Chapter 10
Chapter 10
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Canary Prince (2)
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I slip the ball through narrow gaps, only to get whacked on the back and the nape by the savages in yellow uniforms.
A quick glance at the bench shows chaos as they prepare the next tactical instructions, shouting for Itami.
The assistant coach ordered us to play defensively until the 70th minute, but by the 64th of the second half—Castro, Srnić, and me—we'd equalized without the midfielders even joining the attack.
On top of that, Fuenlabrada had a man sent off, making it an 11-on-10 battle.
Las Palmas players stop pounding my head and trudge back to the halfway line, while Castro approaches with a soft voice, praising me.
"You do great every time you get the ball. At this rate, you'll steal my spot soon."
"There's Pekhart, though."
"...Right. Guess I need to work harder. Haha."
Castro seemed to snap to attention at my words. Yeah, Pekhart was the biggest obstacle to snagging a starting spot. He'd already bagged four goals!
"Let's score more quick."
"Yeah. I'll feed you the ball. Looks like Lyos is raising his voice—they're gonna push the line up, so plenty of chances coming."
"Yeah. Defense is easy. I'm feeling good today, so give me more ball."
"The defense is easy?"
The thirty-seven-year-old uncle's eyes go wide. Did calling it easy come off as cocky?
"I'm in good shape, but anyway, their defense is easy to break."
"Right... Haha, that's good."
"It's a weak team."
"Hahaha, Fuenlabrada's in fourth place. Not a weak team."
Fourth place?
"Still below us."
"Yeah, true. They're below us."
Against the huddled Fuenlabrada, Las Palmas pushed the line high. Even the center-backs advanced near the halfway line, and the game flowed one-sidedly in our favor.
The weird part was, once we started our onslaught, Las Palmas players were the ones losing their cool.
Viera's pass catches on the foot of their fullback Antonio. Third time already. Fuenlabrada was holding firm, sure, but overall, our passes and combinations just weren't clicking.
"Kim! Move central!"
From the bench, assistant coach Lyos's command rang out. By full time, his voice would be shot—he'd been bellowing nonstop.
Five minutes past the 70th, De la Bella's cross from the flank hits Castro's head and flies left of the post, but the keeper leaps and makes a spectacular save.
Damn, he stopped that one. The stadium fills with groans of disappointment.
Castro claps for De la Bella, then turns, locks eyes with me, and signals. He'd clear the central space for me on the next attack.
The opponent's keeper's goal kick rolls to Fuenlabrada's right fullback. No need for them to push forward recklessly, so their defenders and mids link up, circulating the ball.
"Press!"
"Castro! Right side!"
Having conserved energy, our forwards join the mids for intense high press, but the ball glances off Castro's toe and returns to their midfielder.
So close.
The No. 27 who regains possession shakes the press and lofts it to Fraile Hugo—the only one past the halfway line.
In the space narrowed by De la Bella and Kirian Rodriguez's cooperative defending, Fraile Hugo shifts the ball foot to foot and neutralizes the defense in just two touches.
De la Bella turns to chase, but the opponent has already built speed, pulling away.
Anxious, I drop below the halfway line to help defend, but the assistant coach's sharp call has me just prepping to swap with Castro.
"Roddy! Roddy!! Mark Martinez, No. 9! Eyes on 9!"
Itami misdirects the backline, leaving Fraile an angle for a shot.
Just outside the penalty box, Fraile shakes Itami, drifts central, and fires—deflected off Remos and rolls out for a corner. The ref's whistle blows, pointing inside the box.
Shit. Fraile Hugo's shot hit Remos's arm.
The ball grazed the tip of his arm without his hands even near his body. Obvious handball from afar. Even protesting Itami knows it won't get overturned.
Can Martinez save Las Palmas again this time?
"Eyee-! The keeper's busy as hell~"
"It's okay, we can still win."
Players console Remos, who's hanging his head in self-reproach. Score's 2-3. Fuenlabrada pulls ahead by one again.
The positive? It's not even 80 minutes yet.
Castro's pass goes to Itami, who links with De la Bella and Remos, pushes the line up, then feeds nearby Kirian Rodriguez.
