Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Estadio de la Romareda (3)
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“What the hell are you doing?”
“If you keep playing dirty like that, your leg’s gonna snap next time. You okay with that?”
“What?!”
Las Palmas’ central midfielder González had tackled their No. 8, who was now clutching his knee and writhing on the ground. Zaragoza and Las Palmas players tangled up, trading heated words.
The ref didn’t hesitate, pulling a yellow card from his breast pocket. But the players’ tempers didn’t cool off that fast.
From a safe distance, catching his breath, Zaragoza’s striker Suárez sidled up and muttered something.
“You catch that? Telling us to get rough?”
“Guess so.”
“…Nah, you heard it too.”
“Spanish. Not great.”
Suárez pulled a fish-face with his mouth, then nodded like he got it. The scuffle dragged on, boos raining down from the stands.
“How long you been with Las Palmas?”
“One year.”
“Not bad for that. Japanese?”
“Korean.”
Suárez didn’t look Spanish—name or face—but he spoke the language fluently, yapping nonstop. Annoying type.
“Oh, another card.”
“Rodríguez.”
“Haha, protesting, huh? Marco’s got acting chops. Two cards already. Total win for us?”
“That… acting?”
“Yep. Goes down easy in friendlies too.”
“Look at his hand. Your doc says he can’t play.”
“……”
Suárez froze for a second over his teammate’s injury sub, so I backed off quietly.
Still, two cards early in the second half wasn’t good.
Sure, Itami pinning down Ramos—who already had a card—and keeping him away from the clash zone was ideal.
But González on left central mid and left winger Kirian Rodríguez each picking up a yellow? That’d hurt our defense for sure.
No way Zaragoza’s players missed what even my limited soccer knowledge picked up.
Tweet-!
Play restarted. De la Bella’s sliding tackle sent Zaragoza’s No. 9 rolling, clutching his leg. With yellow-card sprouts everywhere on the left flank, the wing-back was shouldering more defensive load.
The ref gave a stern look, warning no more free passes. Luckily, no card.
If De la Bella got one too, our left side would’ve been a perfect shit-brown line matching Las Palmas’ team color.
The free kick that followed? Martínez punched it clear, way past the box.
Vieira, dropping deep for once, cushioned the ball with his instep. Soon as I saw him with possession, I focused on shuffling positions between Zaragoza’s backline up top.
Needed to carve out a passing lane for the forward ball.
“Nice.”
Vieira reacted to my diagonal run behind Zaragoza’s right center-back. Thwack—the half-beat-early space pass floated over my head.
A touch long, but full sprint meant I could challenge the keeper.
Even better: distance from the chasing center-back. I’d held off a jersey grab on the first line break.
Ball bounced right to my feet—I owned it, two steps clear of Zaragoza’s keeper. More time than expected.
No need for feet here.
Forehead met the rising ball dead-on. It ricocheted past the leaping keeper’s fingertips, arcing perfectly.
Zaragoza’s center-back rushed a desperate sliding tackle, but the ball kissed the net and settled on the grass.
Ref’s whistle signaled Las Palmas’ goal. I grabbed the ball and jogged it back to halfway.
High-five with Vieira, the gentlemanly type despite his looks. He’d clocked that I hated back-slaps.
Hm, file him as No. 2 nice guy.
Sorry, Pedri—we’re competing for the spot—but Vieira’s solid. By my standards, anyway.
“Great job!”
“One more. Haha.”
“Hat-trick on debut start?”
“Kid’s no joke.”
The barbarians slapping my back, shoulders, and head like I was a puppy? Yeah, Vieira stood out.
“One more?”
“Dunno.”
“Score another. Got it?”
Before Zaragoza could attack, Coach Pepe pulled his second sub card. González, yellowed in the half, out for Cedrés.
Kirian Rodríguez shifted from left wing to central mid, Cedrés taking left wing.
Glanced at the bench: Pekhart and Narváez warming up, ready to replace me. Pepe’d sub me at the 70th as planned.
Right hamstring twinged from that pre-goal sprint. Body tiring.
But 70th minute? Under 10 left. Short burst, not a stamina issue.
Zaragoza fans’ cheers pierced, then players’ shouts exploded across the pitch.
“Mesa! Mark him!”
“No. 26! He’s free!”
“Guti!”
Zaragoza switched to 4-4-1-1, focusing on wide play through central battles. Their No. 14 central mid Guti slipped a ball left.
Good pass, but Mesa—now right wing-back for Sánchez—held the flank, teaming with Srnić to snuff it out.
Guess I was wrong.
Mesa held his own above average at wing-back. His pass went Itami to central Kirian Rodríguez.
Las Palmas chance.
“No. 22! Stick tight, Ross!”
Zaragoza’s backline botched containing Cedrés cutting left, leaving space—center-back bellowed.
Kirian’s ground pass dropped to Cedrés’ feet. Clean dribble into Zaragoza’s left zone, but their full-back toe-poked it away.
Home fans applauded.
Throw-in next: Cedrés to De la Bella, who fed advancing Kirian under pressure.
Center-backs dropped the line, squeezing gaps—no room. I stretched near the box outline.
“Iñigo!”
Iñigo took Kirian’s pass, stabbed it without pause. Shook my marker mid, central short passes à la Vieira.
2v1 shook the mark—space opened.
Zaragoza center-backs swarmed, covering goal angles. Slick blocking.
Could curl it, but incoming mid’s slide would clip me.
Vieira marked tight inside the box—no clean pass.
“Kim!”
Vieira drove into the box, vacuum behind. Srnić fooled their wing-back, bombed central from right.
No time for options.
Sole-rolled it softly, then arm-wrestled the closing center-back closing Srnić’s angle.
“Ngh!”
“Maldición!”
More deathmatch than fight. Miracle I didn’t fly off like a car crash.
Srnić went for the shot quick—no need to hold forever. Couldn’t anyway.
Wolf on a Siberian bear’s back—I lost grip, staggered. Center-back shoved me aside, charged Srnić.
Half a second? Less. Best I could do: not flop embarrassingly.
“Kim! Look up!!”
Regained balance—ball plopped down right in front.
No clue Srnić’s magic, but nearby defenders stumbled in reverse gear.
Srnić, you beautiful bastard!
Not grizzly-tough, but wolf enough. Prey dangling? Easy pickings.
Dropped right at PK spot. Zaragoza keeper didn’t even charge.
“Jódete!”
“Maldito chino!”
“Woo-!”
Zaragoza supporters hurled boos and curses from the stands.
Yeah, this.
Didn’t fly to Spain for polite claps where winners and losers split. Middle finger up, eye-slits at Zaragoza fans—hilarious.
“Ahahaha.”
Sloooow pan over their stands, then turned.
Season’s second hat-trick felt good, but their hate? Better high.
Sounds weird, I know. Honest truth.
Fake applause from phonies? Nah, give me the bird.
Rage-and-frustration stadium. I slotted back with Las Palmas’ savages to halfway.
2:3. 22 minutes regulation left.