The heavy, reinforced doors of the away dressing room at the bet365 Stadium swung shut, sealing the Manchester City squad inside a humid, cramped concrete bunker that smelled overwhelmingly of deep-heat muscle rub, wet grass, and exhausted sweat.
Natán Comas trudged over to his designated locker stall, his neon-green boots completely caked in thick, dark Staffordshire mud.
He slumped down onto the hard wooden bench, his chest heaving as he reached blindly for a towel to wipe the freezing rain from his face.
He was physically battered, but mentally, he was bracing himself for an absolute hurricane.
He knew exactly what was coming.
He had just attempted a wildly audacious, highly arrogant trivela from the edge of the penalty area in the dying seconds of the first half.
It had smashed against the crossbar, yes, but it was an egregious violation of Pep Guardiola’s strict tactical philosophy.
He had abandoned high-percentage possession for a low-percentage moment of individual street-football flair.
Pep hated that.
Pep had literally mocked him in front of the entire squad just a few days ago for attempting a Panenka.
Natán sat with his shoulders hunched, staring at the floor tiles, fully expecting the bald manager to storm over, point a terrifying finger in his face, and unleash a torrent of furious Catalan.
Pep Guardiola walked to the center of the cramped dressing room.
He unzipped his waterproof jacket, running a hand over his head.
The room fell into absolute, terrified silence.
“The second balls!” Pep barked, his voice echoing sharply off the walls, but his eyes were locked entirely onto the midfield and defense.
“Stoke is bypassing the midfield! They are playing long to Crouch, playing long to Arnautovic! Nicolas, John, you must be stronger in the initial duel! And Fernandinho, Kevin, you must anticipate the drop! We are losing the second balls, and that is why the game feels chaotic!”
Natán kept his head down, waiting for the inevitable pivot.
He waited for Pep’s eyes to snap toward him.
But it never happened.
For the entire fifteen-minute halftime interval, Pep Guardiola paced the room, furiously dissecting Stoke City’s defensive block, drawing rapid diagrams on the whiteboard, and demanding higher intensity from the full-backs.
He praised David Silva’s ball retention.
He demanded more aggressive overlapping runs from Aleksandar Kolarov.
He even praised Sergio Aguero’s hold-up play.
He didn’t mention Natán once.
He didn’t bring up the goal Natán had created.
He didn’t bring up the fact that Natán had abandoned the left flank to create the overload on the right.
And, most shockingly of all, he didn’t utter a single, solitary syllable about the trivela that had nearly shattered the crossbar.
It was as if Natán hadn’t even been on the pitch for the last ten minutes of the half.
As the referee’s whistle blew in the tunnel, signaling the teams to return to the pitch, Natán stood up, utterly, profoundly confused.
He exchanged a bewildered glance with Jesus Navas, but the veteran just shrugged.
Natán walked out of the dressing room, his mind racing.
Why wasn’t Pep angry?
Why hadn’t he been screamed at?
The psychological mind games of Pep Guardiola were proving to be an infinitely more exhausting labyrinth than the physical matches themselves.
The second half began under a sky that had darkened from slate-grey to a bruised, miserable purple.
The freezing rain intensified, driving sideways across the pitch in heavy, stinging sheets.
Stoke City, trailing 2-0 at home and spurred on by the deafening, hostile roar of the Boothen End, emerged from the tunnel with a renewed, violent determination.
Mark Hughes had clearly instructed his players to abandon any pretense of polite, technical defending.
If they couldn’t out-pass Manchester City, they were going to out-fight them.
They were going to drag the wealthy superstars down into the mud and make it an absolute dogfight.
And Natán Comas, operating on the left flank, instantly became their primary, designated target.
In the forty-eighth minute, Natán received a bouncing pass from Kolarov near the touchline.
Before he could even bring his left foot up to cushion the wet leather, Glenn Whelan arrived like a runaway freight train.
The Stoke midfielder didn’t attempt to play the ball.
He launched into a heavy, reckless slide tackle, his studs raised, catching Natán violently on the shin pad.
The crowd roared in deep, partisan approval, cheering the brutal, bone-rattling challenge.
The referee blew his whistle, awarding the foul, but kept his yellow card firmly tucked in his pocket, setting a terrifyingly high threshold for physical violence.
