A Cozy Nest (3)

March 1, 2020. Sunday afternoon, Dad's house.

"The pass is slipped forward into the right channel from the second line—Pedri kills it dead with a velvet first touch."

"The link-up between Kim and Pedri is really purring out there today!"

Over the past two weeks, Las Palmas had strung together a winning run in the Segunda División. Round twenty-nine: Alcorcón 2, Las Palmas 3. Round thirty: Las Palmas 2, Málaga 1. With the second leg of the Copa del Rey semifinal against Real Sociedad waiting four days out, you could say we'd come away with a thoroughly desirable haul of results.

"A long cross sails in toward the far post. Castro—Castro—!!"

"It drifts just over the bar!"

"A gilt-edged chance, and it goes begging. Even Castro has his head in his hands."

Honestly, that one had to go in.

Castro's minutes climbing through the second half of the season was a good thing, I thought. It was just that—strangely enough—his scoring record never quite matched his actual play.

The build-up was jaw-dropping every single time; converting it into a result had somehow become my job alone.

Not that I could simply force the ball on him, either. The moment something felt off, Castro would plant himself where he stood and glare at me for all he was worth.

According to the man himself, chasing goals would damage the team's overall play... Some part of me understood; the rest found it preposterous.

Then when, exactly, were you planning to be of use—I managed, barely, not to press the question.

"Las Palmas have clearly developed a taste for the 4-4-2 of late."

"That's right. Pepe Mel has begun putting his attacking resources to full use. I'd say the confidence is finally creeping back in. Frankly, setting up a 4-2-3-1 in the Segunda was close to a waste."

While the commentators carried on, steam came hissing out of the rice cooker in the kitchen. In the same breath, the phone I'd tossed on the seat beside me buzzed as well. A quick glance at the screen: Freckles' number.

Last night the girl had gone unreachable, her high fever cutting the line—and now, apparently, she felt like hosting a quiz show out of nowhere.

I sorted through a few candidates in my head. She'd said she'd be starting outpatient treatment soon, so until she was discharged, humoring her seemed the wise call. The answer had to be tied to whatever had actually eased her pain... Penicillin? Tylenol? Some antibiotic or other, surely.

...So that's how it is.

After a moment's deliberation, I managed to compose a fitting reply.

I wanted to scold her for crediting the syringe instead of what was inside it—but the sick hold rank, and rank gets indulged.

Then I hit send and turned my eyes back to the TV. On screen, I was preparing for a post-match interview.

Before the interviewer could throw out his first question, the new chant from the Las Palmas faithful had swallowed the audio whole.

"The fans' love is something else. Well? Do you like the new chant?"

"Mm."

"Haha, not your style, then. Which part bruised your feelings?"

"...It's not that. The very fact that they made one for me is something to be grateful for."

The truth was, at the time I'd been busy observing the eyes gleaming brightly on the bench. Instinct had already ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠told me exactly what sort of teasing I'd be weathering for at least a month.

That interview confirmed precisely one thing—a private prayer that nobody would ask anything off-script.

Beep-beep—!!

Right on cue, the rice cooker announced that cooking was complete. As I dug out the paddle and turned the multigrain rice over a couple of times... the TV moved on to a Málaga fan's lament (and interview).

With one ear on the broadcast, I closed the rice cooker's lid. What was next on the list... hmm. Better to scrape the crusted food off the gas range while I was at it. I fished rubber gloves and a sponge out from under the sink.

"How would you rate today's match?"

"The worst. If Lombán hadn't scored off a set piece, we'd have lost the whole thing scoreless."

"Who do you think was your best player?"

"Munir."

"Could you tell us why?"

"He stopped Kim's shots three times."

Their keeper had saved them well, granted.

"With today's defeat, a playoff spot is effectively out of reach."

"Is that right."

Startled by the man's unexpectedly foul-mouthed eloquence, my head turned toward the living-room TV. The steps outside the stadium exit. A young man with a blue scarf looped around his neck was pouring out his grievances about me. However much anger blinds a person, he really ought to have accounted for the Las Palmas fans standing around him.

Sure enough, the interviewer stepped in to shut down any further remarks.

"Haha, hold on now. Kim is, by name and reputation, Las Palmas' most popular star these days. Feeling those hot glares yet? Insulting the prince is a breach of the safety code."

"Ha! Right. His Royal Highness the Prince, of course."

Yet he wouldn't quit sneering to the very end. Soon fingers were pointing from every direction, and angry voices thick with blame came flying in.

Rather than retreat, the Málaga fan doubled down, veins standing out along his neck, straining to out-shout the lot of them. Just as the commotion threatened to boil over, the footage cut off in an instant.

The screen switched to the broadcaster's studio, and the snickering anchors went straight to air. They... did their utmost to smother the laughter.

"Pff—our apologies, viewers."

"Ahem. The 'Cafeteria Tray Prince,' was it. Truly, it seems you have to know a man well before you can hate him properly."

"Yes. Naturally. Ahem... it's certainly a memorable nickname."

By the time the closing remarks wrapped and the screen cut to a commercial, I was standing rooted to the spot, savoring the insult in slow rolls. The sponge writhed in my right grip.

