Copa del Rey Final (Part 3)
“Kueup…!”
The shock of hitting the ground came at the same time as a sharp beep! from the referee’s whistle.
“Argh… damn it…”
Not even thirty minutes had passed, and I already had five fouls directed at me alone. I didn’t mind using fouls to draw cards, but when this much persistent fouling kept happening, curses refused to stay in my throat.
“Savina! One more foul like that and it’ll be a straight red card.”
The referee glanced at me rolling around on the ground and simply opened his mouth without producing the card. If a card had appeared, I could have stood up laughing, but today’s referee—someone who got yelled at by fans in the league for supposedly coming from England—had his hand buried in his pocket, which only made my irritation spike higher.
It was a perfect ensemble: Savina’s gentle image meeting the most lenient referee in La Liga.
“Ha-neul has rolled around how many times now without a card? Are you serious?!”
“Hey, are you the referee?”
Ignoring Alvaria’s furious protest, the referee’s eyes kept wavering, clearly debating whether to pull the card. So after dusting the grass off myself, I stood up, grabbed Alvaria’s wrist, and said,
“Huu… It’s fine. Let’s focus on the game.”
“Ha… these bastards… where did they dig up money from?”
Alvaria muttered the words in a small voice that the referee couldn’t hear. Normally I would have dismissed it as whining, but this time the thought didn’t sit right with me.
That was because the situation was strange.
Right now Barcelona in the Copa del Rey were a team chasing six straight titles after five years. The Spanish Football Federation had no love for a single team dominating like this.
If we won again this year, the Copa del Rey would become even more firmly branded as Barcelona’s playground, and the longer one team kept winning, the more the tournament’s prestige and fans’ interest would inevitably decline.
Probably the federation had assigned the most lenient referee in La Liga for this very reason.
They hadn’t actually received any money, but the whole sequence of events reeked. A very pungent, rotten stench.
And our team had gone into the match without properly analyzing the fact that Real Sociedad was relatively weak and that the Copa del Rey was essentially our home ground.
Angelus had warned us before the game not to get complacent, but we had been far too relaxed during preparation to notice even that basic fact.
Tsk, I should have noticed when I saw the referee’s name…
Lately I had been too busy with personal matters to pay attention, and here we were again with the same result.
“Still, it looks like he’s about to pull the card. Try a little harder.”
“…Ha. Yeah, if he doesn’t pull it, it’s gonna look like a riot is about to break out.”
As Alvaria said, the atmosphere inside the stadium was right on the edge of exploding. Especially in the section where our fans were gathered.
If the opponent didn’t pull a card the next time they fouled, it wouldn’t be strange if someone invaded the pitch. Combined with the referee’s wavering gaze, holding on just a little longer would likely hand the flow back to us.
Still, good thing Tina isn’t here today.
I glanced sideways at Valentina, who was glaring murderously at Savina—the player who had fouled me relentlessly all game while sitting on the bench. Thankfully there was no one in the stadium as worked up as Valentina.
Anyway, once the situation had settled, Camila approached to take the free kick. I had already been fouled five times, but the previous ones had been far away, so Yelena had taken them. Now the distance was close enough that Camila’s free kick would count, making her the kicker.
“Cam, please.”
“Huu… okay.”
Camila’s face was hard as she set herself up firmly and stared at the goalpost, clearly furious about the continuous fouls.
“Stay calm. I’m fine.”
“Haa… got it.”
I patted Camila’s shoulder, and she took several deep breaths to calm herself.
“…But are you really okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s Savina.”
Camila’s gaze shifted to Savina, and she nodded as if convinced.
Actually, she had taken five fouls, but as the rumored gentleman—gentlewoman, in this case—Savina hadn’t done anything that threatened a player’s life, like elbowing or pinching teammates the way other players did. She had simply pushed when trying to receive the ball, rolling opponents over and completely cutting off the attack’s momentum.
Of course, a referee with average La Liga strictness would have given a card for blocking the counterattack, but today we couldn’t expect that level of punishment.
Still, the stack is pretty high.
What remained was to hold on as long as possible and, when the moment was right for a card, to fall hard and disrupt their flow while regaining ours.
Beep!
The whistle blew and Camila’s free kick flew toward the corner of the goalpost.
Bang!
But the shot that had been aimed perfectly at the corner lacked enough power and was saved by the opponent’s goalkeeper.
Still, it crossed the goal line, giving us a corner kick.
“Argh… If I could just hit it harder. Sorry, Ha-neul. I have to score so these bastards can’t keep fouling.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry and go take the corner kick.”
Camila walked away looking disappointed, apologizing for the shot. After patting her regretting backside, I found my position and set up. Unlike my debut, where I had scored goals with my volley shots in similar situations, Savina—a proper marker—was now marking me.
Since aerial balls weren’t her strong suit, she had been assigned to me in the corner kick situation as well.
“Auntie, be gentle. You’ll get injured.”
“…Sorry.”
