Natán had a good Sunday.
After the chaotic, grueling physical warfare of the Stoke City match and the late-night airport run, having a full twenty-four hours completely insulated from the demands of professional football felt like an absolute luxury.
He slept in until nearly noon, his aching, bruised muscles sinking heavily into the plush mattress of his California-king bed.
But the best part of the day, undeniably, was the fact that he got to spend it entirely with Kylie.
They didn’t leave the Cheshire mansion.
They didn’t need to.
The sprawling, ultra-modern house provided a perfect, secure sanctuary away from the relentless flashes of the paparazzi and the suffocating pressure of their respective careers.
In the late afternoon, the dreary Manchester sky broke just enough to let a few golden rays of sunlight filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the kitchen.
They had decided to cook together.
It was a beautifully chaotic, incredibly intimate process.
Natán had decided to teach her how to make authentic Spanish croquetas from scratch.
The massive, dark slate kitchen island was completely covered in a dusting of white flour, bowls of creamy béchamel sauce infused with savory bits of jamón ibérico, and plates of golden breadcrumbs.
Kylie stood beside him, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, wearing another one of his oversized black t-shirts.
She had flour dusted across the bridge of her nose, her perfectly manicured hands covered in the sticky, thick batter.
“I don’t think I’m doing this right,” Kylie laughed, holding up a misshapen, lumpy blob of dough that looked absolutely nothing like the perfectly smooth, cylindrical croquetas Natán was rapidly producing.
“Mine looks like a potato that gave up on life.”
Natán chuckled warmly, wiping his own flour-covered hands on his white apron.
He stepped closer, closing the physical distance between them until his chest brushed against her shoulder.
He reached out, gently placing his hands directly over hers.
“You are pressing too hard,” Natán instructed softly, his deep Catalan accent rumbling pleasantly in the quiet kitchen.
He guided her fingers with a confident but incredibly gentle touch.
“You have to treat the dough with respect. Roll it lightly. Don’t force it into the shape. Let the palms of your hands do the work, like this.”
Together, they rolled the batter back and forth, the sticky mess slowly forming into a perfect, uniform cylinder.
Kylie leaned back against his chest, a soft smile playing on her lips as she watched their hands work in tandem.
“See?” Natán smiled proudly, stepping back to let her admire her work.
“Perfect. Now you roll it in the egg, then the breadcrumbs.”
“I think you just have magic hands,” Kylie teased, dropping the croqueta into the bowl of beaten eggs.
“I’m pretty sure if I try the next one by myself, it’s going back to looking like a sad potato.”
“Cooking is just like football,” Natán said earnestly, tossing another batch of dough onto the slate counter.
“It is all about practice, timing, and not panicking when things get messy.”
They spent the next two hours laughing, talking, and completely ruining his pristine kitchen.
When they finally dropped the breaded croquetas into the sizzling pan of hot olive oil, the rich, savory smell filled the house.
They ate them standing up right at the kitchen island, blowing on the scorching hot, creamy centers, washing them down with glasses of ice-cold sparkling water.
It was a perfect, simple date.
Natán felt a profound, grounded sense of peace.
But, of course, there was always work.
The relentless machine of elite European football never stopped turning.
On Monday morning, Natán had to wake up at the crack of dawn, pack his gear, and head back to the City Football Academy for training.
With Natán gone for the day, Kylie decided she didn’t want to just sit around the empty, echoing mansion.
She wanted to go out and see Manchester.
She wanted to understand the city that her new romantic interest called home.
She knew the risks of venturing out.
She was one of the most recognizable women on the face of the planet.
So, she went entirely incognito.
She wore a pair of slightly oversized, distressed vintage jeans, a plain black hoodie pulled up over her head, a dark New York Yankees baseball cap pulled low over her brow, and a pair of massive, face-obscuring black designer sunglasses.
She looked like any other trendy, anonymous university student.
To be safe, she had two of her massive, highly trained personal security guards trail her discreetly, dressed in plain clothes, staying a comfortable twenty yards behind her as she navigated the city.
A sleek, black Range Rover dropped her off in the heart of the Northern Quarter.
As Kylie walked down the uneven, cobblestone streets, she looked around, taking in the distinct, gritty atmosphere of the city.
Manchester was absolutely nothing like Los Angeles.
There were no towering, sun-drenched palm trees, no sprawling beaches, and no glittering Hollywood hills.
The architecture was heavily industrial, defined by towering, historic red-brick textile mills, narrow alleyways adorned with vibrant, sprawling murals of street art, and old Victorian pubs that smelled faintly of stale beer and history.