I'm weaving through Fuenlabrada's packed red jerseys in the center, while Castro shifts to the right flank but stays inside the penalty area.
High-riding right wingback Alvaro takes a long switch from Kirian Rodriguez.
"Alvaro!"
Spotting Castro and Srnić raising hands, Alvaro whips a diagonal cross into the penalty box.
Thwack—the ball hangs in the air, arcing toward Castro. But it's a bit high. Left alone, it'll sail over him to their keeper.
No time to think—my body reacts first.
I feint central and left to shake my marker, then spin right into the gap between Castro and the keeper.
The curving ball into the box clears Castro and Fuenlabrada's defender untouched.
It drops into view—high, so I cushion it with my thigh.
Fuenlabrada's clustered bodies block their sightlines and slow reactions, leaving me one-on-one with the keeper in a tight spot. Missing this would keep me up all night.
I side-foot it with my right—through the charging keeper's legs. Once the ref signals and the linesman flags no offside, I can say it confidently: equalizer.
Losing to a man-down team—ranked below us, no less—would be too unfair!
"Nice!"
"You crazy bastard!"
"Don't hit me! Get off!"
Getting assaulted every goal is a major downside, but nothing beats the high of scoring.
Love the crumpled faces of their players, and Estadio Gran Canaria filling with music and cheers.
"He's loco! This crazy Canary kid! The best!"
"Sing it! Sing!"
"There's a prince in the Canaries~ The prince came from Korea!"
No idea where fans got those weird lyrics, but Las Palmas supporters belted them out gleefully long after the restart.
"Castro, I'm heading right again."
"Yeah. Do your thing. Time for your third."
At 82 minutes, I receive again. Up top on the right flank, four hyenas wait for me to come inside.
Gambling into space blindly would've been dumb. Truth is... I didn't trust myself to slip through unscathed.
As I hesitate, wingback Alvaro bursts past, sprinting into attack signaling for the ball. Too greedy.
I ignore his waving, angry hands and roll it back to Remos.
"What now."
Swapping with Srnić crossed my mind, but the game's too dominant for that.
With the wingback covering wing duties, positioning near the box wouldn't matter much.
Can't drop outside either—their players just hold position, unmoving.
I want to be the patient predator, but time's short. Outside the box, Viera's shot smacks the wall again, ricocheting wide.
I take De la Bella's drawn pass, dribble around the penalty area vicinity. Looking for any gap to stab at.
Castro's battling hard, but his touches are clunky—tough for tight links.
Srnić's panting like a broken engine, same for attacking mid Viera.
"Move more!"
"Kim!"
The shouts demanding passes grate. Assistant coach Lyos drilled attacks after 70, but...
Up to then, it was me and Castro doing it all—now no one's creating space in duels when it counts.
"Ah, fuck."
Rare Korean curse. The line of hyenas stretches, waiting. Guess post-comeback bruises were fate.
Muttering, I pick one of the two mids lined dead center like a drawn line. Better the No. 8 who's been on longer than the sub.
I build speed straight at No. 8's front. Slipping between ambiguously doubles the pain.
Key: move fast in his reach's awkward range, burst through before help arrives.
"Ugh! Gah."
As I enter dodgy distance, his hand grabs my shoulder jersey. Looks like that to the crowd. Half that grip's my muscle and skin!
Regardless of grip strength, he tugs just enough to avoid a whistle, turning it into a balance battle.
To shake free, I dive inside his body instead. Edging ahead with leg power, his joint limit loosens the jersey hold.
Meanwhile, control ball speed—no sliding tackles.
Medium-soft. Old janggu lessons pay off sometimes. Mix feints with thigh and shoulder clashes for direction changes.
Got it.
Tension drains from No. 8's right thigh—he reacted left to my shoulder fake. Braking hard right, he topples on his own.
Marker shed, their defensive line gets twitchy on my box penetration.
Focus duel. Hesitate, and they'll swarm, steal it. Gestures, eyes—all feints. Use everything.
Point at Castro, eye the space in front of awkwardly placed Srnić left of the line. In that instant, the armband captain center-back bites.
"Flores! Right!"
Yeah, right's open? Not going there.
Feeling good.