Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: The Bird Leaving the Nest
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“Kim, you’re doing great. I’d love to throw you right into the next match if I could.”
“I know. I’m good at soccer.”
Coach Pepe burst out laughing at my words, like they were the funniest thing he’d heard.
The medical checks wrapped up, and without delay, I was promoted up to the first team training ground. I’d wanted to show some confidence, but the coach just chuckled like he was watching his grandchild show off.
We’d lost to Cádiz and dropped to second place, but the team vibe wasn’t bad at all.
Throughout training, the players kept cracking jokes and laughing nonstop. They were giggling so much I half-wondered if they’d all smoked marijuana together.
“Pass it properly for once!”
“Lama! Over here!”
The nicknames they yelled were so unfamiliar I couldn’t tell who was who. Lama?
There were more than a couple guys with goatees—how was I supposed to know who Lama was? My question got answered by Pedri while we were passing the ball to warm up.
“He’s talking about Itami.”
“Oh, yeah. He does look like one.”
“Tami! Kim says you really look like a llama!”
Thanks to Pedri’s betrayal, Itami spent the time before the team meeting glaring daggers at me over and over.
Dark skin, round cheeks half-hidden by that goatee. Pedri’s tattling pissed me off, but honestly, he kinda did look like one.
The tactical analysis room on the second floor of the training facility building.
We settled into the tiered desks and listened to the analyst’s breakdown. It was prep for the Fuenlabrada match on the 28th.
I hadn’t thought much about it during training, but now it really hit me: I was with the first team.
“Fuenlabrada runs a modified 4-4-2, heavy on counterattacks. They’re not sharp when building slowly, but in transition, their right winger, number 7, tears through defenses.”
“Fraile Hugo. Our backline needs to focus on the fact that he’s not your typical winger. He’s got that instinct to burst into the box and a great shot—he’s the team’s top scorer. You get what I’m saying?”
One of the players piped up in response to the coach.
“Make sure that guy doesn’t get cocky.”
“Exactly. We also need to lock in on set pieces. Their center-back has three headers this season alone. We drilled set-piece counters today, right? If we stay focused, we can beat them.”
The coach spoke with total confidence, but the problem was our defense couldn’t get organized.
Itami was back in the squad after his sending-off, but still. Could we handle them?
I was a bit skeptical. That Fuenlabrada number 7, Fraile Hugo, looked seriously dangerous.
“So how do we break them down? Getting the ball up into dangerous areas—that’s the key.”
The screen flipped to charts of Fuenlabrada’s defenders’ stats. Aggressive tacklers. Two guys with four cards already, and honestly, none without bookings.
If things clicked, we’d carve them open endlessly. If not, it could turn into a real grind.
“Scary, right? That’s why our attack has to click early—get that first goal quick. And the passers need to watch those 50-50 battles. Planned formation is 4-2-3-1.”
I heard tons of useful tips for the game, but none applied to me. No way they’d start a guy fresh off injury return after two days.
More than wanting game time, I just wanted to keep the good condition I’d shown in training.
“…Me? Playing?”
“Your form’s too good to leave you out of the squad—it was a tough call at the end of the meeting. Pepe and the assistant both wanted you listed.”
“As a sub?”
“Yeah, low chance of getting on. Maybe 5 minutes if you’re lucky? Less if it gets chippy.”
Team training ended, and while I was getting a massage, the technical coach popped in and hinted I wasn’t getting left off the list.
It felt good knowing the coach planned to give me chances like he promised, but also kinda rushed. My form was too good—it made me nervous instead.
Man, I’m such a wimp!
Anxious when things are good, miserable when they’re bad. But the therapist’s hands were too skilled for any soul-searching.
Before I knew it, I was out cold on the table.
19. 10. 28. Estadio Gran Canaria.
Itami, wearing the armband, shook hands with Fuenlabrada’s center-back for fair play. They both knew it was bullshit formality—they weren’t playing nice.
Squeezed between Javi Castellano and Curbelo on the bench—not in the starting XI—I scanned the stadium.
Something must’ve happened on the island; seats were spotty, not even half full.
I’d heard Castro and Pekhart had bagged seven goals combined while I was out, doing their jobs nicely. Did they flip off the crowd after one or something?
Still, stadiums always got my blood pumping. Whatever. I was back.
“Hijo de la gran puta!”
“Hey! You crazy bastards!”
