Treble -2
I let out a hollow laugh at the controversy exploding back in Korea. Sure enough, once you get famous, all sorts of weirdos latch on. Full-time hiring and chicken gift icons twice a week counted as generous treatment?
"...Ah, chicken costs 42,000 won, huh. Yeah, that's pretty generous."
Taking a slow look at the reactions in Korea, I figured there was no need to respond to this nonsense.
"Paa-!"
As I lounged on the sofa fiddling with my smartphone, Yohan toddled over with a soccer ball, showing off his tricks. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Ever since he started soccer school, we didn't play together much except on weekends. But he'd often come show off what he'd learned there, just like now.
Thwack! Thwack!
Honestly, he seemed a bit better than I was at his age... or was he? It'd been so long, I could barely remember my own childhood anymore.
"Yohani did it~!"
Finishing his little performance, Yohan put his hands on his hips and stuck out his belly. That pudgy tadpole tummy and his puffed-up expression were just too adorable.
"Yeah~ Yohan's doing amazing?"
I smiled at the sight, and then Yuna waddled over, her own belly starting to show. Yohan scurried to her and pressed his ear against it.
Another happy day slipped by.
With the league title secured, Real Madrid focused on giving playing time to the bench players who'd been sidelined by the starters, prioritizing rest and recovery for the main squad.
Thanks to that, the team arrived at Parc des Princes—PSG's home for the Champions League semifinal first leg—in top condition.
Korean viewers who'd tuned in expecting to see Jesus bailed en masse at the caster's words. The PD sighed as the caster wiped out a quarter of the audience with one sentence.
"Haa... Please, Jesus, just stay out of trouble with suspensions."
The caster blinked at the PD's sudden sigh but pressed on with his commentary.
Turan's pass reached Louis Thomas safely, but Raphael Obrador and Bruno Iglesias's teamwork stole it right back.
Luis Garcia, starting against PSG, suddenly burst out laughing. He never imagined he'd ditch Barcelona's kit for Real Madrid's and chase a treble.
When Jesus joined Barca, Luis had helped the newbie settle in as captain and vice. That's how they got close.
That influence led to some crazy antics that soured things with Barca and got him transferred to Madrid—but Luis didn't regret it.
'Well, that decision got me Sophie too.'
As he thought of the woman and child fate had brought him, Luka Savic's voice cut in.
"Pass it to me. Pass it. Pass it. Pass it."
"Piss off, you bastard. You don't bitch at Jesus, but my free kicks? Fuck off."
Luis shooed away Luka, who was eyeing the free kick.
Tweet-!
'Why the hell does that prick only covet my free kicks?'
He grumbled inwardly, took the kick, and clutched his head in frustration.
Whoooosh-!
Roberto Fabian went for the header on his cross, but it sailed just long over the line.
"Pfft— pfft— pfft— pfft—"
Luka's mocking snicker behind his hand pissed him off, but Luis felt his condition was solid this game.
'Condition's good... Guess I gotta push harder.'
15 minutes in, Luis started slipping into the rabid-dog mode Jesus always hyped.
While Jesus lounged in the center circle scratching his balls, Luis had been covering his space like a dog—running everywhere.
Unbeknownst to himself, he'd earned a rep for insane stamina like those "two hearts" guys. And it shone here.
Slash-!
When Turan got the ball, Luis charged in with pressure. Turan passed back.
Luis nodded—Turan had passed right to Luka Savic, who was also doggedly covering Jesus's space.
Luka intercepted cleanly and slotted a through ball to Roberto Fabian bursting into the box.
Fabian didn't waste it. A low, driven shot zipped between the keeper's legs, rippling the net. He roared toward the corner flag.
"Madrid! Madrid! Hala Madrid!"
The traveling Real Madrid fans' chant echoed through Parc des Princes.
Watching it, Luis admitted inwardly: Luka Savic did pass better than him. Luka's nose swelled with pride after that beauty of an assist.
"Your passes suck. Gotta make 'em easy for the receiver."
"Yup~ Assist king's me this season~"
"... "
Luis acknowledged Luka's skill but kept it zipped. Pride was on the line.
Lounging on the sofa watching the game, I let out a quiet whistle. Luis Garcia's growth since we met was crystal clear.
"Paa- Partasu! Partasu!"
Yohan pointed at Luis on TV and called him Partasu. I nodded quietly—Luis had grown his hair like a dog and turned his work rate dog-level too.
Luis stole it from Turan again. He and Luka's insane engine erased PSG's midfield.
Even if you broke those two, Antoni Rodriguez was waiting behind. PSG probably felt like Madrid had 13 men on the pitch.
(FWIW, Antoni's stamina had spiked since I joined too. Guess I'm the teammate who levels everyone up.)
Anyway, Luis's heroics sealed a 1-0 win for Real Madrid.
. . .
Three days after the CL semifinal first leg, league round 34 against Sevilla kicked off.
Valverde gave the CL starters a breather. Playing with Iker Bravo, I sorely missed Luis Garcia, Luka Savic, and Antoni Rodriguez.
The ball just wasn't coming forward.
Frustrated, I joined the midfield scrap. I picked off a pass to Sevilla's midfielder Amamiya Takehiro.
Sevilla players grabbed my arm to stop the counter even with a foul, but I kept my balance and slotted it perfectly into space ahead of Iker Bravo.
"Hey. That all you got?"
I tossed some cheesy line I'd read in a manga at Amamiya, who was yanking my arm.
"Hoo... Looks like I gotta unleash my true power."
The guy covered his face with his hand and smirked sleazily. "Heh heh— from now on, I'm 16 times stronger. Come at me, Jesus. I'll teach you weakness..."
Hearing that cringey response, I nearly chin-checked him on reflex.