Natán scrambled to his feet, gritting his teeth as a sharp, stinging pain radiated up his leg.
He limped slightly, waving off David Silva’s concerned glance.
Five minutes later, it happened again.
Natán utilized his explosive pace to knock the ball past Glen Johnson, engaging in a pure footrace down the outside channel.
But as he sprinted past the veteran full-back, Johnson cynically threw a heavy, muscular shoulder check directly into Natán’s ribs.
It was a classic, old-school professional foul.
Natán was sent careening wildly off balance, sliding chest-first across the slick grass and crashing hard into the advertising hoardings.
He lay there for a few seconds, gasping for breath as the cold plastic of the hoarding dug into his shoulder.
The physical abuse was relentless.
Every time he touched the ball, he was instantly hacked, shoved, or clattered.
His neon-green boots were entirely brown with mud, his sky-blue kit was stained and soaking wet, and his entire body throbbed with deep, blossoming bruises.
But Natán refused to hide.
The arrogance that had defined his youth career, the stubborn, unyielding pride that fueled his street-football instincts, completely took over.
In the fifty-sixth minute, Manchester City established a period of sustained, gritty possession deep in the Stoke half.
The ball was cycled out to the left wing.
Natán received the ball perfectly, killing it dead on the chalk.
Glen Johnson stepped up immediately, lowering his center of gravity, preparing to deliver another bruising hit.
The Stoke defender was actively cheating his body shape, heavily blocking the outside channel, completely content to force Natán inside onto his famously terrible right foot.
Natán stared at him.
He saw the tactical disrespect.
Johnson genuinely believed Natán’s right foot was entirely useless.
Natán decided it was time to adapt.
He drove aggressively at Johnson.
Instead of trying to force his way down the outside line where he knew he would be shoved into the stands, Natán executed a sharp, violent chop with the inside of his left boot.
He cut the ball sharply inside, spinning Johnson out of the play, driving horizontally across the edge of the penalty area.
He was exactly where he wanted to be, but the ball was on his right foot.
The massive Stoke center-backs, Ryan Shawcross and Philipp Wollscheid, didn’t panic.
They held their line, stepping up slightly, fully expecting the Spanish teenager to awkwardly attempt to shift the ball back onto his left foot to shoot.
Natán didn’t shift it.
Operating purely on a desperate, improvisational instinct, Natán looked into the penalty area.
Sergio Aguero was making a brilliant, darting run toward the penalty spot, fighting off the grappling arms of Erik Pieters.
Natán didn’t break his stride.
He planted his left foot firmly in the mud, opened his hips, and swung his right leg in a smooth, sweeping arc.
He executed an inside, in-swinging cross with his right foot.
As the wet leather left his boot, Natán instinctively winced, fully expecting the ball to misfire, slice out of bounds, or sail harmlessly into the stands like it had done in the first half.
But he had connected cleanly.
The ball arced beautifully through the freezing Staffordshire air.
It possessed a wicked, dipping trajectory, bending perfectly around the towering frame of Ryan Shawcross.
It wasn’t a scuffed, weak delivery; it was a pinpoint, highly dangerous, world-class cross that dropped with terrifying precision directly onto the penalty spot.
Sergio Aguero didn’t even have to break his stride.
The Argentine striker leaped into the air, snapping his neck forward, meeting the cross with a powerful, thumping header aimed directly at the bottom left corner.
It was a guaranteed goal.
But Shay Given, the legendary Irish goalkeeper, produced a moment of absolute, logic-defying brilliance.
Launching his body to his right, Given fully extended his arms, getting two strong palms behind the wet ball.
Instead of parrying it away into danger, Given managed to completely absorb the impact, catching the ball securely against his chest and killing the play dead.
A collective groan echoed from the away end, mixed with a massive cheer from the relieved Stoke supporters.
Natán stood at the edge of the penalty area, entirely frozen.
He didn’t drop his head in frustration at the incredible save.
He didn’t complain.
He just stared at his right boot.
His dark eyes were wide with genuine, profound confusion.
He slowly rotated his right ankle, looking at the neon-green synthetic leather as if it were a strange, alien artifact that had magically attached itself to his leg.
