Chapter 16
Chapter 16
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: Estadio de la Romareda (4)
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"Good work."
"Si."
Stoppage time in the 71st minute. Narvaez, who'd shown some promise in the practice match, came on in my place.
With just a one-goal lead, it might've been better to bring on defensive reinforcements instead of another forward, but I pushed the thought aside.
Tactics were the coach's domain, after all.
Still, even with a striker sub, it didn't seem like we'd score again anytime soon, and that nagged at me.
Honestly, I figured Narvaez was the type who only shone in friendlies. He was an outsider like me on the team, but come official matches, he just couldn't get it together.
Zero goals in seven games.
Meanwhile, our defense—which had steadied itself—seemed to have a nervous breakdown after conceding the equalizer. The back line twitched around the pitch like they'd been electrocuted.
Aitami bellowed instructions at the line while abandoning it himself, and Mesa, flustered by the orders, forgot his position entirely, slipping on the grass as he tried to join up.
In the chaos, Inigo—who'd shifted from central midfield to right center-back in the second half—suddenly felt his arm turn to steel or something and knocked out an opponent, gifting us a clean free kick and a yellow card.
Why not sub in Mantovani, our actual center-back? The defense was a mess.
"Good work. Keep warm—don't let your body temp drop. Need more layers, just say so."
"Thanks."
My train of thought broke as I thanked assistant coach Juan Naranjo. I headed to the bench, high-fiving Curvelo, Javi Castellano, Pekhart, and the others before taking my seat.
"Ah, joder."
"What the hell are they doing?"
In the meantime, disaster struck.
The ref, whistle in mouth, pointed into Las Palmas' penalty area and pulled a yellow for our center-back, Ramos.
"He's off."
"What?"
"He already had one."
Apparently, with Las Palmas' left wing-back De la Bella losing his mark, an impatient Ramos went in with a reckless sliding tackle.
Manager Pepe didn't even protest to the ref.
The bench's heavy mood grated on me a bit. I hated losing. Blocking Zaragoza's attacks during the added time seemed more pressing than the immediate penalty.
Maybe I wasn't mature enough to feel otherwise. Most of the bench guys just stared at Las Palmas' goal like they were praying.
"E-aa! Yes!!"
"Martinez!! Awesome! You're the best!"
Zaragoza's striker Suarez hammered a shot toward the middle, but Martinez deflected it with his toe. Even as he dove left, he'd reacted to the ball's path and lifted his leg just right.
Cheers erupted from Las Palmas' bench—a roar for Martinez's stunning save and encouragement for our guys on the pitch.
I stayed quiet in my seat, though.
I was tired, sure. But the players out there were my rivals anyway, right? At least that's how I saw it. Great if they did well, even better if they didn't.
Thinking about it, that was kinda contradictory. I hated losing games, but I hated my rivals shining too.
"Rodrigues! Rodrigues! Drop back!"
"Viera!"
Past the 80th minute, Pepe and senior coach Roberto Liroa yelled to pull the midfield line fully into our half. They'd leave the attack to subbed-on Narvaez and set up a double pivot of mids and defenders to see out the game.
Ramos' sending-off left us 11 against 10.
Mesa and Aitami formed the back four core, with Kirian Rodrigues dropping into defensive midfield ahead of them.
Inigo shifted to right-back. He was too short to hold central defense alone. We could only hope Mesa stepped up in the middle.
Quick rhythmic claps echoed three times around the stadium, and at the announcer's cue, Zaragoza's home fans chanted Suarez's name loudly.
"Ah, this is getting dangerous."
"Might be tough to hold on."
From the bench, Javi Castellano and Curvelo traded heavy-toned words. No one mentioned draws or losses outright, but everyone sensed the shift.
Zaragoza's No. 19 battled Kirian Rodrigues in front of our back four.
He held firm against the forward at his back. Soon, Viera dropped from central midfield for support defense.
Tweet—the ref's whistle blew.
Just outside the box. No studs showing, so no card, but Viera had tripped the attacker.
Brushing off Las Palmas protests, the ref signaled a white line on the grass.
About 24 meters out. Tall Narvaez returned to our half to form the wall.
"Miss it, miss it."
Curvelo chanted like a spell beside me.
At the ref's gesture, Zaragoza's designated taker backed up, and our box players surged forward. Fake-out.
