There’s thirty chapters I intend to upload today, some need some adjusting but I will try to get them all out today.
The silver confetti fell from the dark Parisian sky like volcanic ash, mocking the men in red who stood scattered across the immaculate turf of the Stade de France.
The deafening roar of the Portuguese supporters echoed around the massive stadium, a tidal wave of sheer euphoria that crashed against the Spanish players with brutal, unforgiving force.
For Natán Comas, the sound was nothing short of physical torture.
He stood near the center circle, his hands resting heavily on his hips, his chest heaving as he stared blankly at the grass beneath his boots.
The scoreboard glowing high above the stands burned into his retinas, a digital epitaph for a dream that had just violently died: Portugal 1 – 0 Spain.
Natán was visibly annoyed.
More than annoyed—he was consumed by a quiet, vibrating fury that seemed to radiate from his very pores.
He violently ripped the white athletic tape from his wrists, wincing slightly as it caught the hairs on his skin, before balling it up and hurling it onto the pitch in disgust.
His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles fluttered beneath his skin, and his dark eyes, usually alight with the sheer joy of the game, were narrowed into cold, hostile slits.
He hated losing.
He despised the bitter, metallic taste of second place.
But more than anything, he hated the helpless feeling of knowing he had been neutralized on the biggest stage of his life.
At exactly five-foot-ten, Natán was not the most physically imposing figure on a football pitch, but what he lacked in towering height, he more than made up for in structural perfection.
He was built like a coiled spring, possessing a low center of gravity that made him an absolute nightmare for defenders to track.
His physique was lithe yet powerfully muscled, especially his calves and thighs, which were the engines behind an explosive acceleration that had left some of the best fullbacks in world football gasping for air.
He was a natural right winger, a position he played with a flair and devastating effectiveness that had drawn comparisons to the legends of the game.
Natán was fast—terrifyingly fast.
Off the mark, his first three steps were a blur, allowing him to bypass defensive lines before they even registered his movement.
But it wasn’t just raw, track-star speed; it was his ability to dribble at that velocity that made him elite.
The ball seemed magnetically tethered to his boots.
He could weave through a forest of lunging legs, dropping his shoulder, feinting, and changing direction with the balletic grace of a matador.
He could dribble with the absolute best of them, navigating tight spaces where most players would panic and lose possession.
Yet, for all his pace and trickery, there was one move that had come to define him.
One specific, devastating sequence that defenders knew was coming, yet were utterly powerless to stop.
Natán was famous for cutting onto his left foot.
It had become a global phenomenon, a sort of trademark finish that struck fear into the hearts of goalkeepers across Europe.
He would isolate his marker out wide on the right flank, lull them into a false sense of security with a series of rhythmic step-overs, and then, in a fraction of a second, he would explode inside.
He would chop the ball onto his left foot, leaving the defender twisting in the wind, open up his body, and unleash a curling, dipping strike into the far corner of the net.
And the most staggering part of it all?
He was barely nineteen years old.
In fact, he had only turned nineteen just a few days ago, right in the middle of the tournament.
The Spanish camp had presented him with a cake in the team hotel; there had been laughter, applause, and jokes about him finally leaving his teenage years behind.
He was supposed to be the future.
He was supposed to be the spark that ignited a new golden era for La Roja.
But standing here now, covered in sweat and grass stains, the weight of the loss made him feel like an old man.
His youthful features, usually characterized by a cheeky, infectious smile and bright, enthusiastic eyes, were hardened into a mask of bitter resentment.
This European Championship was supposed to be the ultimate redemption.
The footballing world remembered all too well the unmitigated disaster that was the 2014 World Cup in Brazil.
Spain, the defending champions, the undisputed kings of tiki-taka, had been humiliated.
They had been torn apart, utterly dismantled in the group stages, their era of dominance coming to a shocking, unceremonious end.
This tournament in France was meant to erase that dark stain from their history.
They were supposed to reclaim their throne.
And for a while, it looked as though they would.
They had navigated a tricky group stage, finishing second after a minor lapse in concentration, but second place was enough to punch their ticket to the knockout rounds.
It was in the Round of 16 that the magic truly began.
