Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: The Start of the Journey
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“Tami, the defense line’s a mess. Let’s do it like in training. If we sit back like this, the first-half flow’s just gonna carry over. Doesn’t matter if we concede another—we’re going aggressive. Push the line up. Got it?”
“Si.”
“Timor, you hold in front of the backline like you’ve been doing. Line goes up, the space you need to cover shrinks. Show us what you’ve got. Gonzalez, focus more on owning the midfield with Inigo. Castro—in the second half, ramp up that high press. I’ll pull you around the 70th.”
Castro nodded silently as he changed his socks. The team’s top veteran swapped them out, then messed with Pedri, who was casually getting a rubdown like it was nothing.
It was my first time ducking into the locker room mid-match to hear the boss. Even trailing, the vibe wasn’t heavy like with the B team—unfamiliar.
“What’re you doing?”
Dani Castellano tapped my shoulder out of nowhere and asked. I froze up, and the blue-eyed guy smirked before slinging an arm around my neck, whispering.
“They say you barely talk back. Feeling good for today? Confident?”
“Huh?”
“…Huh? You didn’t hear me?”
His blue pupils shook—he looked thrown. Still wild how blue they were. I didn’t dwell on Dani’s words. Starting was the coach’s call anyway.
You warm up right up to the final whistle, and poof—the game’s over without you. Still, being part of the gaffer’s plans sat right.
He cleared his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets, and vanished somewhere.
Second half kicked off, and just like Dani said, the coach waved me over to warm up. If luck broke my way, I might slot into Castro’s spot.
Was Dad at the stadium? Would’ve been nice to get even a quick run.
One match today—for Dad, not me.
“Woo! It’s in!”
“Uwaaa!!”
I was jumping rope to loosen up when the equalizer rippled the net. Pushing the line high was paying off big. Las Palmas reset perfectly off that goal. Momentum in soccer’s a hell of a thing.
Itami’s backline tweaks sometimes had you clutching your chest, but they cranked insane pressure inside the midline.
Pedri, Castro, Ramirez—the links clicked, and finally Las Palmas’ front three fired on all cylinders.
Game flowing our way meant my debut odds were dipping. I dialed into warm-ups harder to hide it. Didn’t want anyone catching a sour look.
“Kim Kyung-hun! Kyung-hun!”
Mid-stretch, Dad’s voice cut through from the stands. He was hustling down the steps, clutching a Las Palmas muffler with the crown emblem. Felt corny, but grateful—then guilty. Probably no minutes for me.
Clock ticked past 65 with no more goals when the whistle pierced.
“Kim! Over here! You set? Body good?”
“Yeah.”
“Castro rolled his ankle. You’re on. Mentally prepped?”
“Got it.”
Glanced at the pitch late—Huesca’s number 17 was booking a yellow. Peeled off my green vest and jogged toward the linesman and gaffer.
Felt like a brass band blasting my ear. Heart thumping drowned the crowd roar. Nerves.
Maybe I wasn’t ready.
“Kim, here. Castro’s spot. Central striker. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Role? You remember?”
“Press as high as possible, link play and…”
“Nah!”
Pedri’s free kick sailed wide as the crowd erupted, and Las Palmas’ boss Pepe Mel barked it half-shouting.
“Your way!”
“Huh?”
“Your way. Do what you want—what you can do.”
“But…”
“Guy in the stands earlier? Family?”
I just nodded, brain-dead. Like watching through an old tube TV. Cold sweat beading.
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Bet he’s proud as hell today.”
Pepe clapped my shoulder and nodded to the linesman. While the flag went up for the sub, instinct pulled my eyes back to the warmup zone. Dad still on the steps, fist pumped high.
Pitch looked twice as massive now. Looking back, I’d finally made it. Long road’s prep done—first shot here.
Place blind to the divorce, my shitty side—only soccer mattered. Lights up.
Muscles settled. World sharp as hell.
Sub signal blared—I bolted to Castro’s slot. Stadium roar hit. Half cheer, half doubt. Huesca’s corner got it going again.
Timor, the center-back, headed it clear; it fell to central mid Inigo. He hoofed it over the halfway line before Huesca could swarm.