The sun was actually out today—a rare, glorious occurrence in the northwest of England—but it wasn’t the searing, oppressive heat of California.
It was a crisp, cool, incredibly pleasant late-summer breeze that carried the distant sounds of indie rock music spilling from independent vinyl record stores.
It wasn’t her sort of place at all.
It lacked the polished, superficial glamour she was entirely accustomed to.
But as she walked, sipping a perfectly crafted flat white from a tiny, independent coffee roaster, she found herself starting to genuinely not dislike it.
There was an undeniable, pulsing heartbeat to Manchester.
The people walking past her, students, artists, and working-class locals, moved with a grounded, authentic purpose.
Nobody looked twice at her.
The anonymity was incredibly refreshing.
She stopped to browse through a rack of vintage leather jackets outside a boutique, listening to the melodic, thick Mancunian accents of the shopkeepers.
If this was the environment shaping Natán, grounding his massive, global superstardom in a gritty, hardworking reality, she could absolutely see the appeal.
Miles away from the trendy coffee shops of the Northern Quarter, Natán Comas was already covered in a thick layer of sweat on the pristine, heavily watered grass of the City Football Academy.
Training hadn’t officially started yet.
The squad was slowly filtering out onto the pitch, jogging light laps or engaging in casual banter.
But Natán had been out there for twenty minutes already, working obsessively on his greatest weakness.
He had a large bag of footballs positioned just outside the left edge of the penalty area.
He was shooting entirely with his right foot.
He was absolutely determined to unlock the dual-threat capability that had nearly resulted in a goal against Stoke City.
But the transition from a desperate, in-game instinct to a reliable, repeatable technique was proving incredibly frustrating.
He was starting to get some real, terrifying power behind the shots.
His right leg was muscular and strong.
But the accuracy was completely, catastrophically absent.
He stepped up to a ball, opened his hips, and smashed it with his right laces.
The ball exploded off his boot, whistling through the air with violent velocity, but it sailed a full five yards wide of the near post, smashing loudly into the advertising hoardings behind the goal.
He grabbed another ball.
He tried to curl it.
He wrapped his right foot around the leather, but he overcompensated.
The ball hooked wildly to the left, flying high over the crossbar and soaring into the empty spectator stands.
They weren’t going in.
Most of the time, they weren’t even on target.
Vincent Kompany, the towering, legendary Belgian captain of Manchester City, had been standing near the penalty spot stretching his calves, watching the teenager’s frustrating, highly erratic shooting drill for the past ten minutes.
Natán let out a loud groan in Catalan as another right-footed rocket sailed wildly over the bar.
He turned to the captain, his hands on his hips.
“Vinny,” Natán called out, a confident, determined spark in his dark eyes despite the failures.
“What will you give me if I score now with my right foot?”
Kompany stopped stretching, standing up to his full, imposing height.
He crossed his massive arms over his chest, a deep, highly amused chuckle rumbling from his chest.
“You’re not going to do it, Natán,” Kompany stated simply, shaking his bald head.
“I’ve been watching you for ten minutes. You’ve sent three balls into the car park and almost took out the corner flag. You’ve not even hit the target once. Tell you what. Even if it’s just on target, I’ll bring your lunch to you today.”
Natán’s eyes lit up.
He loved a wager.
“Deal,” Natán grinned, rubbing his hands together.
He didn’t pull a ball from the bag.
He gestured to Willy Caballero, the goalkeeper who was standing between the posts.
“Willy! Pass it out! Game speed!”
Caballero scooped up a ball and fired a firm, bouncing pass out to the edge of the penalty area.
Natán didn’t overthink it this time.
He didn’t try to force the mechanics.
He let his natural, elite athleticism take over.
As the ball skipped across the wet grass, Natán took one brilliant, cushioning touch with the inside of his right boot, popping the ball slightly up into the air, perfectly setting himself up.
Before the ball could even touch the grass again, Natán swung his right leg in a smooth, flawless, sweeping arc.
He connected beautifully with the sweet spot of the leather.
The ball flew off his right boot with a wicked, dipping curl.
It bypassed the sprawling, desperate dive of Caballero entirely, bending majestically through the humid Manchester air, and slammed violently, perfectly into the absolute top-right corner of the net, kissing the underside of the crossbar as it went in.
It was a world-class, breathtaking strike.
Natán stood frozen for a microscopic second, watching the net ripple.
And then, he absolutely erupted.
“VINNY!” Natán screamed at the top of his lungs, his face splitting into a massive, joyous smile.
He didn’t run to the corner flag.
He sprinted directly toward the towering Belgian captain.
Kompany, his eyes wide in genuine, impressed shock, didn’t even have time to brace himself before Natán launched his body into the air.
