The heavy, echoing thud of football boots against the concrete tunnel floor sounded like the march of an exhausted, battered, yet entirely victorious army.
The Manchester City players filed into the away dressing room at the Arena Națională, their kits darkened with sweat and plastered with patches of wet, dark green Romanian mud from the grueling first forty-five minutes.
Despite the physical toll of the intense, high-pressing system, the atmosphere inside the locker room was absolutely electric.
They were leading 4-0 away from home in the Champions League qualifiers.
The tie was effectively dead and buried before the second half had even begun.
Natán Comas slumped heavily by his stuff throwing his head back against the cool wooden paneling.
He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling in rapid, jagged breaths, but a massive, irrepressible smile was plastered across his youthful features.
He had done it.
A first-half hat-trick and an assist.
He reached down blindly, grabbing a bright blue bottle of an isotonic energy drink from the small shelf inside his locker.
He twisted the plastic cap off with sweaty fingers and took a long, desperate gulp.
The sweet, heavily artificial fruit punch flavor washed over his tongue, providing an instant, much-needed spike of liquid sugar and electrolytes to his violently drained muscles.
He relished the cold liquid sliding down his throat, actively energizing himself for the second half.
He was ready to go back out there.
He wanted a fourth goal.
He wanted a fifth.
He wanted a sixth.
He wanted to completely rewrite the European record books tonight.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the locker room swung open, and Pep Guardiola strode into the room.
Unlike the terrifying, furious entrance he had made at halftime against Sunderland just a few days prior, tonight Pep looked incredibly calm, almost entirely serene.
The manic, obsessive tension that usually radiated from his tailored suit had vanished, replaced by the quiet, absolute satisfaction of a master tactician watching his grand design execute flawlessly.
Pep walked to the center of the room, clapping his hands together twice.
The loud chatter of the players immediately died down to a respectful, attentive silence.
“Excellent,” Pep began, his voice echoing clearly off the tiled walls, devoid of any shouting.
“Absolutely excellent. The intensity, the passing, the ruthlessness in the final third. We have completely broken their structure. They do not know whether to press us or drop deep. This is exactly the standard of football I expect from this football club.”
Pep turned toward the massive tactical whiteboard, pulling the cap off a black dry-erase marker.
“We have a difficult away fixture against Stoke City this weekend,” Pep continued, his tone shifting into pragmatic, logistical management.
Pep turned back to the squad, his sharp eyes sweeping over the room before locking directly onto the exhausted, entirely content figure of his nineteen-year-old Spanish winger.
“Natán,” Pep said, pointing the marker at him.
“You are coming off.”
Natán froze, the blue sports drink bottle halting halfway to his mouth.
“Kelechi,” Pep shifted his gaze to Kelechi Iheanacho, the young, lightning-fast Nigerian forward who was currently zipping up his tracksuit jacket on the bench.
“You are coming on. You will take Natán’s spot on the right wing. Keep the width, stretch their defensive line. Do not let them breathe.”
Natán slowly lowered the plastic bottle, resting it on his knee.
A few days ago, against Sunderland, the exact same scenario had played out, and Natán had been absolutely furious.
He had thrown his arms up in the air, walked off the pitch with a face like thunder, and felt completely disrespected by the substitution.
But tonight?
Tonight, Natán wasn’t even mad.
He looked down at his neon-green boots, a quiet, profound sense of absolute satisfaction settling deep into his chest.
He had scored a first-half hat-trick in the UEFA Champions League.
He had scored a breathtaking finesse shot, a terrifyingly powerful penalty, and a completely absurd, improvised double-post finish.
He honestly didn’t think he could possibly top that performance if he went back out for another forty-five minutes.
More importantly, he finally understood the method to Pep Guardiola’s madness.
Pep wasn’t subbing him out to punish him or limit his glory.
Pep was subbing him out because he was now considered absolutely vital to the team’s success in the Premier League.
Pep wanted him rested, wrapped in cotton wool, fully preserved for the brutal, physical warfare waiting for them at the bet365 Stadium against Stoke City on Saturday.