Did I just do that?
Natán thought, his brain scrambling to process the biomechanics.
It was a perfect cross.
It had the right weight, the right whip, the right elevation.
He hadn’t overthought it; he had just trusted his body, and his right foot had actually delivered.
A sudden, thrilling realization began to dawn on him.
For his entire life, he had relied almost exclusively on his left foot, treating his right as merely a tool for standing and running.
But he was a professional athlete.
He possessed elite coordination.
If he could actually use his right foot to deliver dangerous balls into the box, he wouldn’t be a one-dimensional, inverted winger anymore.
He would be entirely, absolutely unguardable.
If defenders forced him outside, he could cross with his left.
If they forced him inside, he could cross with his right.
Ten minutes later, the game was still locked at a tense 2-0.
Stoke City was pushing bodies forward, desperately seeking an equalizer, leaving massive, gaping acres of space behind their defensive line.
In the sixty-eighth minute, Kevin De Bruyne intercepted a sloppy pass in the midfield and immediately triggered a lightning-fast counter-attack.
The Belgian maestro looked up and fired a brilliant, defense-splitting pass out to the left flank.
Natán was off like a rocket.
He burned past the exhausted Glen Johnson, receiving the ball perfectly in stride.
He drove aggressively into the left side of the penalty area.
Ryan Shawcross, recognizing the massive danger, broke from his central position and rushed out to confront the teenager.
Shawcross approached with a wide, heavy stance.
The Stoke captain knew what had happened last time.
He knew Natán had crossed it with his right foot.
So, Shawcross actively cheated his body shape, trying to play both angles, terrified of committing fully to the inside or the outside.
Natán saw the hesitation.
The newfound confidence in his right foot surged through his veins like high-octane fuel.
Natán executed his trademark, world-famous move—the exact same sequence he had used a thousand times on the right wing—but he completely mirrored it.
He performed a rapid, hypnotic double step-over with his left foot.
He dropped his left shoulder violently, faking the drive down the outside channel.
Shawcross, terrified of being beaten for pace, shifted his massive weight backward.
In a fraction of a second, Natán chopped the ball sharply and violently inside onto his right foot.
He completely spun Shawcross out of the play, leaving the massive center-back twisting helplessly in the mud.
Natán opened his body, his hips facing the far post.
He didn’t look to cross it.
He looked directly at the goal.
Natán swung his right leg back and struck the ball with the instep of his right boot, attempting to execute the exact same curling, dipping finesse shot he usually reserved for his magical left foot.
The strike was incredibly clean.
The ball flew off his right boot with a beautiful, wicked curl.
It bypassed the sprawling, desperate dive of Shay Given entirely, bending majestically through the freezing rain.
The entire stadium held its collective breath.
SMASH.
The ball hammered violently against the inside of the far right post.
The concussive, metallic ping echoed loudly across the pitch.
The ball ricocheted sharply back across the face of the goal, entirely bypassing the goal line, before being frantically hacked away to safety by a desperate Erik Pieters.
Natán threw his hands onto his head, letting out a loud, agonizing scream of frustration.
He had been mere inches away from scoring a spectacular, weak-footed goal.
But as he stood there, cursing his luck in rapid Catalan, a sudden commotion on the touchline caught his attention.
Natán looked over toward the technical area.
Pep Guardiola was not standing calmly with his arms crossed.
Pep was absolutely, completely losing his mind.
But he wasn’t angry.
He was completely ecstatic.
Pep was pumping his fists violently into the air.
He spun around, grabbing Mikel Arteta by the shoulders and shaking his assistant manager enthusiastically, a massive, brilliant, almost maniacal smile splitting his face.
Pep was clapping his hands so hard it looked painful, roaring his approval into the rain.
Natán stared at his manager utterly bewildered.
Pep looked significantly, undeniably happier about a missed shot that hit the post than he had looked when Natán actually scored the opening goal in the first half.
Natán slowly climbed to his feet, wiping the mud from his track pants, deeply confused by the reaction.
He didn’t understand the complex, obsessive psychology of Pep Guardiola.
Pep didn’t care about the fact that the ball hadn’t gone in.
Pep didn’t care about the luck of the post.
