Unstoppable Momentum (3)

“What? For real? Niela is coming to our home game to do the kickoff?”

“Hold up. Does that mean she's performing at halftime too?”

“Damn. We won't even get to see it—we'll be prepping for the second half.”

“Shit. What a pain.”

Clearly, Niela was like a national little sister to the Spanish crowd. The day before the media announcement about her visit, when I told Miguel Amaro and Joni Montoya first, they reacted exactly as I'd expected.

“But why Alcorcon? She's not with Real Madrid or Barca or anything...”

“No way...?”

Their eyes turned to me in unison. I calmly shook my head.

“Nothing like that.”

Miguel Amaro and Joni Montoya nodded, like yeah, figured as much.

“Makes sense. No way that picky Niela sees Theo as anything but a friend.”

“Wasn't it just for that music video shoot last time?”

“Yeah. Man... I was so jealous I nearly died.”

Miguel Amaro asked Joni Montoya,

“Niela's still wearing that purity ring, right?”

“Probably.”

I tilted my head slightly as I listened.

“Purity ring?”

Then I quickly racked my brain.

...Yeah, I vaguely remembered her wearing a bunch of rings. I'd just thought they were fashion accessories... but a purity ring?

“That's what she's famous for. They even say the guy who gets her to take it off will be her husband.”

“She's basically a saint.”

“Who do you think it'll be—the man who takes Niela's first?”

“Some hero who earned massive karma in a past life.”

Any doubt in their eyes was completely gone now. I, on the other hand, couldn't quite hide my surprise. I hadn't touched Niela yet, of course. But... honestly, the thought had crossed my mind. Becoming her sex partner, rolling in the sheets together. Any guy with a working dick has fantasized about it at least once. In Spain, Niela was basically a sex symbol.

But a purity ring... and she's my agent's sister. Yeah, better not even think about the 's' in sex partner.

“Anyway, that's not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Huh?”

“What is it?”

I glanced at their outfits and asked casually,

“You both have personal sponsors, right?”

“Yep.”

“Obviously.”

Miguel Amaro grinned.

“Joni and I are the same. Probably most Alcorcon youth grads too.”

“Yeah. Most of us sign with Adidas. It's standard for youth players—nothing fancy, just gear support when you're young. Helps a ton financially.”

“And now that we're pros showing promise, time for some real sponsorship money. Heh.”

Miguel Amaro's eyes sparkled; he always found motivation in our chats. There was a reason I'd brought it up indirectly.

“Speaking of, Theo—you don't have one yet, right?”

I nodded slightly. Pro players usually have deals with sports brands. Some, like Miguel or Joni, just get gear; others get cash too. All for publicity, obviously. Superstars can make as much from endorsements as their salary. Unfortunately, I didn't have one yet. Back in the day, I'd worn whatever cleats. Since signing with Borja Navas, I'd been rocking plain black ones—sending the message loud and clear: no personal sponsor yet.

And at our last meeting, Borja's second pitch was about exactly that. Big-name brands were all interested, planning presentations to win me over. Even as a La Liga 2 player, my national team buzz in Korea and recent form had them seeing me as a rising star, per Borja. But we held off. No rush for cash, and if I transfer to a big club this winter, my value skyrockets. Borja's take—and mine too.

“Everyone's gonna want to sign you.”

“Especially with those looks.”

Borja had said the same. My value wasn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just my feet. I felt grateful to my parents all over again. This face? Purely their genes—and tailored to Western tastes. A debt I'll never fully repay.

“Gonna see you in ads someday?”

“Ugh... you'll still be our friend then, right, Theo?”

It was something I'd only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠imagined—my face on billboards. Sure, I'd gotten modeling offers in college. But as a successful pro, global scale? No comparison.

I chuckled and looked at them.

“Of course. You guys are precious to me. Real friends I made going pro.”

I had teammates at Gimpo United, but... we never clicked. Not personality clashes—just survival mode in precarious spots kept us distant. Miguel and Joni, though? Youth days together, writing history. Felt like true bros. Younger ones, but still.

“Theo?”

Someone called from behind. I turned—Jordi Calavera motioning subtly. He'd heard my intentions via Borja; his face wasn't all smiles. But he'd probably expected it.

“Whatever you choose, I'll respect it. You deserve that—you're exemplary on the team.”

Jordi always gave me carrots, no sticks. He trusted I'd handle it. And I'd repay that trust by running harder.

“Just wanted to say that.”

He grinned.

“As long as you're here, keep doing what you're doing.”

I nodded confidently. To me, that meant hat-tricks every game—or at least that's how I took it. Opponent was Real Valladolid CF, relegated last season, mid-table now. No sweat. Complacency killer, though.

◇ I don't chase goals greedily. That was my ironclad rule—even before the goblin's skills. Strikers exist to score, sure, but if there's a better shot for someone else, pass it. Personal goals matter, but team wins matter more. Maximize win odds by feeding the highest-probability scorer.

...Though post-goblin, I'm usually the surest bet. Still, if a teammate has a clean look, I dish it without hesitation. Confidence lets me—knowing I can score anytime.

First half, after three goals, Real Valladolid CF gave up. They stacked defense, vowing no more concessions—especially not to me. Me pulling aggro up top? Teammates feasted like fish in water. Even Oscar Santos shone freer from pressure.

And with this fluid passing...

Thud!

Late first half, teammates nabbed another. Not my assist—David Fraile's perfect through ball to Nico Salaberria, who backheeled to Enrique for a gorgeous outfront finish.

On the pitch, we felt invincible. Exaggerating a bit, we could hang with La Liga top sides. ...Probably not, but damn close.

Tweet!

Second half flowed the same. We dominated possession, linking passes for chances; they parked the bus. Felt like they were just grinding defense XP off us.

...Maybe not a feeling.

Around 59'...

Thud thud!

Miguel Amaro shredded two defenders on the wing, cutting inside. Best form since Gustavo Horas left—those box snakes from B team finally routine. Physics still iffy, but he played it smart.

Thwack!

Tweet!

Defender muscled him hard as he charged goalward—he went down in the box. Ref pointed penalty, no VAR reversal.

I prepped calmly when Miguel sidled up, hand to mouth, whispering,

“Gotta score every game, Theo. You're the striker who nets at least once.”

Then added,

“Oh, and don't forget—I made this chance. Got it?”

A soft chuckle escaped. The smug kid looked good.