to edit highlight reels of the core players before next season to help me settle in. I was grateful for a teammate like that.
“Here’s Theo, and this is Miguel.”
The AD Alcorcón players’ reactions fell into two camps.
“Whoa! You’re Theo! Great to meet you!”
“Forty-six goals in nine games? Man, we need you on the first team right now!”
“All the fans talk about is you. I was tempted to swing by the B-team training ground just to say hi, but I held back. Knew you’d be up soon.”
“Ha ha! Let’s do this together!”
Some welcomed us with open arms like that. Others were more reserved...
“Hey.”
“Welcome.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Roughly fifty-fifty split. Not all, but most of the Castilian locals—central Spain, Madrid area—were the cooler type. Not stiff, just naturally calm, serious, and composed. I didn’t get the vibe we’d be instant buddies. I preferred lively, upbeat personalities over the stern, no-nonsense ones.
...Even if they had a quirky side like Miguel Amaro.
“That covers everyone. If you’ve got questions or need anything, hit me up—no pressure.”
After greetings with the coaches, physios, and staff, the intros wrapped up. No hazing ritual or anything. Come to think of it, back at Gimpo United, we only did that during winter camp or on the first day—never for mid-season call-ups.
“...I prepared so hard though. Tch.”
Miguel Amaro looked genuinely disappointed. Guy secretly loved the spotlight. Total attention whore.
Before training kicked off, Dario Terraz gathered the players for a team meeting. Once everyone was in the clubhouse video room, a staffer dimmed the lights and fired up the screen. It showed AD Alcorcón’s last match.
Dario Terraz praised the defensive work but lightly noted positioning issues. On attack, though, he ripped into them with critiques, urging the players on. The AD Alcorcón guys hung on every word. So did I.
I kept my ears open, thinking about what the team did well, what needed fixing, and how I’d fit in. Couldn’t play yet, but knowledge was power. A new coach next season might overhaul tactics, but with the squad size, a total roster purge was unlikely.
After the match review, Dario Terraz stepped down, and the analyst took over. He broke down Córdoba CF’s main tactics and recent games, pointing out exploitable weaknesses.
Once he finished, Dario Terraz grabbed the mic again.
“We have to beat Córdoba. No draws allowed in this one—not by me, and not by the fans if we choke another.”
He emphasized “allowed” with a fierce glare. Fair enough. Córdoba CF sat 21st, one spot above dead last, practically relegated. Failing to beat a team like that amid their 2-draw-4-loss skid? The fans wouldn’t stand for it. Hell, the diehards had already ditched A-team support for B-team away games.
“Alright, let’s move out.”
Post-meeting, the players warmed up in the fitness center before heading to the pitch. Today’s session had three phases: light warm-up, passing drills, and 6v6 mini-games. First training before Córdoba, so intensity stayed moderate.
The passing game involved the whole A-team squad, half in vests, split into teams for constant pass-and-move. Level was clearly above B-team—receiving stance, basics, quick decisions, physicality. You could feel why these were La Liga 2 pros. Even compared to Gimpo United, their pass work was a cut above.
I slotted in seamlessly. Miguel Amaro stumbled at first but adapted quick.
“Whoa, nice movement!”
“Yeah, Theo was already a pro in Korea.”
“For real? Not Spanish youth?”
“Nope. And his Spanish is flawless—crazy, right?”
“Totally. Thought he’d grown up here.”
“Ah, that explains it!”
The lively teammates praised my flawless pass-and-move. Maybe because of my B-team dominance, but all eyes were on me over Miguel. He didn’t mind. He was hyped for the mini-games.
“Mini-games are six per side. You’ve done it in B-team, so you know. Four teams total, ten minutes each. You two stick together—good chemistry.”
Miguel Amaro grinned. He sidled up, poking my side.
“Time to show ’em how unstoppable we are, Theo.”
“Don’t forget—same as always, right?”
Miguel nodded eagerly, eyes gleaming.
“Same as always. Got it.”
The 6v6 mini-games began. Starters played first. Solid overall, especially defensive focus. But...
“Finishing’s off.”
“Feels like watching me shoot.”
“Yeah, that’s straight-up criminal.”
“...What?”
“Nothing.”
Their finishing sucked. Not half-assed, but even with short distances, chances went begging. Narrow space made shooting tough, sure, but this was dire. Keepers weren’t even that good.
Beep—!
No total shutout, but no highlight-reel goals either.
“Our turn now. Heh heh.”
Next up, we donned yellow vests. 6v6 meant attack and defense together. Futsal-tight space meant rapid transitions, heavy pressure, physical battles. “Train like you play”—no slacking in mini-games.
Miguel struggled early, feeling the level jump. But me?
Thud—!
I slipped the ball between a pressing defender’s legs, shouldered him off, shrugged another with a Marseille turn, and created a one-on-one. Tight angle on the keeper, but no chance I’d miss.
Wham—!
Splash—!
Low, fast, powerful right-foot rocket to the far post bottom corner. Goal inside a minute. Solo breakthrough and finish drew cheers and whistles from the sidelines.
And that was...
Wham—!
Splash—!
...Just the beginning.
I charged the goal on receipt, no hesitation. If I could beat the defense, I did—boldly. Good teammate space? Pass it over, no greed. And sometimes...
Boom—!
Splash—!
...A keeper couldn’t-even-dive cannon to the top corner.
Teammates went from surprised to awestruck, just watching my show. Five minutes flat to turn shock to awe. In that time, I orchestrated a one-sided yellow-vest massacre.
Without Miguel’s help...
Wham—!
Splash—!
“......!”
“......!!”
“......!!!”
All me. Solo.