The Man Everyone is Watching (3)

Nico Salaberria's goal... honestly, I couldn't help but feel a little surprised inside.

Up until last season, Nico had been positioned on the right wing. His crossing was excellent, but he'd been more efficient as an inverted winger, using his strong left foot to score goals. But this season, with me taking on the full finisher role, Coach Jordi Calavera had started deploying him as a natural right winger from preseason onward. All to set up cutback passes for me to finish.

Miguel Amaro had shifted from left winger in the B team last season to the right for the same reason. And both of them... their shooting with their weak foot was noticeably poor. Well, Miguel Amaro's strong-foot shooting wasn't exactly great either.

So when I threaded that key pass, I figured Nico wouldn't be able to finish with his right. But Nico stayed cool and slotted it home with a calm right-footed shot, gifting me my second assist of the season.

Unlike Miguel Amaro, he was the quiet, reserved type... but,

"Uwaaaaaah! Vamos! VAMOOOOOOOS!!!"

High on the taste of goal, the guy's eyes were half-rolled back in ecstasy.

"Nico! Nico! Nico!"

As the supporters chanted his name, Nico grabbed the crest on his jersey, yanked it to his mouth, and planted a flurry of passionate kisses on it. I ruffled his hair with a grin, and only then did he calm down a bit, pulling me into a fierce hug.

When teammates score like this, it's actually more helpful for me. If I hog all the goals, the opposition will zero in on me with extra pressure and marking. Sure, I can break through anyway... but coming up from the fourth division to La Liga 2, one thing I've realized is that I can't dominate solo for a full 90 minutes like I did back then.

Take that doofus Alex Roberto standing there, for instance. Purely in terms of defending, he's a cut above Rayo Vallecano's center-backs. If he'd had pace or better ball control, we probably wouldn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be facing him in La Liga 2. Wonder where all that cocky confidence from earlier went.

Anyway.

Peep!

The game restarted. Down by two, Elche CF came out more aggressively. Obviously, a one-goal deficit feels different from two. Three is even worse.

I wanted to seize control definitively before halftime. To let my teammates play the coach's style with real confidence, we'd need at least a three-goal lead—no fear of mistakes that way.

Thwack!

Elche's players started threading bolder passes into our penalty area. Sometimes teams do this: concede but refuse to lose momentum, pushing harder to take control.

Their defenders were glued to me, but their attackers seemed confident they could break our backline for a comeback. The pressure to score quick, though, made their key passes in our final third sloppy.

Turnovers followed, and we rebuilt patiently from the back. They pressed to disrupt, win the ball high, and transition fast—a smart move, since stealing possession near their final third is prime chance territory.

But that requires their backline to push up too. So even if the high press fails, they can drop and press again, slowing our build-up. Elche's defenders, however, hung back, widening the gap to midfield and focusing purely on counter threats.

When their attacks stalled and the ball went back, their back four just hoofed long balls forward. Poor quality, too.

Thud!

Around the 34th minute, another Elche attack fizzled, the ball came to us, and their failed press forced their line to drop deep. We circulated calmly, building slowly. No rush—they were the desperate ones.

"Theo!"

Thwack!

David Fraile's pass flew to my chest. I cushioned it neatly to my feet as two Elche players rushed me. Alex Roberto had crept into the box. Wary of exposing space after Nico's goal on the cutback, he stuck to covering behind rather than advancing.

But he knew giving me room meant a long-range rocket, so others closed instead. Their plan to deny me a shot worked—I couldn't get clean looks.

Thud-thud!

Even when I escaped pressure, they hounded me relentlessly. But that created space elsewhere for teammates.

Thwack!

I dropped deep, pinging passes, drawing markers and forcing them to chase. Like training a mutt. It drained their stamina, cracking their focus.

Thwack!

One defender loitering near ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me zoned out—Maurinho spotted it and passed. I took it first touch, turned, and sliced through.

Then Alex Roberto lumbered in like the Colossus. No choice for him. But aware of wingers exploiting the space he'd vacate, he didn't commit fully.

Nico stretched wide; Miguel cut inside. Easy choice: block my shot or cover space. A smart center-back picks quick. Alex hesitated like an idiot.

Standing firm is simple—just block the incoming forward. But dilemmas like this? Tough.

And here...

Thud!

I didn't go straight—I shifted to the right space Miguel's run created. That's why I'd sent the wingers central: to cut in from the flanks.

Finally realizing no long shot, Alex backpedaled into fresh trouble: mark Miguel ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠or follow me right?

Zone defense said mark Miguel. But figuring I'd finish anyway if I entered the box, he trailed me. Confident after stopping my early dribble with power and a tackle.

Problem: his move tangled lines with his teammate. If he'd stuck tight, the other defender shifts central. But retreating? Teammate assumes he's got Miguel.

"Damn."

A faint curse brushed my ear. Whatever.

Thud!

I accelerated along the right box line. Alex bumped shoulders—half-hearted, wary of fouling. Figured his strength would shove me off easy.

Big mistake.

"...!"

Tough head-on, but side-to-side? No chance. He panicked as I held firm and drove on. Desperate, he lunged a long leg—steal or foul for a corner.

Right then.

Thud!

I slammed brakes, pulled the ball, and pivoted. Low center of gravity saved me. Alex, tall and top-heavy, stumbled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wildly. His tackle foot sliced empty air.

Unable to recover, he sprawled flat. His marker gone, now the guy on Miguel faced the dilemma: me or him?

Obvious choice—I was deadlier. He charged.

Miguel had a split-second of freedom. Backup coming, but plenty for a one-touch shot.

Tok!

Smoothly, I threaded between the onrusher's legs to Miguel. He smashed the rolling ball first-time with his right infront.

Weak shooter or not...

Clang!

Miguel Amaro wasn't missing that sitter.

Shaking net, dejected foes, Elche fans shaking heads—all in view.

My gaze shifted.

"Uwaaaaaah! Vamos! VAMOOOOOOOS!!!"

To Miguel, roaring madly as he sprinted to the supporters. Hmm. Déjà vu from earlier.