Chapter 14
Chapter 14
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: Estadio de la Romareda (2)
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He closes the distance to the defender while keeping a safe gap and exchanges a 2v1 pass with Vieira.
As he buys time by creating space, Srnić, who’s pushed up as a winger, slices into the space on the right side of the penalty box.
He chips the ball upward, striking the underside.
The spinning ball grazes over Zaragoza’s wingback’s head and drops about three steps ahead.
It’s a touch long, but fortunately, Srnić manages to keep possession.
Vieira crosses paths with me and cuts toward the near post, while I check his movement and loop around to the back of the penalty box.
Before Zaragoza’s wingback can slide in with a tackle, Srnić whips in a half-beat quick cross with spin on it.
It’s aimed at Kirian Rodriguez, who’s following into the box, mindful of the defenders stuck to Vieira and me.
“Joder!”
“It’s okay, good job.”
Zaragoza’s number 14, Guti, grabs at Kirian Rodriguez’s jersey and disrupts his shooting stance at the last second, sending the ball soaring over the bar.
As I head back toward midfield for defense, Vieira approaches and says something.
“Kim, let’s keep it shorter. Passes from the middle, multiple times. Got it?”
“Yeah, sure. Got it.”
Aitami barely clears a cross from Zaragoza’s winger, leading to a counterattack chance.
From our half, De la Bella threads a ground pass to Kirian Rodriguez charging forward.
I approach Kirian Rodriguez as he dribbles up the left flank and immediately attempt a 2v1 pass, shaking off Zaragoza’s number 22 who was occupying the space ahead.
Kirian Rodriguez reaches the edge of the penalty box and hesitates, spotting Vieira struggling to find space between the center backs.
“Pass it!”
I follow into the box and call for it, so Kirian Rodriguez fires it over before Zaragoza’s 22 can close back in.
The ball thuds in with a heavy *whump*—too much power for such a short distance. Can I control it in one touch?
Instinctively, I let it run through my legs.
Considering the pace, I’m sure it wasn’t meant for me.
The player who collects the pass is Las Palmas’ right winger Srnić, who’s sprinted into Zaragoza’s half. A shooting chance right in the center of the box.
“Ah…….”
“Nice! Great job!”
Pepé the manager’s encouragement faintly reaches us from the bench. Srnić’s assist chance flies away thanks to Zaragoza’s keeper’s miraculous save. The ball bounces out for a throw-in on the left touchline.
38th minute of the first half. The process is solid, but the results are meager. We’ve added three more shots on target, but the score remains 2-0.
“Mark properly!”
Once again, the ball rolls into Las Palmas keeper Martínez’s chest. If Zaragoza’s striker hadn’t flubbed it, it could’ve easily turned into a goal.
Martínez, who’d been lying down for a moment, jumps up and unleashes a barrage of shouts and curses at his defenders.
“Alex! Alex!! How many times do I have to tell you the marking’s getting ripped apart before it sinks into your thick skull?!”
He milks every one of the regulation six seconds, fuming like he’s about to breathe fire.
Martínez’s kick finds left wingback De la Bella, and the attack resumes.
With Zaragoza’s defense set, we have to circulate the ball multiple times to create space.
From the center, González to Iñigo, then Iñigo to Srnić on the right.
I drop deep to join the link-up play, exchanging passes, while left wingback De la Bella creeps forward on the overlap.
The ball goes through center backs Aitami and Remo to keeper Martínez, then back to Iñigo in the middle.
As Srnić suddenly exploits the right flank, Zaragoza’s defensive line distorts.
Iñigo spots it, turns, and slots a long ball to De la Bella joining the attack on the left. Great pass.
Zaragoza’s wingback sticks to De la Bella, but the defensive line inside the box hasn’t reset, exposing gaps between defenders.
De la Bella spins the ball fiercely to evade the defender’s leg.
The ball flies toward the keeper before bending outside the box, tracing a banana-like arc in the air.
It’s a long cross.
Even Vieira near the post, or me charging centrally, can’t react to it. The curling ball sails far right and meets Srnić’s head at the edge of the box.
Srnić’s direct header sends it back across goal.
It flies far with vicious pace. Vieira battles the defender, but it’s clear at a glance—physique and height both favor the opponent.
I slam the brakes on my run toward the goalmouth and burst backward out of the box. My marker, number 27, fails to react in time, opening up space.