Las Palmas left winger Pedri chased it past halfway left. Counter brewing—then his legs buckled, first touch sailed out. Gassed.
Assistant coach knew—swapped Pedri and Tony up top, Gonzalez and Dani Castellano in midfield. Deck cleared.
No golden chance right off the bench, but we scrapped hard.
Dani Castellano, fresh on, traded barbs hard with Huesca’s number 17 Rico—the guy who’d clipped Castro. Home fans jeered, but Huesca held firm, no gaps.
Ten minutes, our attacks? Dribble to the edge of the box, two Bella crosses fluffed from the wingback. That’s it.
Passes landing wrong.
Sub-180cm me versus a near-2m center-back? Aerial duel’s a pipe dream. Rethink basics. Peeked bench—no orders from gaffer or assistant.
Fire surged from deep down.
Just like B-team duty. No quality service. Physicals with the CB? Suicide. Dropped deep to the second line.
Clocked my move—new left winger Tony (Pedri’s replacement) cut central from the flank.
Left wingback Bella bombed forward deep, covering Tony’s hole.
Huesca’s center-backs zoned in on Tony slicing into the box and right-sided Ramirez.
Dani Castellano’s pass hit under a marker—ball a step off my right boot.
Huesca mid charged from deep left.
First touch: sole. Killed the spin soft. Spun body goalward, squared up to the rusher.
Just like drills.
Right sole dragged left—opponent’s boot stabbed in, I rolled right, carved the angle.
Nut-meg through his legs. Huesca mid flailed off-balance, ate grass.
Busted their mids—Tony lurked near their backline, Ramirez surged right.
CBs dropped the line on reflex—gap yawned. Net exposed.
Prime angle left or right. Exact practice spot. Breath ragged, head ice.
Field time? No fear. Pre-sub heart hammered terror; now joy-fueled, ready to pound.
Exact same as always.
“Uwaaa!”
“Tipo loco!”
“Buen chico!!”
Net billowed top-left. Teammates mobbed—head slaps, kicks. Pissed me off.
Shook the idiots, snatched the ball, sprinted halfway. Crowd howled with the stadium tune, clapping. Bit nuts.
One more for the win. Six regular minutes left.
Huesca kicked off—swords out, deciding blow. I ran like death; game turned butcher’s alley, had to draw blood to end it.
No holding back in duels. Four more yellows before stoppage; Huesca’s 17 ate red cumulative on that Castro lunge.
Vets waded into raging Huesca pack, shielded the ref—Ramirez huddled Tony and me, plotting attack.
Mini-war on the turf.
Restart scraped by. Full time gone, ignored the board. Game first.
Huesca down a man? Draw-hunt mode. Double pivot deep—tough nut.
Hanging second line? Useless. Pushed frontline, angled between CBs for service—kept failing.
Huesca clamps vise-tight.
Twice, thrice. Attacks fizzle; ball pinged around their half, zilch. Players glancing ref more.
Whistle vibes meant endgame.
Right-flank Ramirez’ cross pinched—fed back to central mid Inigo, who pinged left-central Dani Castellano.
Gaffer’s call—even center-back Itami bombed up. Aerial duel key.
Blocked ref from my mind, shuffled spots praying eye contact with Dani. Keep moving—carve slivers.
Dani eyed Itami cross, bailed—locked eyes with me.
Figured me over the sandwiched Itami. Narrow zone: low, driven ground pass.
Looming defenders glared murder. But that turf-skimmer? Too clean to flub.
Bull-rushed the gap.
Plan: left instep loft, pivot goalward, bang.
Nah—overhit sideways bounce. Couldn’t tame the power.
La Liga ball rebelled, flew rogue.
Trailside: Huesca CB Gomez lunging to close. Clonked his head, ricocheted diagonal—goalward. Two-man give-go, gift-wrapped.
Just chase. Luck flipped mine.
Three strides—towering press vanished. Me and keeper. Felt his exhale, chest heaving vivid.
Stands: shirtless uncle leaping screams, kiddo beside shaking yellow kit. Whipped off-center, buried the keeper.
Las Palmas-Huesca grass war died on the ref’s blast.
I’d get my medal.