It was the ultimate sign of managerial trust.
Natán nodded respectfully, twisting the cap back onto his energy drink and reaching down to begin untaping his shins.
When the teams emerged from the tunnel for the second half, the atmosphere inside the Arena Națională had drastically changed.
The deafening, hostile roar of the Steaua București ultras had entirely died down.
The flares had burned out, leaving only a lingering, bitter smell of sulfur in the cold night air.
The Romanian crowd sat in stunned, miserable silence, completely resigned to the brutal reality of the tactical slaughter they were witnessing.
Natán did not emerge from the tunnel with the starting eleven.
Instead, he walked out a few minutes later, clad in a massive, oversized, sky-blue Manchester City bench coat that swallowed his lithe frame entirely.
He pulled the thick, padded collar up around his ears to shield himself from the freezing Eastern European chill and took a seat on the plush, heated leather chairs of the substitutes’ bench.
He spent the entire second half sitting right next to Jesus Navas.
The veteran Spanish winger, who was entirely aware that the nineteen-year-old kid sitting next to him was actively, permanently stealing his starting position on the right flank, harbored absolutely no resentment.
Navas was a consummate professional, a player who had won World Cups and European Championships with Spain, and he possessed a deep, brotherly fondness for Natán.
“Enjoy the rest, Natán. You earned it. Now you get to sit here and freeze with the rest of us old men.” Navas joked in rapid-fire Spanish, leaning over and nudging Natán in the ribs with his elbow as the second half kicked off.
Natán laughed, a bright, relaxed sound, sinking deeper into the warmth of the oversized coat.
They spent the remainder of the match engaged in comfortable, lighthearted conversation, occasionally pausing to applaud the absolute dominance occurring on the grass in front of them.
Without Natán on the pitch, Manchester City didn’t take their foot off the gas pedal in the slightest.
The tactical machine was far too well-oiled.
In the sixty-fifth minute, Sergio Aguero added his second goal of the night, finishing a brilliant, flowing passing sequence that had started all the way back with Caballero
5-0 City.
Then, ten minutes later, David Silva, drifting effortlessly through the midfield like a ghost, capitalized on a sloppy Steaua clearance.
El Mago took one velvet touch to control the ball on his chest before volleying it beautifully past the despairing dive of Florin Niță to score his very first goal of the new season.
6-0 City.
The Manchester City bench erupted in cheers, Natán and Navas leaping to their feet to applaud their countryman’s brilliant finish.
But as Natán sat back down, a wide smile still plastered across his face, he happened to glance over to his left.
Pep Guardiola was standing on the very edge of the technical area, his dress shoes practically touching the white chalk of the touchline.
The team was winning 6-0 away from home in a European qualifier.
It was a historic, monumental victory.
Yet, Pep wasn’t smiling.
Pep was absolutely fuming.
The manager was waving his arms frantically, screaming at the top of his lungs in a mixture of Spanish, English, and Catalan.
He was pointing violently at the tactical positioning of the midfield, utterly enraged that Fernandinho had played a slightly misweighted pass that had gone out for a meaningless Steaua throw-in near the halfway line.
Natán watched the manager lose his mind over a single, insignificant error in a 6-0 rout, taking a slow, comforting sip from a bottle of water.
He pulled the collar of his warm coat a little tighter around his neck, sinking deep into the plush leather seat.
He was just incredibly, profoundly happy that it wasn’t him out there getting yelled at right now.
Out on the pitch, standing exactly where Natán had stood just forty-five minutes prior, Kelechi Iheanacho was actively fighting for his life against the relentless, unforgiving tactical demands of Pep Guardiola.
Pep stood on the touchline, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles fluttered visibly beneath his skin.
He watched the young Nigerian forward with a critical, deeply annoyed intensity.
Iheanacho was a brilliant, talented young player.
But he was, fundamentally, a central striker being forced to operate in the highly specialized, incredibly complex role of a Guardiola right-winger.
And the cracks in the tactical system were immediately, glaringly obvious.
Pep watched as the ball was cycled out to the right flank.