As expected, Srnić’s header smacks off Zaragoza’s center back and rebounds.
A turn-and-shoot would’ve been perfect.
The ball, two steps behind, hits the ground and bounces higher than anticipated. Waiting for it to drop for a stable shot risks it hitting the trailing center back’s foot.
‘Focus. Stay focused, Kyung-hun.’
A perfect finish demands peak concentration.
Like erasing a canvas, I wipe away Zaragoza’s crowd and their distracting roars—*scrub scrub*.
Erase players unrelated to the shot path. Leave only the goal, keeper, ball, and the center back charging at me. Ignore the rest.
Judging the ball’s spin and speed, I decide on the shot.
I’ll go for an overhead kick. Instinct says it’s the best choice.
Matching the motion to the ball is a hundred—no, a thousand times harder and riskier than hitting the ball with the motion. But it’ll be fine.
Trust the instinctive zone, like always.
At the ball’s apex, strike cleanly with the instep. Hesitate on power, and I’ll mistime it, whiffing into space—or smash it into the turf, killing momentum.
Using thigh spring, I thrust my lower body skyward in one go.
With distance to goal, first tilt the body diagonally upward, then twist the torso, adding power at the final strike.
An upside-down world.
The center back dives toward the trajectory; the keeper anticipates and steps to leap.
The ball just evades the diving center back’s head, flying toward the left post.
Gravity pulls my body down; the ball’s path vanishes from view. Concentration slips, and I feel stadium grass on my lips.
*Thwack*—savages rush in, slapping my ass.
“Goal! You madman!”
“You on something? Incredible kid!”
“Shut up.”
“…Where’d you learn that? That’s a bad word!”
Grumbling, I shove Rodriguez and Srnić aside, get up, and walk to the goal to retrieve the ball.
“…trabajo!”
“Buen chico!!”
The stadium, quiet save for faint away fan cheers, now echoes with claps from a few striped-blue local fans near the goal.
Soon, Estadio de la Romareda fills with applause like a contagion—*clap clap*.
“What’re you doing?”
“Huh?”
“They’re clapping for you.”
“…Why me?”
“You scored an awesome goal. Even rival fans—go give ’em a thank-you. Come on~”
Aitami snatches the ball from my hands and shoves my back toward the stands. A brilliant goal or not, celebrating an opponent’s score?
Honestly, I didn’t get it.
I clap my palms and bow slightly in thanks; many in the stands mimic me.
On the way back to halfway, Zaragoza’s striker meets my eye and gives a thumbs-up with a straight face.
Spain’s full of weirdos.
Momentum could’ve led to another, but the first half ends without more goals, my strike the last action. Players file to the locker room at the whistle. Score: 2-1.
Center back Remo picks up a yellow for a rough tackle on Zaragoza’s striker, but aside from that, Las Palmas regains composure.
In the locker room, hydrating and catching breath, Pepé enters and tweaks the tactics board. Switching to three at the back.
“Mesa’s in for Alex; push the fullbacks up. Right side with Mesa—hold the overlap, focus on defense. Mesa, clear?”
“Si.”
“Left’s yours, Bella. With right holding back, you’ll need to bomb forward more. Three at the back means if Bella’s late on counters, Mesa and the other three center backs form a back four to stop it. Mantovani, you hearing me?”
Right back Alex, who crumbled early and failed his role, coming off is good news—but can replacement Michael Mesa step up?
I was skeptical.
Our team lacks flank defense without De la Bella. And incoming Michael Mesa’s natural position is midfielder.
“Alright, focus up. Tough start, sure, but we’re second in La Liga 2. Kim’s got a cracker of an equalizer, right? Suárez pushed hard late first half ’cause of it—you all saw.”
Rare cheekiness from Pepé draws chuckles.
“Let’s make it a good game.”
As he finishes and we rise for the pitch, assistant Juan Naranjo approaches, hand on my shoulder.
“Kim, stamina okay?”
“Yeah. Good.”
“If it feels heavy, you’re already drained—play safe, no injuries. Lots of errors in open play, I’ll sub you. Give your all, but don’t overdo it. Got me?”
“Got it. Still good. I’ll go to 70.”
Brushing off Naranjo’s concern, we step onto Estadio de la Romareda’s pitch, packed with 30,000 home fans.
Stamina’s decent—not warning-level fatigue. If anything, the right rib from clashing with their center back worries me more.