When Camila signaled, I spoke to Savina for the first time in today’s match, trying to disrupt her concentration. As expected from the rumored gentleman, she looked surprised by the apology, but I didn’t continue talking.
Camila’s corner kick was coming.
“Hah!”
Savina, who had missed the ball’s position by turning to look at me, used the moment to check the trajectory and sprinted to the designated spot. Savina quickly noticed I was gone and chased after me, but unfortunately the direction Camila’s ball was traveling wasn’t toward me.
Still, Savina quickly turned her head to check the ball’s direction and let out a sigh of relief. The ball then hit Yelena’s head and changed course—not toward the goal, but toward my side behind her.
“Damn…!”
Noticing the fact, Savina reached out toward my jersey, but I was already inside the penalty box.
With Savina’s hesitant hand still behind me, I received the ball with my chest.
I wanted to shoot immediately, but with our and the opponent’s players clustered in front and accuracy not high enough for a header, it was an unavoidable choice. In that brief moment Savina tried to body-check me, but since the ball I had dropped was a little away from her, we didn’t collide.
But complacency was still forbidden.
Another Real Sociedad player stretched his foot toward the ball I had dropped. Before his foot could reach it, I controlled the ball with my sole and pulled it toward me. When the guy stretched his leg, space opened between them. I flicked the ball slightly that way, then slipped through the gap between the players.
Someone came sprinting to block me, but Lauren stepped in from the side to properly cut off the guy’s path, making it easy to slip through.
Now all that remained was the fullback standing to guard one corner of the goalpost.
The guy came sprinting straight at me. But swaying his upper body, he struck once with his left foot and once with his right. While the ball’s position changed rapidly, the impatient guy stretched out his foot. Cutting such a player in front of me was easier than eating.
“Block…!”
A desperate shout came from somewhere, but it was already too late. In front of me was nothing but the goalpost. No, there was one goalkeeper who had jumped and was now returning to it.
But failing to score in an empty goalpost was something only idiots did.
And I was not an idiot.
Tap.
With a light step the net shook,
-Waaaaaaaah!!!!!!
The Barcelona fans who had been holding back while watching the falling players erupted into an enthusiastic roar.
I enjoyed the cheer and sprinted toward the empty corner flag to jump, but suddenly someone grabbed my jersey from behind. I fell onto the grass and the heavy body landed on top of me.
“Haa, haa…”
The protagonist breathing heavily on top of me was Camila.
“Why are you breathing so roughly?”
“Haa… I ran full speed to grab you.”
“…From next time you should run faster.”
I laughed lightly at Camila’s words and patted her head. Players began piling on Camila like a hamburger. Since Camila, my friend, was covering me, they had piled on without any burden.
“Wait! Wait! It’s heavy! It’s heavy!”
Even while shouting that it was heavy, I felt Camila’s thigh pressing against my lower body. And the smell of sweat coming from Camila’s nose. Unlike other women’s sweat, it felt strangely fragrant, making me wonder if I had truly gone crazy.
“Congratulations on the first goal, Ha-neul.”
“Move your thigh.”
“Hehe.”
Even in the situation where other teammates were trampling over us, we whispered in each other’s ears in small voices. A few seconds later the players began standing one by one.
And Camila, who had stood up, reached out to me.
“…Cam. You weren’t running to pat me, right?”
“Ah, no.”
“I’ve said it many times, but when playing soccer, focus only on soccer?”
“Ah, really not.”
After scolding Camila, who seemed to have impure intentions, with one sharp word, I grabbed her hand and stood up.
“…Shall I dust the grass?”
“No need. What are you touching?”
“This time it’s really not…”
“This time?”
“M, I spoke nonsense.”
Anyway, even if not cute, it was a good smack.
After all, after chatting with Camila we returned to our side and set up positions, and the game resumed.
It had been the first goal in a difficult situation, so until then I had been confident we would win easily. Suppressing the opponent in such situations was our specialty.
But.
Beep!
The whistle blew and,
“Expulsion!”
The referee, who had been expecting the next card, held up the red card and shouted,
“No! It’s only one!”
“It’s a double-footed tackle! Expulsion, Yelena!”
To Yelena, our team’s core midfielder, not the opponent’s.
Damn…
Yelena, who had endured the opponent’s elbow attack and rough tackle, had been swept up in the excitement of the first goal and slammed a double-footed tackle into the opponent player.
It was a clearly rough foul that no one could deny.
“No, up until now you didn’t catch it, but from now on? You, by any chance…!”
“Alvaria! Stop! Stop! You’ll get another one!”
Alvaria, the captain, protested furiously, but since expulsion was already decided, it couldn’t be reversed.
I turned my head from Alvaria’s stiff appearance and checked the time.
Now forty minutes into the first half. Including injury time, roughly fifty-five to sixty minutes.
…It’s twisted, damn.
Less than ten minutes after scoring the first goal, we found ourselves in a disadvantageous 10:11 situation.