Iheanacho received the ball right on the touchline, exactly where he was supposed to be.
Alin Toșca, the Steaua left-back who had been absolutely terrorized, humiliated, and mentally broken by Natán Comas in the first half, stepped up to engage the new winger.
But the entire defensive dynamic had shifted.
Toșca wasn’t terrified anymore.
The Romanian defender didn’t backpedal frantically.
He stepped up aggressively, closing the distance with confidence.
Furthermore, and most infuriatingly to Pep, the Steaua double-team completely vanished.
Gabriel Enache, the midfielder who had spent the first half dropping deep to help Toșca smother Natán, completely ignored Iheanacho.
Enache stayed central, recognizing that the Nigerian didn’t possess the same, terrifying gravitational pull that the Spanish teenager did.
They simply weren’t afraid of him.
Even Iheanacho’s best attribute, his blistering, explosive speed, was not faster than Natán’s.
When Iheanacho tried to knock the ball past Toșca and beat him in a pure footrace down the outside channel, the Romanian defender was able to stick his body in the way, successfully jostling the young forward off the ball and winning a goal kick.
Pep let out a loud, frustrated groan, rubbing his temples.
The entire offensive machine was stalling on the right side because Iheanacho couldn’t do anything that Natán could do.
It was incredibly aggravating to watch, because it meant a very stark, brutal reality for the upcoming season: Natán Comas was undroppable
Pep was going to have to play the teenager for significantly more minutes than he originally wanted to, risking injury and fatigue, simply because the tactical drop-off without him was far too severe.
A few minutes later, Iheanacho received the ball again.
Realizing he wasn’t finding any joy on the outside, the Nigerian forward attempted to mimic the exact sequence that had made Natán famous.
Iheanacho drove forward, executed a heavy step-over, and chopped the ball sharply inside onto his left foot, attempting to open his body for a curling, finesse shot into the far corner.
It was a total disaster.
Iheanacho’s touch was too heavy.
Toșca read the cut-inside immediately, stepping in and effortlessly stealing the ball before the shot could even be taken.
“No! Kelechi! No!” Pep screamed from the touchline, completely losing his temper, waving his arms wildly to get the young forward’s attention.
“Stay wide! You do not come inside! You keep your boots on the chalk! Provide the width!”
Pep was visibly fuming.
In Guardiola’s rigid, mathematically precise system of Juego de Posición, wingers were strictly forbidden from cutting inside unless the specific tactical rotation explicitly called for it.
They existed to stretch the pitch, to pin the opposition fullbacks as wide as humanly possible, creating massive, gaping holes in the inner channels for the attacking midfielders to exploit.
Pep absolutely hated inverted wingers who constantly cut inside to shoot.
It disrupted the entire geometry of the attack.
He gave Natán a very special, highly exclusive exception to this fundamental rule because Natán could execute that specific, curling shot with the absolute best of them.
Natán had the ‘Arjen Robben Exception’.
When you possessed a left foot that could genuinely warp the laws of physics and guarantee ten goals a season from that exact same play, the tactical rules simply didn’t apply to you.
But Iheanacho was not Arjen Robben, and he was certainly not Natán Comas.
The worst offense, however, came in the seventy-fifth minute.
City was struggling to build out from the back against a rare, desperate Steaua high press.
John Stones looked up, desperately seeking a passing option.
Iheanacho, trying his absolute best to follow the tactical instructions he had heard Pep scream at Natán all week, decided to drop deep.
The Nigerian forward abandoned his high, wide position, sprinting thirty yards back into his own half, dropping directly into the right half-space to provide a short passing option for Stones.
But it failed spectacularly.
When Natán had done this exact same movement, his terrifying reputation had forced the Steaua defender to follow him like a shadow, completely vacating the defensive line and creating a massive hole for someone to exploit.
But when Iheanacho dropped back?
Toșca didn’t move a single inch.
The Romanian defender simply stayed in his defensive line, perfectly content to let the Nigerian have the ball sixty yards away from the goal.
“Kelechi! What are you doing?!” Pep bellowed, his voice cracking with pure frustration.