They were drawn against Italy, a team renowned for its impenetrable defensive organization.
The Italians had struck hard, turning the game into a gritty, grueling war of attrition.
But Natán had risen to the occasion.
In a match that would go down as an instant classic, he had dragged his country back from the brink.
First, it was a beautiful free kick from twenty-five yards out.
He had stepped up, wiped the sweat from his brow, and struck the ball with his trademark left foot.
The ball had soared over the formidable Italian wall, dipping viciously at the last possible millisecond to kiss the underside of the crossbar and nestle into the back of the net, leaving the legendary Gianluigi Buffon rooted to the spot.
Then, deep into the second half, with Spain trailing and desperate, Natán had struck again.
A floated ball had been delivered to the back post, and despite his five-foot-ten frame, he had leaped with the timing of a seasoned center-forward, hanging in the air just long enough to power a downward header past the despairing dive of the keeper.
He had single-handedly taken the game to overtime.
The momentum had shifted entirely, and when Spain was awarded a penalty in the dying moments of extra time, the veteran Sergio Ramos had stepped up, cool as ice, and placed it perfectly into the corner to secure a dramatic 3-2 win.
Next came the mighty Germany in the quarter-finals.
It was a chess match, a battle of tactical supremacy against Joachim Löw’s well-oiled machine.
The Germans were physical, structured, and relentless.
The game was locked in a tense stalemate, but Spain had barely managed to scrape by with a 2-1 victory.
Natán had been the architect of the decisive moment.
Bursting down the right flank, he had beaten Mats Hummels for pace before delivering a pinpoint, whipped cross into the box.
The ball was placed with such terrifying accuracy that Alvaro Morata simply had to let it glance off his forehead.
Morata had scored a brilliant header off Natán’s cross, sending the Spanish bench into raptures and punching their ticket to the final four.
Then, it was time for France.
The semi-final.
Playing the host nation in front of a violently hostile crowd was a daunting task.
The French team was stacked with superstars, and the media had been relentlessly confident in their impending victory.
The match was a grueling, claustrophobic affair, with neither side willing to give an inch.
But as the clock ticked down and the agonizing prospect of extra time loomed, Natán had produced a moment of pure, unadulterated genius.
It had finished 1-0, and he was the sole reason why.
Receiving the ball on the right edge of the penalty area, he had executed his trademark move.
He cut sharply onto his left foot, dropping the shoulder to evade N’Golo Kanté, and unleashed a breathtaking finesse shot.
The ball had curled majestically through the Parisian night air as it nestled perfectly into the top corner in the dying embers of the game.
He had put his money where his mouth was.
He had absorbed the deafening boos of the home crowd throughout the match, and with one swing of his magical left boot, he had scored a goal to completely silence the French national team and their roaring supporters.
He was the hero.
He was the golden boy carrying the weight of a nation.
And then, in the final, he had lost.
The bitterness of the defeat was amplified by how completely he had been neutralized.
The Portuguese manager, Fernando Santos, had clearly done his homework.
From the first blast of the referee’s whistle, Natán had been shut down.
Every single time he touched the ball, he was immediately subjected to suffocating double teams.
If he tried to drive inside, looking for that precious sliver of space to unleash his left foot, he would get violently swarmed.
Midfielders collapsed on him; fullbacks snapped at his ankles.
It was a masterclass in defensive suffocation.
Realizing the middle of the pitch was a death trap, Natán had altered his approach.
He had kept it wide, hugging the touchline with his boots painting the chalk.
He had used his electric pace to drag Portuguese players out of their rigid defensive positions, desperately trying to disrupt their shape.
He would burn down the wing, reach the byline, and repeatedly put the ball back into the box with dangerous, teasing crosses.
But the team had failed to capitalize.
The Spanish strikers were a step too slow, a fraction too late, or simply outmuscled by the towering presence of Pepe and José Fonte.
No matter how many times Natán carved out an opportunity from the wide areas, the final touch was always missing.
They failed to win.
The final whistle blew with the score at 1-0, and the dream evaporated into the muggy Parisian night.
But what truly made Natán’s blood boil as he stood there amid the celebrating Portuguese players was the sickening familiarity of the situation.