Right from kickoff, Fuenlabrada’s number 15 laid a nasty studs-up tackle on Pekhart’s shin. Curses flew from everywhere, pretty chilling stuff.
Even after VAR, it was just a yellow—no red. Boos rained down again, trash flying onto the pitch. Pekhart limped off.
Players calmed, game restarted. Iñigo’s ball into the box hit Itami’s head but died and fell to the keeper. Close chance.
Fuenlabrada’s keeper launched a counter to Fraile.
Las Palmas’ left-back De la Bella, prepped for it, cut the pass and rolled it to Srnić, then central to Iñigo.
Iñigo spotted Sedris drifting inside from right wing-forward.
“Argh!”
Iñigo couldn’t finish the cross—thud, and he went down to a rough tackle.
“Mierda!”
“You fucking prick!”
Ref’s whistle, players clashing again. This time, their forward with the dangerous lunge. Yellows piling up in the 7th, 8th minutes. Insane.
Side tackle, but angle made it borderline back-tackle. No red was a shame. What’s VAR for?
Before Pekhart returned, Iñigo was stretchered off. Fuenlabrada got away with just two yellows.
Most of Las Palmas couldn’t hold their tempers—Fuenlabrada came out ahead on that deal.
Young keeper Martínez, 21, yelled from afar with the bench, signaling to cool everyone, but no dice.
Momentum shifted. Losing it, our guys’ vision narrowed, they started matching the rough stuff.
No immediate disaster, but the physicality wore on.
Central striker Pekhart kept grabbing his stud-marked shin unconsciously; Iñigo couldn’t push far into their half.
Sedris, Viera, Srnić pressed hard from midfield, or Fuenlabrada’s counters would’ve tested Martínez twice already.
“Dumbasses.”
“Ah…….”
In the end, Fuenlabrada struck first.
Set piece: Ramos Mauricio’s head sent it into the box, Fraile Hugo finished. 29th minute. Some heads dropped like we’d lost already.
Stadium swirled with Las Palmas fans’ boos.
Early goal, bench buzzing.
Pekhart, four league goals, kept rubbing his shin— injury worry. Castro rushed to warm up. Down 0-1 at half, sub card burned already.
“Rodi! Rodi! Come down and warm up!”
Pepe prepped Kirian Rodríguez for Iñigo too.
Even without tactics know-how, bench vibe screamed Las Palmas in deep shit.
Javi Castellano ditched his quiet image, muttering curses nonstop—scary as hell when the charismatic guy snapped.
“I wanna go on too.”
Pedri grumbled from the front of the bench.
After choking that bad in practice, now he wants in. Yeah, whatever. Team was a mess enough to make you crave minutes.
“Mierda! Defiendan la cancha!”
After more sharp Fuenlabrada counters, Pepe’s frustrated water bottle toss halted play.
Frustrating watching them flail like food poisoning victims, but dumb move. 41st minute, Pepe got sent off by the ref.
Chaos reigned; Fuenlabrada stuck to what they do best. Restart from the sideline.
Las Palmas left: Inteka and Gómez pressed, stole from wing-back Álvaro.
Head coach Roberto Lizio’s screams did nothing.
Gómez’s quick pass dropped perfect for Riera charging between Itami and Iñigo on the right.
Riera unselfish, passed to Inteka striding into the box.
Las Palmas center-back Lemus smartly narrowed the right angle, but blocked Martínez’s view instead.
Inteka faked, created space, curled it top left.
Young keeper couldn’t react. Stadium hushed, only Fuenlabrada away fans audible.
“Shit, this is bad. Damn it.”
“We’re screwed.”
44th minute. Inteka’s brace made it 0-2. First time conceding twice before half all season—but the real problem was elsewhere.
“Sedris!!”
“You fucking assholes!”
Fuenlabrada central mid Vallejo stomped Sedris’ ankle.
Srnić got a yellow too, who knows what he said. Team doc signaled cross. Sedris was done.
“Been back from injury like two days.”
“Two goals down. Only scorer on bench is Kim.”
“But 45 minutes left! Run a two-day returnee out there 45? As wing-forward?”
Heard assistant Roberto Lizio arguing with technical coach Momo. I jumped up, headed down. Chance I hadn’t expected.
“I’ll do it!”
Thank God it was Roberto Lizio deciding to sub me.
Pushed past Momo’s objections, got the warm-up call. Ref whistled halftime: Las Palmas 0-2 Fuenlabrada.
Should’ve paid more attention at the team meeting. What to do for 45 minutes?