Clack—

"Dad's home~"

"...You're home?"

"Cleaning, I see."

"...Yes."

"...What? Something on your mind?"

They're calling me the Tray Prince.

Of course, no such mutter ever actually left my mouth.

March 3, 2020, Tuesday. Las Palmas training ground, 17:08.

Under Castro's special training program, I was receiving supplementary help from the Las Palmas players in turn. With my back pressed against Aitami, I drove my weight down through my left foot. The pressure was heavy, granted—but faint next to the real thing. All that remained was to read Pedri's movement and trade passes freely inside the marked-off zone.

"Ack!!"

"Mantovani! How many times have I said—don't go in rough."

"Sorry. You all right?"

Pedri spat out the blade of grass that had made it into his mouth and shot Mantovani a look of pure grievance.

"Shoving with your elbow is a blatant foul!"

"I didn't use my hands."

"...Liar."

Sadly, he truly hadn't used his hands. Pedri simply had the misfortune of carrying the same wretched physical spec sheet as me. Add Íñigo to the tally, and we met every requirement for a three-man squad of short-stacks.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

"...No. I think I'm fine."

"Let's take five, then go again."

At Castro's declaration of a break, Aitami commandeered the spot beside Pedri and sat down. He even kindly handed over a water bottle—but the bottle's true purpose was plain as day.

"Here. Drink up. This should replenish all that frailty of yours."

"......"

"Tough one, huh? Mantovani's no joke. But here's what's strange—? Kim held up just fine."

It had been barely any time since Aitami had patched things up with Dani, and already he was breezily turning Pedri's kit inside out.

I decided to avert my eyes from what was about to unfold. Benjamin had told me never to run from a problem situation... but I'd file this one under exceptions.

"I'll go top up the water."

Amid the commotion, Castro ambled off toward the training ground's main building without a care in the world.

A short while later.

While the two idiots got down to some earnest scuffling (Pedri, it must be said, was taking a one-sided beating), I studied Mantovani's mood.

Ours was a comfortable relationship, if not a close one. I didn't care for players who defended rough, but personally I thought him a genuinely good man. Just look at that frame. His thigh and waist lines dropped away in one clean, unbroken edge—every spot where a curve belonged had been packed to the brim with muscle! A body like that deserved respect.

"Kim, don't stare so hard."

"Hm?"

"Aitami's watching. He'll put it to use teasing you later."

Suddenly, Mantovani sounded a quiet alarm. Only then did I register my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rudeness—and catch the wolfish glint in Aitami's eyes.

"Sorry. My build's on the small side, so... I guess I was staring without meaning to."

"Don't worry about it. Nothing to apologize for. Besides, you make up for the size with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠speed. We just each have different strengths."

"...Mm."

"You're under Coach Juan Naranjo's care, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"Juan knows what he's doing. Don't be in a rush—just follow along, nice and steady."

To Mantovani's low counsel I gave nothing but a silent nod. Maybe it was the sheer depth of the voice, but there was something in it that brooked no argument.

"Of course, I understand that balance work is a slog. All the more because it's not the kind of training with results you can see."

"...How did you know balance drills are all I do?"

"Everyone in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the younger age groups does nothing but that."

"You too?"

"Naturally. I was skin and bone until I turned twenty."

The claim was hard to credit. The man was now a flawless oil drum (in the most positive sense of the term).

"Haha, it's true. I started at twenty-one and finished the build at twenty-seven. After that... I've focused more on maintaining it."

"......"

"When your muscle mass is lacking, what matters more than pushing a man off is not being pushed. And when it comes to holding your ground, the most important thing of all is the ability to keep your center of gravity."

"Yeah, I know. Coach Juan has drilled that into me plenty."

Just then, Aitami—having finally subdued Pedri—barged into the conversation without warning.

"Mantovani. Enough of the boring stuff—teach us something real. Like the secret to winning a body duel, that kind of thing."

"Hm?"

"You and me—let's trade one secret each. What do you say?"

He'd barged in uninvited, and I meant to show my displeasure... but honestly, the offer was intriguing. Even Pedri, sunk low from the knuckle-rap Aitami had planted on his crown, had ears that gave a twitch.

Mantovani chuckled softly, and before long he nodded his consent.

"Castro's coming. Keep the explanation short. Shall I go first?"

"No, I'll start. Mine won't take long."

"Go ahead."

"When one of your shoulders locks with his, you take the arm on that side and pinch his groin."

Before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, Aitami flapped his hands in disbelief.

"Pinch the thigh muscle—how, exactly? Sure, a hand would just slip right in there. Aren't you glossing over the details a bit?"

"I never said anything about pinching thigh muscle."

"Then what do you pinch?"

"That."

"Huh? THAT?"

Pedri slumped on the grass, Aitami beside him—and even me. The three of us had to spend a fleeting moment decoding Mantovani's 'that.'

"...Don't tell me. THAT?"

"That's the one."

"For real? You're being dead serious right now?"

"I used it in the away match at Alcorcón, too."

Ah. Of course. So there had been a reason, all along, for Mantovani walking off the pitch before matches reached their end. The Alcorcón game had been no exception.