Natán collided right into Kompany, wrapping his arms around the massive defender’s neck in a joyful, celebratory hug.
Kompany let out a booming laugh, catching the teenager and slapping him heavily on the back.
“I owe you lunch, kid. Unbelievable strike. Where was that hiding?”
“It is coming, Captain,” Natán beamed, tapping his right boot proudly.
“It is coming.”
The sharp, piercing blast of the head fitness coach’s whistle echoed across the training pitches, signaling the official start of the session.
The squad gathered near the touchline for the mandatory physical warm-ups.
Natán fell into line beside David Silva and Kevin De Bruyne.
They began with a series of dynamic stretches, high knees, and lunges designed to prevent muscle injuries in the damp English climate.
But Natán, as usual, was operating on the absolute fringes of acceptable effort.
He barely stretched.
When the squad executed deep, agonizing lunges, Natán simply took a small, lazy step forward, bending his knee a fraction of an inch, perfectly preserving his energy.
When they were ordered to do short wind sprints, he coasted at a comfortable, leisurely jog, making sure to stay perfectly hidden in the middle of the pack to avoid catching the eye of the demanding coaching staff.
He firmly believed his muscles were naturally elastic; stretching was for old men who needed to warm up their joints.
He was nineteen.
He was ready to play the second he stepped onto the grass.
Once the tedious physical conditioning was finally over, the footballs were introduced, and Natán instantly sprang to life.
The squad broke off into three massive groups for the rondos.
Natán gravitated to his usual circle with the Spanish-speaking contingent.
The intensity of the rondo was staggering.
The ball hummed across the wet grass, moving with blinding, one-touch precision.
Natán was completely in his element.
He danced on the balls of his feet, demanding the ball in incredibly tight spaces.
Following the rondos, Pep Guardiola took control of the session, initiating a series of complex, high-speed passing and movement drills.
They practiced breaking lines.
The center-backs fired incredibly hard, grounded passes through dummy mannequins to the midfielders, who had to lay the ball off instantly to the wingers making overlapping runs.
Natán executed the drills with clinical, flawless precision.
His first touch was immaculate, killing the wet ball dead on the chalk of the touchline every single time.
He whipped dangerous crosses into the box, linked up brilliantly with De Bruyne, and generally looked like a player operating at the absolute peak of his confidence.
As the drills concluded, the coaching staff began handing out colored bibs for the highly anticipated, intensely scrutinized eleven-versus-eleven scrimmage.
Natán was handed a neon-orange bib, signifying the starting team.
He pulled it over his head, jogging toward the center of the pitch to take up his usual position on the right wing.
But before he could even reach the flank, a sharp voice cut through the air.
“Natán. Come here.”
Natán turned.
Pep Guardiola was standing near the center circle, holding his tactical clipboard, waving the teenager over.
Natán changed his trajectory, jogging lightly over to the manager.
He wasn’t nervous.
He was feeling great.
The right-footed goal had boosted his mood immensely, and he had executed the drills perfectly.
“Míster?” Natán asked, stopping in front of Guardiola.
Pep looked at him, his dark eyes scanning the boy’s face, assessing his physical and mental state.
“How you feeling?” Pep asked, his voice calm, dropping the intense, screaming persona for a moment of quiet, one-on-one management.
“Good,” Natán replied instantly, a confident, humble smile on his face.
“I’m feeling great.”
“How’s your legs?” Pep pressed, gesturing vaguely toward Natán’s neon-green boots.
“You kept getting hit at Stoke. Heavy tackles.”
“I feel great,” Natán assured him earnestly, rolling his shoulders back.
“Nice long shower and a good, quiet weekend helped a lot. The bruises are fading. I’m one hundred percent.”
“Good,” Pep nodded firmly, tapping his pen against the clipboard.
“You see the teams in the session today?”
Natán looked around the pitch, scanning the players wearing the neon-orange bibs.
He noted David Silva, Kevin De Bruyne, Fernandinho, Jesus Navas, and Nolito.
“Yeah,” Natán said, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed the lineup.
“There’s no striker on my team. Sergio is in the blue bib. Kelechi is in the blue bib. It’s just Nolito, Navas, and me up front.”
“Exactly,” Pep said, his eyes locking onto Natán’s with a terrifying, absolute intensity.
“This Wednesday against Steaua, we are leading by six goals. I’m resting most of our key players. Sergio needs rest. Kevin needs rest.”
“But you said I’m starting,” Natán pointed out, genuinely confused.
“You told me on Saturday that I am playing on Wednesday.”
“Exactly,” Pep repeated, a slow, highly calculated smile creeping onto his features.