“Get high! Get back up the pitch! Never do that again! You are collapsing the space! Never!”
Pep turned his back to the pitch, walking toward the dugout, running an agitated hand over his bald head.
If he was being completely, brutally honest with himself, he hated when wingers dropped deep into the midfield.
He absolutely despised the concept of a ‘False Winger’.
It congested the central areas, it invited pressure onto the ball, and it completely destroyed the width of his attacking shape.
The only reason—the singular, highly classified tactical reason—he had allowed Natán to do it, the reason he had explicitly commanded the teenager to drop deep and link the play, was simply to see if the boy actually could do it.
And it was working.
When Natán dropped deep, it caused absolute chaos.
Before Natán had even returned from his holiday, he had told players to run into the spaces he created.
Whoever was on the right, whether it was Zabaleta, Sagna, and De Bruyne, were getting acres of room to cross the ball simply because Natán dragged terrified defenders out of position with him every single time he moved.
It was incredibly smart.
It was highly effective because defenders feared Natán both on the ball and off the ball.
But Pep didn’t want that from his wingers.
He wanted his wingers high and wide, hugging the touchline, providing the canvas for the rest of the team to paint on.
The only reason he wanted Natán to learn how to drop deep, link the play, and operate in tight, congested central areas with his back to goal was because that was exactly the skill set required from a False Nine.
Pep Guardiola had a grand, sweeping, highly secretive vision for the future of Manchester City.
He was going to eventually move Natán Comas off the right wing entirely.
He was going to place the teenager dead center of the pitch, operating as the undisputed focal point of the entire attacking system.
But there were certain, incredibly complex things Natán had to learn first.
He had to learn how to suffer.
He had to learn how to receive the ball under suffocating pressure from the opposition.
He had to learn how to link play better.
He had to learn his runs wouldn’t always be rewarded, but that wasn’t an excuse to stop doing his other roles.
He had to learn the microscopic, split-second timing of when to drop deep and when to spin in behind.
There was a profound, deeply philosophical reason Pep was the hardest on him.
There was a reason Pep screamed at him more than any other player in the squad, why he nitpicked his attitude and his defensive work rate.
It was because Pep Guardiola possessed one of the greatest footballing minds in history, and when he looked at Natán Comas, he saw the absolute most raw, terrifying, limitless potential he had ever seen since a young, long-haired Lionel Messi first stepped onto the training pitches of Barcelona.
If Pep could break the teenager’s limiting habits, if he could truly tap into that boundless potential…
the sky wasn’t just the limit.
It was the starting point.
The referee finally, mercifully blew the final whistle, bringing the absolute demolition of Steaua București to an end.
Steaua București 0 – 6 Manchester City.
The Manchester City players on the pitch raised their arms in weary celebration, while the bench players threw off their heavy coats and jogged out onto the grass to congratulate their teammates.
Natán walked onto the pitch, immediately pulling his oversized coat tight against the freezing Romanian wind.
He exchanged high-fives with Aguero and De Bruyne, sharing a quick, exhausted embrace with John Stones.
Before he could make his way toward the warmth of the tunnel, a UEFA match official, dressed in a sleek, dark suit and wearing an official lanyard, jogged up to him.
The official was holding the match ball.
The heavy, synthetic leather sphere was covered in dark streaks of green mud and scuff marks, smelling distinctly of wet grass and sweat.
The official extended his hands, offering the ball directly to Natán.
“Congratulations on the hat-trick, Natán. Incredible performance.”
Natán smiled broadly, a genuine thrill of pride washing over him as he took the ball, tucking it securely under his left arm.
“Thank you. Much appreciated.”
He turned, eager to finally escape the freezing stadium, hit the hot showers, and get back to the hotel to text Kylie.
He was completely, utterly exhausted.
But as he took two steps toward the tunnel, a firm hand clamped down heavily onto his shoulder.
Natán stopped, turning his head.
It was Sarah, the head of Manchester City’s media and public relations department.
She had a severe, no-nonsense expression on her face, holding a clipboard in one hand and her ringing smartphone in the other.
