The 18-19 Season (5)

"Hmm. In that case, I think we're better off rotating for the Sevilla match. We're three points clear of Real Madrid as it stands. Even if we drop that one, we'll have a chance to make it up in the next game against them."

"The problem is that it's away. If the Champions League tie were at home, this would be a little easier."

"Lyon aren't that strong a side, but a Champions League away night is something you always have to treat with respect."

Inside FC Barcelona's meeting room, with the Champions League Round of 16 against Olympique Lyon just ahead, the conversation had been circling the same problem for some time. The fixture list itself — Champions League, league, cup, league — was already a grind. The opponents made it worse. Lyon, Sevilla, Real Madrid: none of them were sides you could sleepwalk against, which meant managing the squad's legs had become the only conversation that mattered.

"That said, the real problem is the two-game stretch against Real Madrid."

"There's a four-day rest in between, so I think we just go as we are for both of those. We'll have to see how the players look when we get there, of course."

"The more important of the two is still the league match against them, though, isn't it?"

"It is. Lose that one and the title race starts looking uncertain. If I had my way, I'd have Ha-neul play all four."

Of every competition still in front of them, the league was the one they were most likely to win — not the Champions League, with all its chaos and variables, and not the Copa del Rey, where they already trailed 2–1 from the first leg. But a manager holding the tiller of a club as enormous as Barcelona was expected to hunt every trophy, every time. And the highest-percentage way to do that was to play Ryu Ha-neul in all four matches.

Angela the coach might have done it. Angela the human being could not. Ha-neul had just come back from an Asian Cup so congested that calling it overwork would have been putting it kindly, and the thought of him running three- and four-day intervals through four straight matches — and the thought of him going down injured because of it — was something she refused to watch happen.

In the end, Angela's choice was to watch the matches as they came and give Ha-neul rest where she could. And it wasn't only the choice of Angela the person. Protecting a player destined to become the best in the world from injury was, quite simply, what was best for Barcelona's future.

"Then for Ha-neul's rest…"

"Sevilla. That's the one."

"Understood."

At least the Real Madrid double-header has four days between games. If it didn't, Ha-neul would have been sitting out two of them.

With Angela's decision, the fixture problem settled into something like a plan. All that remained was to survive the stretch everyone had already started calling the hellish four.

Barcelona had fastened the first button of the hellish four perfectly, and they came home to Spain with the job done. What remained was the trip to Sevilla, and then the two-game war with Real Madrid.

Angela had given her first-team regulars the night off against Sevilla, banking their legs for the two matches still to come. But Sevilla were no one's idea of a free hit — the most decorated side in the UEFA Europa League, and a club that spent every season hunting a Champions League place.

Sevilla were not so weak that a heavily rotated Barcelona could walk into their ground and take the points. Even so, the defeat did nothing to break the squad. The players had looked at the calendar the same way the staff had; a loss in Sevilla was something they had already made their peace with. And there were far more of them thinking about revenge for the first-leg defeat to Real Madrid than there were hanging their heads over a result earned with the second string.

And so the two-game stretch that had given the hellish four its name — the Real Madrid double-header — began.

Clang.

Marisol's shot smashed against the post and spun out past the goal line.

Tch. Just like I saw in the warm-up — she looks sharp.

Before kickoff, during the warm-up, the first thing I had checked was Marisol's condition. My eyes hadn't been wrong. The way she struck the ball, the movement so smooth it looked like water finding its level — she was at her absolute peak.

Damn. I wish she were still the Marisol from the first half of the season. I had a bad feeling about her ever since we went at it in the national team matches, and yeah — this isn't going to be easy.

Marisol had been struggling through the opening months of the campaign, but something in her had shifted. From the second half of the season onward she had become Marisol again, and she had already hammered in thirteen league goals, sitting just behind my fourteen and occupying fifth in the scoring charts. I had done it in sixteen appearances; she had needed twenty-three. Still.

Her condition looked excellent tonight, and she had scored twice in the first leg. I was going to have to be careful.

Keep it clean today. No unnecessary risks.

If we worked the ball forward sloppily and failed to finish the chance, it would create exactly the kind of shooting opportunity Marisol had just nearly buried. I decided I would wait for the ones I was sure of.

"Ha-neul!"

Yelena rolled the ball into my feet. The player stepping onto me was Clemence — the same Clemence I had seen more than enough of in the last El Clasico. She was a genuine nuisance, and she had the Ballon d'Or on her mantel now besides, so I shelved any thought of taking her on and dropped the ball back, content to wait.

A few minutes passed like that. We had most of the ball, Real Madrid punctuating our spells with the occasional razor of a counter, and then, finally, a gap opened. Marisol had been driving a break forward when Tiana's tackle snapped the ball off her, and Real Madrid's players hadn't yet recovered their shape.

"Ha-neul!"

Camila took it straight off Tiana and laid a fast, low ball into my path. Clemence had pushed up for the counter and was a long way from me now. I knew that if I hesitated she would be back in a heartbeat, so I ran.

Two Real Madrid center-backs in front of me: Josephin and Gabriela. Go toward Josephin and that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sly piece of work would foul me without a second thought, so I drove at Gabriela instead, while Albaria, arriving from behind, dragged Josephin's eyes with her.

One-v-one. Just Gabriela left.

I didn't ease off the sprint. I snapped my upper body left and sold the feint — but she didn't bite, staying planted right across my path.

Fine—!

I kept going left. And when the distance closed to the point she could no longer just stand there, her foot finally came stabbing out.

At that range, I still had room to move the ball one more time.

A touch.

I dragged it off my left foot onto my right, slipping it past her outstretched leg. Then again — right back to the left. I had trusted that a defender good enough to start for Real Madrid would react at least once, and she repaid that faith perfectly, her balance collapsing underneath her.

"Ghk—!"

I burst through Gabriela into the space beyond. Now it was just me and the keeper.

Yasmin had the near post fully sealed, waiting. I planted and swung through with everything I had — and the instant she flinched, I let the ball-less foot whip past and rolled a heel pass in behind me.

Bang.

That sweet, clean sound.

I knew it. I believed you'd be there!

Albaria had arrived a step ahead of Josephin.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Camp Nou shook with the roar.

One goal. That was one.

That makes it 2–2 on aggregate. Hold this, and we go through on away goals.

And so the first match of the Real Madrid double-header, opened by Albaria's strike, began to tilt in a direction that suited us rather well.