This was far from the first time this exact scenario had played out in the past twelve months.
In fact, it had been the overarching theme of his entire season.
Just a year ago, in the summer of 2015, Natán’s life had changed forever.
He had signed for Manchester City from RCD Espanyol for a staggering fee of over 40 million pounds.
It was a transfer that had sent shockwaves through the footballing world.
He had taken La Liga by storm.
Playing for Espanyol, a club perpetually existing in the massive, overbearing shadow of their cross-town rivals Barcelona, Natán had been a revelation.
He had practically carried Espanyol on his back, propelling them to an improbable Europa League qualification with an astonishing 22 goal contributions across all competitions.
He was electric, fearless, and devastatingly effective.
When the summer transfer window opened, his agent’s phone had not stopped ringing.
It was a wild, chaotic period of decision-making.
He had the world at his feet.
He could have went to literally any club across Europe.
The giants of Spanish football came knocking first.
Even Real Madrid and Barcelona submitted lucrative offers, promising him the moon and the stars.
It was every Spanish boy’s dream to wear the white of Madrid or the Blaugrana of Barça.
But Natán knew the reality of the situation.
He knew he wasn’t going to displace Gareth Bale on the right wing at the Bernabeu, nor was he ever going to unseat Lionel Messi at Camp Nou.
He didn’t want to be a highly-paid understudy waiting for cup games to get a run out.
So, he didn’t bother entertaining their offers.
He wanted to play games.
He had strongly considered staying in his home country and joining Atletico Madrid.
Diego Simeone had personally pitched him the idea, promising to turn him into a warrior.
But Natán had watched Atletico play.
Simeone’s tactics were notoriously rigid, demanding a level of defensive tracking back and positional discipline that stifled creative freedom.
It was a system built on suffering and grit.
And if Natán was being entirely honest with himself, it just didn’t feel right.
He was an artist, an attacker who needed the freedom to express himself, not a soldier in a 4-4-2 defensive block.
He had looked abroad.
He had heavily considered moving to France and joining the newly wealthy Paris Saint-Germain.
The prospect of moving to the fashion capital of the world to be their new star and play alongside the legendary Zlatan Ibrahimovic was incredibly tempting.
He could easily see himself feeding crosses to the giant Swede.
He had even engaged in deep talks with Bayern Munich.
The German titans were looking toward the future, and they saw Natán as the perfect heir apparent to replace an aging Arjen Robben.
The narrative was perfect—the young, left-footed right winger stepping into the shoes of the master of the cut-inside.
But ultimately, amidst the complex negotiations of wages, agent fees, and squad roles, it just never worked out.
That left England and Italy.
He thought about Chelsea first.
London was appealing, and the club had a history of success.
But he didn’t like the setup at Stamford Bridge.
The club felt unstable, a revolving door of managers and a toxic dressing room culture that he wanted no part of.
He could have easily joined Manchester United; they had the funds and the global prestige.
But the club didn’t interest him.
Ever since the departure of Sir Alex Ferguson, United had become a shadow of their former selves, especially when it came to their comical errors on the pitch and in the boardroom.
They lacked a cohesive sporting vision.
Liverpool was another option that floated across his desk, a club with a rich history and a passionate fanbase, but they were struggling domestically, and more importantly, he wanted the bright, blinding lights of the Champions League, which Liverpool could not offer at the time.
And Arsenal?
The less said about them, the better.
Originally, after exhausting the English options, he was just going to take the traditional route to Italy.
He was extremely close to joining his countryman and close friend Alvaro Morata at Juventus.
The lights in Turin intrigued him.
The tactical intelligence of Serie A, combined with the winning pedigree of the “Old Lady,” felt like a smart career move.
Morata had spent weeks texting him, selling him on the city, the food, and the culture of the club.
But then, Manchester City entered the fray.
City’s sporting director, Txiki Begiristain, had flown out to meet him personally.
They hadn’t just offered him a massive contract; they had convinced him by getting him to buy into a grand, sweeping project.
They painted a picture of a club on the precipice of absolute domestic and European dominance.
They promised him that he would be the focal point of a dynamic, attacking system.
He was supposed to be the missing piece of the puzzle.
He was supposed to help bring the Premier League title to Man City.
