Chapter 17

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Translator: Silver Dragon

Chapter: 17

Chapter Title: Derbi Madrileño (2)

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After conceding, Atlético Madrid's pressure intensified. Naturally, the number of fouls increased, putting the referee on edge.

Peep-

It was just a light tussle, but the ref called over the captains from each team to issue a warning.

"Be careful. If things get any rougher here, I won't hesitate to pull out a red card."

Sergio Pepe nodded at the ref's words, turned back to us, and relayed the message.

"Kill 'em! Just slaughter those fake Madrid bastards!"

Hmm. No matter how I thought about it, that wasn't what the ref said.

"Jesus!"

Luka called my name and passed the ball before colliding with Atlético Madrid midfielder Nuño and flying off. The ref spotted the ball heading my way and signaled advantage.

I lightly tapped the ball with the sole of my foot, dribbling toward Atlético Madrid's captain and starting center-back Diego Velázquez.

Diego Velázquez's tense expression was clear—he was determined not to stick his foot out first. So I didn't get greedy.

I drove my left foot, which had been dribbling toward the gap between his legs, and sneakily fired a through pass. Caught off-guard on timing, Diego Velázquez clamped his legs shut and collapsed to the ground, but...

The ball went to Pedro Rodríguez.

Thwack-

Even past his prime, the veteran striker with over 200 goals for Real Madrid took the perfectly weighted pass—not too fast, not too slow—and calmly struck it past the onrushing keeper, narrowing the angle.

Swish-

The net rippled, ignoring the desperate dive of Atlético Madrid's guardian deity. Silence instantly blanketed the Cívitas Metropolitano home stands.

In stark contrast to the hushed home sections, the few Madridistas in the away end broke into an affectionate chant for the fading veteran striker.

Pedro Rodríguez looked at the fans singing his chant, kissed the Real Madrid logo on his jersey, veins bulging in his neck as he roared toward the away end.

"Always!!! Forever!!!! Hala Madrid!!!!!"

After a simple celebration for the fans, he passed me the ball he was holding. His eyes were red.

"¡Vamos! The fans cheering us on aren't satisfied yet! Run harder!"

Real Madrid for real.

The players. The club. The fans.

Pure essence overflowing.

Ah, man. It's been so long since I ran like this—feels like I'm gonna die.

After my opener and Pedro Rodríguez's follow-up, Atlético Madrid ramped up their attacks even more. To help block them, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I dropped back into defense.

Something I'd never normally do. But just because I'm a troublemaker doesn't mean I lack competitive fire.

Today, I'll do whatever it takes to beat those bastards and teabag Los Colchoneros.

Slash-!

Sergio Pepe stopped Atlético Madrid forward Yörente charging into the penalty area with a rough foul.

"Aaaagh-!"

The ref called the foul, giving Atlético Madrid a free kick in a great spot. Émile Zola set up for it.

Peep-

Thwack-!

With the ref's whistle, Émile Zola blasted the free kick. The well-aimed shot sailed past the post and out over the goal line. As Émile Zola pounded the ground in frustration, the first half ended.

Peep-! Peep-!

Dragging my creaky, battered body every which way, we entered the away locker room.

Manager Valverde greeted us with applause, and the Real Madrid club masseuses and doctors began loosening our muscles. While getting massaged, we listened to Valverde explain the tactical changes.

"Jesus, go more aggressive! No need to defend. But when the chance comes, rip out the opponent's throat."

"Si."

I nodded at the manager's instructions and slowly rested.

66th minute of the second half.

Sergio Pepe won a header duel and passed to Anthony. Not close, but we'd exchanged greetings in training a few times. Our eyes met—or so I felt—and I bolted forward instantly.

Thwack-

The sound of the ball being chipped from behind. I spotted the landing zone, arrived just in time, cushioned Anthony's lob pass into my run, and eyed Atlético Madrid keeper Vandevoordt rushing out then desperately backpedaling toward goal. I curled it perfectly. The ball traced a beautiful arc.

Vandevoordt, outside the penalty area, couldn't even dive—just stared blankly as it flew past him.

Ignoring his dumbstruck face, I'd already counted it as a goal the moment I struck it. I sprinted to the corner flag, flashed my ring ceremony, and threw an uppercut.

"Madrid, Madrid, Madrid!"

"¡Hala Madrid!"

"Y nada más, Y nada más!"

"¡Hala Madrid!"

The Madridistas' cheers rang out. I grabbed the corner flag camera and shouted.

"Now do you get it? Why we're the true Madrid!"

With that, I turned my back to the camera and did the sign of the cross. Seeing my celebration, the Madridistas started singing my chant.

The moment I was subbed off for Maguire,

a sudden standing ovation erupted from the home stands. I couldn't help but chuckle at the sour-faced Atlético Madrid fans clapping, but I nodded and applauded them back in thanks.

The Derbi Madrileño started dirty but ended on a heartwarming note. In my MOM interview, I tried to keep the vibe going.

That heartwarming mood was shattered by a Japanese reporter.

"Due to Mr. Jesus's rough play, Minamino Hideyoshi is out for the season. Do you have any intention of apologizing to him?"

A hollow laugh escaped at the Japanese reporter's question.

Classic Japan. Talking about selling Tokyo to buy America, then getting hit with the Plaza Accord and their lost 30 years.

Zero sense.

Well, anyway. Ending on this warm note with Los Colchoneros means I probably won't get stabbed or shot by rabid fans wandering Madrid.