The ball rolled right along the edge.
A pass to disrupt our defensive rhythm. No. 19 tapped it in front, peeked into the box. Wide open for a cross—no mark.
De la Bella rushed out late, but No. 19 whipped it in without hesitation.
The ref blew again. Tweet—his finger pointed into the penalty area.
"Again? Another penalty?"
"What the hell is this?!"
"Mierda! El juego es más duro……."
The bench exploded like a bomb. Pepe sprayed saliva at the linesman like a machine gun in protest, while we clung to faint hope as the ref headed to VAR, praying for an overturn.
"Ah……."
Before the ref even finished signaling, the board lit up: penalty kick.
The ball had hit Aitami's hand in the scramble.
87th minute. Opposite the side Martinez dove, the net rippled. Bench players slumped, but the coaches urged the pitch players on post-concession.
I agreed it wasn't time to despair. Game wasn't over—still 3-3.
Restart. Eager to atone, our defense charged in blindly. A Zaragoza shot ricocheted off Aitami's back; the follow-up off Mesa's body.
"Wow, Mesa's on fire. Look at him flying in."
"Hahaha, that's what you gotta do."
"Curvelo never goes that hard."
I ignored Curvelo's sharp glare. Our center-backs' grit—throwing body and head at every shot—was impressive.
The stadium heated up under relentless pressure, but Las Palmas held firm. Desperate blocks, dives, even shoves. We clawed through.
Time ticked slowly amid the stalemate. Zaragoza's players frayed under mounting anxiety. Las Palmas snatched a point on the edge.
Tweet!
94th minute. The final whistle cut power to every player on the pitch.
"Phew, we survived."
"Man, that was a scrape for a draw. Not a total loss, I guess."
"No loss. We didn't concede more."
"Right."
3-3 draw with Real Zaragoza.
Built on one VAR disallowance and Martinez's countless saves. No clue on Cadiz's result, but second place was safe.
I walked slowly onto the pitch, greeting teammates.
Despite the frustrating draw, most Zaragoza home fans stayed, applauding and cheering. Before the bus, I should check on our traveling supporters.
Uncle Barry always said to be kind to fans.
"Hey!"
Zaragoza's striker Suarez. The chatty one.
"You were good out there. La Liga bound soon?"
"Wait 'til season's end."
"Se ha mudado a La Liga?"
"What? Doesn't make sense."
"Uh… team not moving?"
"What do you mean, moving the team?"
"No offers?"
"Offers come."
"No……."
Suarez shook his head, nodded like he got it, and suggested swapping jerseys. Frustrated talking to me, maybe.
I'd ask the teacher about those words tomorrow.
* * *
Next day after Sunday's game. November 5th.
Finished regular classes at 7 Palmas, ate lunch in the cafeteria. Had to, or coaches and players would've dragged me off.
"Kim, training today too?"
"Yeah."
"Can we come watch?"
"You can come, but probably can't get in."
My chubby, dark-skinned friend wilted at my honest reply.
Whatever. I just wanted to scarf it down and hit the training ground.
With more game time lately, I felt the growing stares. Not a huge deal, but mealtimes sucked.
Dumped lunchbox scraps by the exit bin, slipped out before anyone talked. Silence was best for everyone.
At the ground, everyone claimed a spot on the grass for recovery work. I unrolled my mat far from Dani Castellano and Ramirez Benito's chatter.
"This spot okay?"
"You leaving if I say no?"
"Nope."
Goalkeeper Martinez plopped down beside me out of nowhere.
Hmm, maybe fallout from clamming up. Now they're more curious. But I couldn't suddenly start chit-chatting.
"Feeling okay?"
"Not great. Ran a ton."
"Yeah."
Talk with Martinez stuttered. We'd never really chatted, so no shared topics, no clue what to say.
"Kim!"
"Yeah!"
Too eager? Brain froze on convo starters, voice just boomed unconsciously.
Roberto Liroa, senior coach, called me.
"Pepe wants a word. After recovery."
"Why?"
"You'll find out up there. Focus on recovery now."
Not scheduled. Why the sudden summons?
Good or bad, silver lining: gave me something to chat about with Martinez.
"Why the call-up out of nowhere?"
"Hmm. You're playing well. Transfer offer, probably."
"Doesn't feel like it."
Yeah. You sense it too—this feast of worthless banter.