Chapter 61

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Translator: Silver Dragon

Chapter: 61

Chapter Title: Supercopa de España -2

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The match between Real Madrid and Athletic Bilbao brought shock and horror to what had become a meaningless derby.

I nudged Sergio Pepe, who was rolling around on the pitch, with my foot. He immediately started cursing the Basques in a voice that sounded half-dead.

"P...uta, those fucking Etarra bastards..."

"Then why'd you use your elbow, you moron?"

"F...uck, you ignored me when I asked for help."

Once I confirmed Sergio Pepe was perfectly fine and alive, I slipped away from the scene.

Blames me for it.

The game restarted with Real Madrid's free kick, and right away—

"Die, you Castilian scum!"

Thwack—!

"Hostia! I'm from Catalonia!"

Tweet!

Luis García tumbled to the ground after taking a body check from an Athletic Bilbao player. In the end, the ref called over the managers and captains and laid down the law.

"Show some restraint. If I see one more player rolling on the ground, I'm walking off this pitch."

I was peeking over Sergio Pepe's shoulder, curious about what the ref was saying, when his words made me snort with laughter.

...This guy's the head ref?

After the ref's stern warning—sort of—the Real Madrid vs. Athletic Bilbao match settled into a lull.

Whoa... Did that actually work?

The tackles loaded with intent to snap legs and the pickaxe swings aimed at shattering spines vanished. Suddenly, the pitch was a perfect stage for me to shine.

"Jesus!"

I received a pass from Luis García and, for the first time this match, attempted a dribble instead of a one-touch.

"Puta! How's this big lug so damn quick?!"

I weaved around the aggressively pressing defenders, shielding the ball. Then I spotted an Athletic Bilbao player, fuming, winding up for another elbow.

I really, truly didn't want to pinch and foul, but to protect myself, I had no choice but to grab the Hand of God and pinch his thigh.

"Argh—!"

Oh my gosh, what a coincidence.

As he crumpled in agony, a gap opened in their defense. I slipped into it and ripped a shot that rattled the net.

Swish—

Athletic Bilbao players swarmed the ref in protest, and he gave me a cold stare, but I stood tall.

He's the weak one who couldn't handle a mere pinch—not my fault for fouling.

"…."

After conferring with the linesman and VAR room, the ref upheld the goal. As Bilbao players bristled to argue, he pulled a red card from his back pocket.

Under the ref's silent pressure, Bilbao's captain reined in his teammates. Meeting their murderous glares, I pretended to celebrate and bolted to the bench, shaking Manager Valverde's head for salvation.

"Danger! Sub request! Danger! Sub request!"

"...Heh."

Valverde chuckled wryly and prepped the sub board right away. I waved to the Saudi fans who'd come to Abdullah Sports City Stadium to watch, then sauntered off the pitch leisurely.

Hit and run is a tactic too.

After getting pummeled one-sidedly until they cried uncle, I saw the Bilbao players grinding their teeth. Sticking my tongue out at them with a cheeky grin.

"Bleh—!"

What're you gonna do about it?

Full time.

Real Madrid 1 : 0 Athletic Bilbao.

Goal: Jesus (43')

Supercopa de España. Real Madrid's final opponent is set.

Full time

Atlético Madrid 2 : 1 FC Barcelona.

Before the derby with Atlético Madrid, referee Antonio Mateu Lahoz gave the captains a firm warning.

"Anyone who challenges my authority will be sent off immediately."

Sergio Pepe, having heard the warning, gathered the team.

"Ref's got an authority complex, so don't protest and get pointless cards."

"You don't get any, dumbass."

Real Madrid lost the coin toss to Sergio Pepe, so Atlético got the kickoff. With the ref's whistle, Yoroente started play.

You could feel the Atlético players' do-or-die resolve.

Real Madrid's players, minus me, thickened the defensive line to brace for Atlético's attack.

"Jesus!!"

While I was at the center circle readjusting my wedgied underwear, Vladimir Razović's husky voice boomed as the ball flew my way.

No consideration in that pass whatsoever, but I calmly controlled it and—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

—did some on-the-spot keepie-uppies. Minamino Hideyoshi, who got wrecked by my tackle last season and sidelined by injury, lost it and barreled in dumbly.

Thud—

I lofted the ball over Minamino Hideyoshi's head mid-keepie-uppie and breezed past.

Minamino's face turned beet red as he looked like a total fool, charging at me—but my right arm blocked him as he grunted ineffectually.

Channeling soccer physicist John Obi Mikel, I turned my back to Atlético's left back Luka Netz and shrugged him off nice and easy. The wide-open pitch stretched before me.

Sandy winds and scorching sun glaring off the ref's bald head didn't faze me as I hit a direct pass into space ahead of old ginger Iker Bravo sprinting past halfway into the final third.

And bolted forward.

By the time my breath started heaving, I'd reached the edge of their box.

"Iker!"

I passed to Iker Bravo, blocked by their center back, dodged Minamino Hideyoshi's sliding tackle from behind, and chipped it over the center back. Bravo spun into the box for the return pass.

"Vamos!!"

Coolly slotting it past the keeper in a one-on-one for the goal.

As soon as it was confirmed, Iker Bravo dashed to the corner flag for his celebration.

Watching Iker Bravo's celly, I thought:

Definitely 'cause there are fewer fans to taunt.

Scoring doesn't feel as good.

Guess that's the downside of a neutral venue.