Chapter 6
Chapter 6
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Mojo Sauce
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I wait by the touchline, focusing on the coach's words. It was already the third substitution of the season.
It would be great to start, but I know my abilities better than anyone. Just being picked as a sub is already a huge vote of confidence.
A pleasant tension makes my heart race.
"Kim, you're going in for Narvaez. You don't have to stick only inside the penalty area. But don't let yourself get pushed out by their defenders. You get what I'm saying?"
"Got it."
"Good. Just do your thing like always. You're doing great. Even if it doesn't go well this game, no pressure. Okay?"
"Yeah."
"Casa Chico El Sombrerito. Remember it?"
"Food was amazing there."
"Yeah, we'll go again sometime."
Coach Pepe is hot-blooded but a good guy. He gives young players plenty of chances, knows how to put people at ease, and how to bring a team together.
I give Narvaez a light pat on the shoulder as he comes off, then head onto the pitch.
It'd be nice to score for the coach, but after warming up and watching, Santander's double bus was rock-solid. Compared to previous games, my confidence was a bit shaken.
Still, even without a goal, I had to fulfill my role as a striker.
Considering the high prices on this touristy Canary Island, I owed it to the trust that came with those papas arrugadas... whatever they were.
I might not be the main ingredient, but I could at least be the mojo sauce. Even swallows repay kindness—why couldn't I?
"Ugh!"
The moment I step on, I clash inside the box and get shoved down by their center-back.
The guy's built like a rock. My earlier resolve fades; just a tiny bit, I think today might be tough. My side is definitely bruised.
With less than ten minutes left in regular time, our attack—including me—is wandering aimlessly outside their penalty area.
Drolle, who came on at halftime, follows the coach's orders but fails on a dribble in a safe counter-attack situation. So the right flank is shut down.
Joao Fernandes, subbing for left winger Cedres, tries dribbling but keeps passing backward or hitting ridiculous crosses.
I chase a cross that whistles over my head with everything I've got, but it drops in a spot I can't physically reach.
While their keeper preps a goal kick, I chat with Pedri.
"Pedri. Switch positions. Again, again, again."
"You mean keep swapping spots?"
"Yeah. Into the box. Bring the ball down low."
Only Pedri can change this game, I think.
Drolle looks lost after coming from the Turkish league, and Joao Fernandes is stuck at his second-team level from when we played together.
Not enough firepower to break a packed defense.
The goal kick sails long, and Itamui—who's properly marked—charges at Marong and swings an elbow cleanly.
Whistle blows. The ref strolls over, no rush, and pulls out another yellow. Cumulative cards—red card.
Holy crap.
With Santander slumped, the only guy past the halfway line was striker Marong. Why do that? Shitty call, but nothing we can do.
At least the sending-off at 80 minutes might be a blessing. With Inigo now wearing the captain's armband, we shift formation on his signals.
86th minute. Las Palmas switches to a back three on the left; Curbelo Dellafe's diagonal ground pass cuts right to the edge of the box, landing at my feet.
Lucky, but a great ball. One touch sends it to Pedri following up, then I surge into the box.
With one center-back behind me, I link back up.
I return Pedri's pass instantly with my left instep. The push from behind makes me lose position without resistance. Any delay, and it'd be stolen.
Pedri's getting muscled off too.
Eyes lock right before Pedri and their midfielder tackle. Short 2v1 in the box. Super close range—gotta focus.
Loft it at the perfect height so it drops at Pedri's feet.
A tad low, but Pedri touches it easily and drives deeper into the box.
Does he have shooting space?
Hidden by the defender's back, I can't see clearly—then the ball rolls out from Pedri's heel. Unreal pass.
I lunge for it at the same time as their midfielder charging into the box. Hesitate even a second, no shot time. Crowd roars. Ball goes wide of the post.
Damn it.
Did it graze their midfielder's toe? Tackle came as I shot; we both slid, so hard to tell.
Gotta review footage after.
"Good work! You're the best! Great job!"
"Huh?"
"Penalty! Penalty!"
Curly hair framing a huge grin, Pedri hauls me up.
Estadio Gran Canaria erupts like a bomb went off. Santander defenders protesting to the ref.
"VAR check incoming, but it's a pen. Saw it right in front."
"Penalty?"
"Yeah, Príncipe. Tackle came with the studs up on his plant foot. 100%."
Pedri's right—stud marks from their midfielder's boot on my left ankle. Before I can say I'm fine, teammates swarm, slapping me everywhere.
I'm not even the penalty guy—why always me? Can't they wait till I score?
Ref checks VAR, points to the spot, yellow for number 20. Stadium filled with cheers.
Inigo converts the pen—1-1.
Left ankle's a bit sore, but no issue running, so I don't tell coach. Common in second team; mention it post-game.
Down a man, Santander pushes their line up late.
Las Palmas isn't used to back three, but keeper Martinez pulls off several saves in danger spots.
Curbelo Dellafe, shifted from left-back to center-back, leaks chances on the left due to weak defending, but hits long passes to threaten their advanced line.
With their line up, Coach Pepe signals me: focus on line-breaking counters.
90th minute. Full time gone, four minutes added on.
Santander's center-backs are slow. Drolle exploits speed, breaks through, but gets hauled down.
Freekick from the foul—even tall Mantovani struggles in the air. Headers unlikely.
Crowd gasps as Santander's number 10, Sejudo, clips the bar. Thought that was in.
Down a man means constant heart-stoppers.
We regain possession. Martinez's ground pass to Curbelo, Curbelo to Inigo, Inigo and Kirian Rodriguez 2v1 through the middle, shaking the press.
Starters are gassed.
Maybe 1-1 is our best right now, but we could scrape one or two chances.
I stop at their offside line, then bolt; Kirian Rodriguez's pass goes astray.
Frustrating, but I wave it's fine. Fatigue happens.
Santander speeds up, eyeing the ref. End's near.
De la Bella deep-tackles their right-wing attack. I sprint to claim the clearance, but only attacker up is me.
Drolle and Joao Fernandes busy defending, not forward yet—dribbling's not optional.
Fancy skills aren't my thing, so I shake their midfielder with upper-body fakes and drive deep into left space.
Four defenders. Me alone. Good to reach box edge, but Joao's just crossing half now.
Pisses me off. Others, fine—but sub Drolle should've pushed up too?
Cooperative defending with center-back involvement shoves me wide instantly. Barely deflects off a leg for a corner—last chance.
Best I could do.
Home fans stand. To fulfill their hopes till the end, Las Palmas brings keeper up on bench signal for final push.
Four added minutes up. 96th. Ref signals—last corner curls in.
Mantovani gets a head to it, but nowhere near a shot.
It bounces back into a scramble, rolling on turf. Players pile into tight space, grabbing jerseys.
Drolle first touch, but center-back tackles him down; ball pops out of box. Ref's probably got whistle ready.
Ball bounces toward me and Inigo—we hung back from corner. Better angle for me; no hesitation, final shot.
Better than Inigo's, but vs. packed center, needs drop ball—fly high, then plummet.
Hit dead center, leg fully extended.
Trajectories so clean even I was shocked. Sails over wall, drops. Keeper frozen.
Black kits hang heads; stadium sways with joyful songs, yellow wave crashing.
"Eeeee-yeah!!"
"Whoooaaa!"
Cruel day for Santander.