He had arrived in Manchester with the weight of a £40 million price tag and the expectations of a sky-blue fanbase resting heavily on his young shoulders.
But the reality of his first season in England had been a jarring, frustrating wake-up call.
Under Manuel Pellegrini, the team had been wildly inconsistent.
Rather than cruising to a league title, they had spent the final months of the season locked in a desperate, undignified scrap just to secure Champions League football, barely scratching their way into the top four on the final day of the season.
Sure, on paper, it wasn’t a total disaster.
They managed to win both the League Cup and the FA Cup.
He had two shiny medals to show for his first year in England.
He had experienced the magic of Wembley Stadium, walking up the famous steps to lift silverware.
But for a player of Natán’s immense ambition, for a club with City’s limitless resources, it still felt like a deeply bad season.
The domestic cups were mere consolations for a team built to conquer the league.
But the true agony, the failure that kept him awake at night, was the Champions League.
They had navigated their way to the semi-final, drawing the mighty Real Madrid.
It was the biggest tie of the club’s history.
Over two grueling, tension-filled legs, they had lost 2-1 on aggregate against the Spanish giants.
And the cruelest part was that Natán had actually performed brilliantly.
He had scored a stunning goal in the away leg at the Santiago Bernabeu, silencing the Madridistas with a lethal strike that gave City genuine hope.
But even with his goal in the Bernabeu, it still wasn’t enough.
The defense had faltered, the midfield had been overrun by Modric and Kroos, and City had crashed out.
Despite being one of the few bright spots in the squad, Natán had felt an overwhelming, crushing sense of guilt.
And today, staring at the Portuguese players parading the Henri Delaunay Trophy around the Stade de France, that exact same sickening feeling washed over him.
Today it wasn’t enough.
He had let his whole country down.
Four hours later, the Parisian night had deepened into the early hours of the morning.
The luxurious team hotel, usually a hub of loud chatter, music, and camaraderie, felt like a morgue.
The silence in the hallways was oppressive, broken only by the occasional muffled sound of a door clicking shut or the distant wail of a police siren from the city streets below.
Natán sat on the edge of his perfectly made king-sized bed, still wearing his dark Spanish national team tracksuit.
The room was bathed in the dim, artificial glow of a single bedside lamp.
He hadn’t bothered to unpack his bags.
He hadn’t even taken off his trainers.
He just sat there, staring blankly at the ornate pattern of the carpet, replaying the match in his head in a torturous loop.
He saw the double-teams.
He saw the blocked crosses.
He saw Eder’s long-range strike flying past De Gea
He buried his face in his hands, letting out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to rattle his ribs.
Suddenly, the harsh, electronic vibration of his cell phone shattered the suffocating silence of the room.
Natán flinched, pulling his head up.
He looked over at the device sitting on the glass nightstand.
The screen was lit up, displaying a number he didn’t recognize, preceded by a Spanish country code.
He frowned.
It was past three in the morning.
Reluctantly, he reached out, swiped the screen, and brought the phone to his ear.
“Natán,” a voice replied on the other end.
It was a voice that commanded instant respect, possessing a unique, raspy cadence that was instantly recognizable to anyone who followed the sport of football.
“It’s Pep.”
Natán’s breath hitched in his throat.
He sat up completely straight, the sudden spike of adrenaline temporarily overriding his profound fatigue.
Pep Guardiola.
The new manager of Manchester City.
The legendary tactician who had revolutionized the game at Barcelona and dominated Germany with Bayern Munich.
He had officially taken over the club on July 1st, but with Natán away on international duty, the two had not yet formally crossed paths.
This was his very first time actually speaking to him.
“M-Míster,” Natán stammered, instantly trying to shift his brain into gear.
He instinctively tried to speak in formal Spanish, wanting to sound professional and respectful to his new boss.
“Hola. Yo… gracias por llamar. Ha sido una noche muy difícil…” (Hello. I… thank you for calling. It has been a very difficult night…)
His Spanish was incredibly formal, but it sounded clunky.
It was so-so, hesitant and a bit rigid.
Despite representing the Spanish national team, Natán had been born and raised deep in the heart of Catalonia.