Pep was ecstatic because Natán had tried it.
Pep was thrilled because the heavily one-dimensional teenager had actively taken the coaching on board.
To Pep, that shot hitting the post was absolute, undeniable proof that his grueling, agonizing psychological methods were working.
Natán was evolving before his very eyes.
When the game restarted, Natán was a completely different player.
The psychological block of the left flank had entirely vanished.
He was playing with a joyous, terrifying fluidity.
In the seventy-fifth minute, he picked up the ball near the halfway line.
He drove directly at the Stoke defense, completely unpredictable.
He wasn’t just an inverted winger anymore; he was a dual-threat nightmare.
He isolated Glen Johnson once again.
He faked inside, dropped his shoulder, and drove down the outside channel.
As Johnson committed to the block, Natán executed a lightning-fast Cruyff turn, chopping the ball back inside onto his right foot.
He didn’t shoot this time.
He looked up, surveying the penalty area.
Kevin De Bruyne, possessing world-class spatial awareness, had made a brilliant, late, darting run into the box, entirely unmarked.
Natán didn’t hesitate.
He whipped a beautiful, in-swinging cross with his right foot.
It was even better than his first attempt to Aguero.
The ball had a wicked, flat trajectory, dropping with pinpoint, laser-guided precision directly onto the penalty spot.
De Bruyne arrived perfectly in stride, launching his body into the air, meeting the cross with a powerful, diving header.
The stadium gasped as the ball flashed agonizingly, microscopically wide of the near post, rippling the side netting.
De Bruyne scrambled to his feet, his hands on his head, blowing out a frustrated breath.
But the Belgian immediately turned back to Natán, pointing a finger and giving him a massive, appreciative thumbs-up for the absolute perfection of the weak-footed delivery.
Natán nodded, jogging back into position, a massive, arrogant smile returning to his face.
He was unlocking an entirely new dimension to his game.
He was becoming completely, utterly unplayable.
Two minutes later, Stoke City’s frustration finally boiled over into catastrophic indiscipline.
Natán received a short pass from David Silva just outside the left edge of the penalty area.
He killed the ball instantly, turning to face the goal.
Ryan Shawcross and Glenn Whelan immediately collapsed on him, attempting to execute a suffocating double-team.
Natán didn’t pass it.
He engaged his elite, close-control dribbling.
He danced the ball rapidly between his left and right feet, a mesmerizing, hypnotic blur of neon-green boots.
He dropped his shoulder, faked to the right, and chopped the ball violently to his left, completely splitting the gap between the two massive defenders.
He burst into the penalty area, driving aggressively toward the byline.
Glenn Whelan, entirely beaten for pace and operating purely on desperate, exhausted instinct, lunged forward recklessly.
The Stoke midfielder didn’t even come close to the ball.
At full sprinting speed, the contact was devastating.
Natán’s legs were completely swept out from beneath him as he crashed heavily onto the wet turf, sliding across the mud deep inside the penalty area.
The referee blew his whistle instantly, sprinting toward the spot, pointing aggressively at the penalty mark.
Penalty to Manchester City.
The away end erupted in absolute jubilation.
The Stoke players swarmed the referee, protesting wildly, but it was a completely useless endeavor.
It was a blatant, undeniable, stonewall foul.
Natán sat up in the mud, wincing slightly as a sharp throb of pain pulsed through his ankle.
He rubbed his calf, slowly climbing to his feet.
He looked toward the penalty spot, entirely expecting Sergio Aguero to retrieve the ball.
But Aguero wasn’t there.
Natán looked over to the touchline.
The electronic substitution board had been raised just a few minutes prior, replacing Aguero with Nolito to rest the Argentine striker’s legs.
Natán was the one who had drawn the foul.
According to the traditional, unwritten hierarchy of the dressing room, the penalty was his to take.
He walked over, picking the match ball up off the wet grass.
He cradled it in his hands, staring at the penalty spot.
He could easily step up and smash it.
He could get his goal.
He could silence the hostile Stoke crowd entirely.
But as he held the ball, Natán looked around the penalty area.
He saw Kevin De Bruyne standing near the edge of the box.
The Belgian maestro had run himself into the absolute ground today.