“Not so fast, Natán,” Sarah said, pointing her pen toward the sideline.
“UEFA wants you for the post-match television interview. You’re the Man of the Match.”
Natán froze.
The smile completely vanished from his face, instantly replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated terror.
“No, no, no,” Natán pleaded, taking a step backward, shaking his head rapidly.
“Please, Sarah. No English. My English is very bad. Send Kevin. Send Sergio. Send anybody.”
“Sergio already did the pre-match presser, and Kevin is doing the BBC radio spot,” Sarah replied firmly, completely unmoved by his panic. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“You scored a hat-trick. The broadcasters specifically requested you. You have to do it.”
Natán’s heart began to hammer violently against his ribs.
He was completely fine facing down giant, aggressive Romanian center-backs in front of 55,000 screaming hostile fans, but the thought of speaking broken English into a live television camera broadcasting to millions of viewers across Europe absolutely terrified him.
“I can’t,” Natán begged, his Catalan accent thickening with his anxiety.
“I will sound like an idiot. They speak too fast. I don’t understand the questions.”
Just then, David Silva, who had been walking slowly toward the tunnel, noticed the commotion.
The veteran midfielder altered his path, jogging over to where Natán was desperately trying to negotiate his way out of the media duties.
“What’s the problem?” Silva asked in Spanish, glancing between the panicked teenager and the stern PR director.
“He has to do the post-match TV interview,” Sarah explained with a frustrated sigh.
“And he’s refusing because of his English.”
Silva looked at Natán, a highly amused, older-brother smirk crossing his features.
He reached out, slapping Natán firmly on the back.
“You speak English, come on,” Silva encouraged, seamlessly switching to English himself to prove a point.
“You live in Manchester for a year now.”
Natán looked incredibly nervous, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, clutching the muddy match ball tightly against his chest like a protective shield.
“David, please. I only know how to order food and yell at the referee. The reporters use big words. I don’t know what to say.”
Silva chuckled warmly, wrapping an arm around the teenager’s shoulders and physically steering him toward the brightly lit media zone set up on the touchline.
“It is easy, kid,” Silva promised in Spanish, his tone highly reassuring.
“I will come with you. If you don’t understand, I will translate. Just keep it simple. They ask you a question, just say: ‘I enjoy game, I shoot very well.'”
Natán let out a sudden, bark-like laugh, some of the tension instantly leaving his shoulders.
Silva’s terrible, robotic impression of generic footballer media-speak was exactly what he needed to hear.
“I enjoy game, I shoot very well. Okay. I can say that.”
“Exactly,” Silva grinned.
“Let’s get this over with.”
They arrived at the media zone.
A massive, brightly illuminated backdrop covered in the UEFA Champions League logos and corporate sponsors had been erected on the touchline.
The glare from the heavy television lights was blinding.
A reporter from a major British sports network stood holding a microphone, surrounded by a small crew of cameramen and audio technicians.
“Gentlemen, thank you for stopping by,” the British reporter smiled professionally, gesturing for them to stand on their designated marks.
“We are live in five, four, three…”
The red light on top of the massive television camera clicked on.
“We are joined pitch-side by David Silva and our Man of the Match, Natán Comas, after a truly historic 6-0 victory here in Bucharest,” the reporter began smoothly, looking directly into the camera before turning to the veteran midfielder.
“David, we’ll start with you. The team looked completely unplayable tonight. The passing, the movement—it seems Pep Guardiola’s philosophy is already taking deep root in this squad.”
David Silva nodded, his expression completely calm and professional.
He answered the question in perfect, heavily accented, but entirely fluent English.
“Yes, it was a very good performance from the whole team,” Silva explained smoothly.
“We have worked very hard in training. The manager asks for a lot of intensity, a lot of focus. We wanted to come here and control the game from the first minute, and I think we did that perfectly today.”
“Indeed you did,” the reporter agreed, before pivoting sharply, aiming the microphone directly at the nineteen-year-old standing nervously beside him.
“Natán, what a phenomenal European debut under the new manager. A first-half hat-trick. How did you enjoy tonight?”