He had grown up speaking Catalan in his household, with his friends, and during his entire youth career at Espanyol.
He understood Spanish perfectly, of course, but he rarely spoke it in his private life, and right now, his exhausted brain was struggling to find the right syntax.
On the other end of the line, a soft, warm chuckle echoed through the speaker.
“¿Por qué hablamos en español? (Why do we speak in Spanish?) ” Pep humored him, his tone surprisingly gentle and completely devoid of the intense, manic energy he usually displayed on the touchline.
“We’re both Catalans.”
The sheer familiarity and comfort of the statement caught Natán completely off guard.
The tension that had been coiling in his shoulders since the final whistle suddenly began to loosen.
Switching seamlessly into his native tongue, Natán replied, his Catalan flowing out of him much clearer, faster, and infinitely more natural.
“I’m sorry, boss. I just… my head is a mess right now,” Natán said in Catalan, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I appreciate you reaching out. It means a lot.”
“I was watching,” Pep said, his voice dropping into a more analytical, yet deeply empathetic register.
“I watched the whole tournament, Natán. But specifically tonight. I saw what they did to you.”
Natán squeezed his eyes shut, the shame flaring up again.
“It was a nightmare,” he confessed, the words spilling out of him in a rush of Catalan.
“Every time I got the ball, there were two, sometimes three of them. I tried to go wide, I tried to drag them out, but I just… I couldn’t find the space. I couldn’t get on my left foot. I felt completely useless. Like I let everyone down.”
“Listen to me,” Pep interjected sharply, cutting off the young winger’s downward spiral of self-pity.
The absolute authority in the manager’s voice demanded total attention.
“They double-teamed you because they fear you. They built their entire defensive structure around stopping a nineteen-year-old boy. That is not a failure, Natán. That is a testament to your quality. The failure tonight was not yours. It was a failure of the system to adapt and exploit the spaces that your double-teams created. Do you understand?”
Natán blinked, staring at the wall of the hotel room.
He hadn’t thought about it like that.
He had been so consumed by his own inability to score that he hadn’t considered the broader tactical picture.
“I… yes. I understand.”
“Good,” Pep continued, his voice softening again, taking on an almost paternal warmth.
And then, he said the words that Natán would carry with him for the rest of his career.
“As long as you work for me, I will fight for you, so keep your head up and don’t worry. I know you are a good player and you are a big part of my plans. Take vacation go home come back rest for a couple weeks, join us back in Manchester and bring that energy and that fight, we have a big season ahead.”
The words hung in the air, vibrating through the phone speaker and settling deep into Natán’s chest.
For the past twelve months, through the turbulent season at City and the agonizing pressure of the Euros, he had felt like he was carrying the weight of the world entirely alone.
He had felt like an expensive, flawed commodity that was constantly failing to justify its price tag.
But hearing one of the greatest minds in the history of football explicitly validate him, promise to protect him, and declare him vital to his vision…
it was profoundly overwhelming.
“Thank you, Pep,” Natán whispered in Catalan, his voice thick with genuine emotion.
“I will. I’ll be ready.”
“I know you will,” Pep replied simply.
“Rest well, Natán. Bona nit.”
“Bona nit, míster.”
Natán slowly pulled the phone away from his ear and tapped the red button to hang up the call.
The screen went dark, plunging the room back into shadows.
He sat there in the quiet for a long time, the silence of the Parisian night no longer feeling oppressive, but rather peaceful.
The sting of the final defeat was still there, a dull ache in his chest that would likely take weeks, if not months, to fully fade.
He had lost the European Championship.
But as he finally stood up, unzipping his heavy tracksuit jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair, a profound shift had occurred within him.
The suffocating anxiety and the bitter annoyance had evaporated.
In their place was a fierce, burning anticipation.
He walked over to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains to look out over the glowing lights of Paris.
He actually felt better.
The past was written, but the future—a future in Manchester under the guidance of Pep Guardiola—was a blank canvas.
And for the first time all year, Natán Comas couldn’t wait to get back to work.
As of writing this Spain won.
I prefer Spain, because I like the Catalan thing.
I’m not going to be touching on the whole independence thing, I just thought it was a cool thing to write about.