He had covered every single blade of grass, orchestrated every attack, and had just narrowly missed a brilliant header from Natán’s cross.
De Bruyne was the undisputed engine of the team, and he deserved the reward.
Natán didn’t hesitate.
He suppressed his massive, selfish ego. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
He walked over to De Bruyne, tossing the muddy ball underhand directly into the Belgian’s chest.
“Yours, Kev,” Natán said simply, his English clear and confident.
De Bruyne caught the ball, his pale eyes widening in genuine surprise.
He looked at the teenager, deeply appreciative of the unselfish gesture.
The Belgian nodded firmly, a small smile crossing his lips.
“Thanks, mate.”
Natán stepped out of the penalty area, resting his hands heavily on his hips, watching as De Bruyne placed the ball on the spot.
The referee blew his whistle.
De Bruyne ran up, opened his hips with clinical precision, and slammed the ball ruthlessly into the bottom right corner, sending Shay Given entirely the wrong way.
3-0 City.
The game was absolutely, entirely dead and buried.
Manchester City had completely dismantled Stoke in their own miserable, freezing backyard.
As the players celebrated near the corner flag, Natán allowed himself a brief moment of profound satisfaction.
He had assisted the first goal.
He had earned the penalty for the third.
He had survived the physical battering, and he had unlocked the terrifying potential of his right foot.
But football is a cruel, unforgiving game, and Pep Guardiola’s system demanded absolute perfection for ninety entire minutes.
In the eighty-second minute, exhaustion finally caught up with the nineteen-year-old.
Manchester City was comfortably maintaining possession in the midfield, casually running down the clock.
Nolito played a sloppy, misweighted pass that was easily intercepted by Giannelli Imbula in the center circle.
Instantly, Stoke City launched a rapid, desperate counter-attack.
Imbula drove the ball forward, looking up to see Marko Arnautovic making a blistering run down the right flank.
Imbula played a sweeping, diagonal long ball directly out to the wing.
Natán, who was currently jogging slowly near the halfway line, saw the pass.
According to the strict, non-negotiable rules of Pep’s pressing system, Natán was supposed to instantly engage his sprinting speed, track back aggressively, and close down the passing angle before Arnautovic could control the ball.
But Natán didn’t sprint.
His legs felt like lead.
His lungs burned.
He was leading 3-0 in the eighty-second minute.
He figured the defense had it covered.
So, instead of sprinting, Natán simply executed a lazy, half-hearted jog, completely failing to apply any meaningful pressure on the ball.
Arnautovic received the pass perfectly.
Because Natán hadn’t pressed him, the massive Austrian winger had all the time and space in the world.
He looked up, picked his spot, and delivered a brilliant, pinpoint cross directly into the heart of the Manchester City penalty area.
Bojan Krkic, the former Barcelona prodigy, ghosted perfectly between Otamendi and Stones, throwing his body forward and executing a brilliant, glancing header that flew past Claudio Bravo and nestled perfectly into the bottom corner.
3-1.
The Stoke supporters erupted into a massive, defiant roar, finding a brief sliver of joy in an otherwise miserable afternoon.
Natán froze near the halfway line.
His heart sank instantly into his stomach.
He didn’t need anyone to tell him what had just happened.
He knew exactly whose fault that goal was.
He had been lazy.
He had completely switched off, failing to execute the fundamental, basic pressing trigger that Pep had drilled into them all week.
Natán slowly turned his head, looking toward the technical area with a deep, creeping sense of absolute dread.
Pep Guardiola was standing perfectly still.
The manager didn’t scream.
He didn’t wave his arms.
He didn’t throw a water bottle.
Pep simply stood there, his jaw clenched, glaring directly at Natán with an expression of such profound, intense, cold disappointment that it made Natán’s blood run entirely cold.
The silence from the touchline was infinitely more terrifying than any screaming rant could ever be.
Before the ball was even placed back on the center spot for the restart, the electronic substitution board glowed brightly on the touchline.
7 OUT.
Natán dropped his head.
He knew it.
He didn’t complain.
He didn’t throw his arms up in the air.
He began the slow, miserable walk toward the touchline, the freezing rain beating heavily against his shoulders.