Natán froze for a microscopic fraction of a second.
The blinding lights were completely in his eyes.
He squeezed the match ball tightly against his ribs.
His brain frantically scrambled, pulling up the generic, safe PR vocabulary he had practiced in the shower.
“Um,” Natán started, his voice a little dry, his thick Catalan accent incredibly pronounced.
“Team win. Good performance. Good goals. Great night.”
He offered a stiff, nervous nod, desperately hoping that was enough to satisfy the reporter.
The reporter smiled, clearly charmed by the young superstar’s broken English and humble delivery.
“You certainly provided the good goals. You’ve been the subject of a lot of intense tactical coaching from Pep Guardiola this week, but tonight you looked completely unleashed. Are you feeling more confident in this new system?”
Natán completely blanked.
His eyes widened slightly.
He had absolutely no idea what the man had just asked him.
The British accent was too fast, the vocabulary—’unleashed’, ‘intense tactical coaching’, ‘system’—was too complex.
He stared at the reporter like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
He glanced desperately sideways at David Silva.
“No understand,” Natán whispered quietly, leaning slightly away from the microphone.
David Silva didn’t miss a beat.
The veteran midfielder stepped in instantly, utilizing his flawless, older-brother media savvy to save the teenager from the awkward silence.
Silva answered the question for Natán, leaning slightly toward the microphone.
“Yeah, he is,” Silva nodded, offering a reassuring smile to the camera.
“He’s very confident. The manager demands a lot from the wingers, but Natán is adapting very fast. He wants the ball much more than last season. He is demanding the ball in tight spaces, and when he gets it, well, you saw what happens.”
“Absolutely,” the reporter nodded enthusiastically, seizing the opportunity to engage the veteran player on the topic of his young protégé.
“He seems to be imposing himself more on the game now. Last season we saw flashes of individual brilliance, but tonight he looked like a complete, unstoppable forward.”
“He is,” Silva agreed, his tone carrying a genuine, profound pride.
“But he’s only nineteen. People forget that because he has a large price tag on his shoulders, so it takes time. It’s kind of settling in now. We saw flashes of it last season, but this season, with this manager, he’s playing much better. The sky is the limit for him.”
Natán stood beside him, holding the match ball, feeling incredibly grateful for the intervention.
He just nodded along politely, putting on a vacant, pleasant smile, completely relying on the bobblehead technique he had demonstrated to Kylie in the seafood restaurant just a few weeks ago.
“Brilliant,” the reporter smiled, wrapping up the interview.
“Well, gentlemen, congratulations on the massive result. Safe flight back to Manchester.”
“Thank you,” Silva nodded politely.
“Thank you,” Natán echoed quickly.
As the red light on the camera finally clicked off, the reporter reached down into a small black case resting by his feet.
He pulled out the official UEFA Champions League Man of the Match award—a sleek, heavy, angular trophy made of brushed silver metal and polished glass.
“Natán, before you go, we just need a quick photo with the award,” the reporter said, handing the heavy trophy to the teenager.
Natán took the trophy in his right hand, balancing the muddy match ball awkwardly against his left hip.
He stepped forward into the center of the illuminated backdrop.
“Just look right here at the camera, Natán,” the UEFA photographer instructed, raising a massive DSLR camera to his eye.
“Give us a big smile.”
Natán stared directly into the massive glass lens of the camera.
The intense, blinding flash of the strobe lights fired in rapid succession.
And, completely reverting to his absolute default setting of profound, endearing social awkwardness, Natán didn’t strike a cool, arrogant pose.
He didn’t point at the trophy or kiss the match ball.
He just smiled nervously, raised his right hand holding the heavy silver trophy, and awkwardly stuck his thumb straight up into the air.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The photo was taken.
It was a terrible, incredibly stiff, completely hilarious photograph that would inevitably go viral across the internet within the hour.
But Natán didn’t care.
The interview was finally over.
The game was won.
He handed the trophy to the PR manager, tucked the match ball securely back under his arm, and began the walk back down the dark, concrete tunnel toward the locker room.