He had played a brilliant game, but the single lapse in concentration, the single moment of lazy complacency, was the only thing that mattered in Pep Guardiola’s ruthless pursuit of perfection.
He crossed the white chalk, slapping hands briefly with Iheanacho, who was coming on to replace him.
Natán expected to be completely ignored by the manager.
He fully prepared himself to walk straight past Pep, sit on the bench in shame, and endure the silent treatment for the entire flight back to Manchester.
But as Natán walked past the technical area, Pep Guardiola stepped directly into his path.
The manager didn’t look angry anymore.
He reached out, wrapping his arms around the freezing, mud-covered teenager, pulling Natán into a firm, highly affectionate, almost paternal hug.
Natán stood perfectly stiff, his eyes wide in total shock.
Pep pulled back slightly, keeping his hands firmly gripped on Natán’s shoulders, looking directly into the boy’s dark, confused eyes.
“Perfect,” Pep said, his voice loud enough to cut through the roar of the crowd, his tone vibrating with absolute, genuine pride.
“Goal. Assist. Dribble. And you use your right. They call you both-footed because you can use both well. Don’t be afraid to use both.”
Pep smiled warmly, patting him heavily on the cheek.
“But one thing.”
Natán swallowed hard, the guilt sitting heavy in his chest.
He looked down at the muddy grass, his voice quiet.
“I didn’t press.”
“Exactly,” Pep nodded firmly, entirely validating the self-correction.
The manager didn’t need to scream; the lesson had been learned internally.
“Good game. Rest up. You’re playing Wednesday.”
Pep released his shoulders, giving him a firm pat on the back, instantly turning his attention back to the final minutes of the match.
Natán stood on the touchline, entirely frozen.
His eyes widened to the absolute size of saucers.
His exhausted brain frantically processed the final sentence the manager had just delivered.
You’re playing Wednesday.
Wednesday was the second leg of the Champions League qualifier against Steaua București at the Etihad Stadium.
They were already leading 6-0 on aggregate.
The tie was entirely, mathematically dead and buried.
It was the ultimate, undisputed definition of a meaningless, dead-rubber fixture.
The entire squad fully expected Pep to heavily rotate the starting eleven, deploying the youth academy prospects and the bench players to rest the weary legs of the first-team stars.
Why on earth was he playing Wednesday?
He had just played two grueling, physically agonizing fixtures in the span of four days.
He was covered in bruises.
He was absolutely, profoundly exhausted.
He had a date scheduled with Kylie!
Natán stared at the back of Pep’s bald head, completely gobsmacked by the relentless, unyielding demands of the man.
It was madness.
Pure, unadulterated madness.
Letting out a loud, highly exasperated sigh, Natán grabbed a massive, oversized blue bench coat from a kit man and trudged over to the substitutes’ bench.
He sank heavily into the plush, heated leather seat, wrapping the thick coat tightly around his freezing body.
He sat next to Sergio Aguero, who was sipping a hot cup of tea and watching the final minutes of the game with relaxed amusement.
For the final ten minutes, Natán didn’t say a word.
He just sat there, huddled in the massive coat, watching his teammates comfortably pass the ball around to kill off the remaining time.
De Bruyne and David Silva kept the ball entirely in the Stoke half, frustrating the home side and easily mitigating any lingering threat of a dramatic comeback.
The freezing rain continued to fall, turning the pitch into an absolute swamp, but Manchester City’s tactical discipline remained entirely unbroken.
When the referee finally blew his whistle three times, signaling the end of the match and cementing a gritty, brilliant 3-1 victory, the City players on the pitch raised their arms in weary celebration.
Natán stood up from the bench, his muscles screaming in protest as he clapped his hands to applaud his teammates.
They had survived Stoke away.
They had maintained their perfect start to the Premier League season.
As he walked slowly toward the tunnel, pulling the heavy coat tight around his neck, Natán realized that the honeymoon phase was truly over.
Pep Guardiola was not going to let him rest on his laurels.
He was not going to let him coast on his raw talent.
Pep was going to push him, stretch him, and play him until he collapsed, all in the desperate, obsessive pursuit of absolute footballing perfection.
And as exhausted, battered, and annoyed as he currently was, a small, undeniably excited smile curled onto Natán’s lips.
He was going to play on Wednesday.