“I’m going to try something. I want you to try and play False Nine.”
Natán froze.
The confident, relaxed posture entirely evaporated from his body.
He stared at Pep Guardiola, completely convinced he had misheard the English terminology.
“False Nine?” Natán echoed, his voice dropping into a shocked, breathless register.
He pointed a finger at his own chest.
“Me? In the middle? Míster, I’ve never done that before. Never. I am a winger. I need the touchline. I need the space in front of me.”
“You already have done it,” Pep countered immediately, his voice rising with passionate, undeniable logic.
“You played a false wing on Saturday! You completely abandoned the left flank, you dragged the players out of position, and you let players run behind you into the space. You did it perfectly against Stoke when you drifted to where the play was and created the overload for the goal.”
“But that was an instinct!” Natán argued, his hands coming up in a defensive gesture.
“That was just street football! I saw the space and I moved! Playing the whole game in the center… my back will be to the goal. The center-backs are massive. They will kill me.”
Pep stepped closer, gripping Natán firmly by the shoulders.
He didn’t look angry; he looked incredibly, profoundly inspiring.
“You are not a traditional striker, Natán,” Pep lectured, his voice vibrating with absolute belief.
“I am not asking you to wrestle with center-backs. I am asking you to be a ghost. You drop deep into the midfield. You create a numerical superiority with Kevin, David and Dinho. The center-backs will not know whether to follow you or stay. You will confuse them. You will destroy their structure. You have the intelligence to do this.”
Natán stared into Pep’s eyes.
He felt a deep, overwhelming wave of anxiety washing over him.
The False Nine was notoriously the most complex, intellectually demanding position in Guardiola’s entire tactical philosophy.
It was the role that had elevated Lionel Messi to alien status.
To be asked to perform that role, even in a meaningless qualifier, was a staggering amount of pressure.
But Natán was not a coward.
He was deeply proud, and despite his fears, he possessed a willingness to learn from the master.
Natán swallowed hard, nodding slowly.
“Okay,” Natán said, his voice quiet but resolute.
“I’m going to try.”
“Good,” Pep patted him on the chest, turning him around and giving him a slight push toward the center of the pitch.
“Go. Play in the middle. Let’s see what you see.”
The referee blew the whistle, and the scrimmage began.
For the next ninety minutes, Natán Comas was subjected to a psychological and tactical nightmare that severely tested his sanity, his physical endurance, and his fundamental understanding of the beautiful game.
Playing False Nine was absolutely nothing like playing on the wing.
On the wing, Natán had a safety blanket.
The white chalk of the touchline protected his back.
He only had to view the pitch in 180 degrees.
He received the ball facing forward, isolating a single full-back, calculating the geometric angles in front of him.
In the center of the pitch, operating as the False Nine, the danger came from 360 degrees.
It was a suffocating, claustrophobic warzone.
In the very first minute of the scrimmage, Claudio Bravo played a pass out from the back to Fernandinho.
Natán, trying to adhere strictly to the concept of dropping deep, jogged backward toward the center circle, demanding the ball.
Fernandinho zipped a firm pass to his feet.
Natán received the ball with his back to the opposition goal.
He took a touch to control it.
Before he could even raise his head to scan his options, the massive, terrifying shadow of Vincent Kompany completely eclipsed him.
The Belgian center-back didn’t hesitate.
He stepped up aggressively, driving a heavy, muscular knee directly into the back of Natán’s thigh, reaching around and poking the ball cleanly away before Natán could even blink.
Kompany initiated a rapid counter-attack for the blue team, which quickly resulted in Sergio Aguero smashing a shot past the reserve goalkeeper.
1-0 to the Blue Team.
“Natán! Stop!” Pep roared from the touchline, immediately blowing his whistle to halt the scrimmage.
Pep marched directly onto the pitch, walking briskly toward the center circle where Natán was rubbing his sore thigh.
“What did you do wrong?” Pep demanded, standing over the teenager.
“He fouled me,” Natán grumbled defensively in Catalan, pointing at Kompany.
“He hit me from behind.”
“He did not foul you! It is a contact sport!” Pep shouted, waving his arms in frustration.
“You received the ball blind! You did not scan! When you play in the center, you must have eyes in the back of your head! Before the ball even reaches your foot, you must look over your shoulder! If Vinny is coming, you do not try to turn! You play one touch back to Fernandinho and you spin into the space behind him! You held the ball and you died!”
Natán gritted his teeth, nodding stiffly.
“Okay. Scan. One touch.”
The scrimmage restarted.
Natán tried to adjust.
He constantly swiveled his head, his neck beginning to ache from the relentless, paranoid scanning.
He looked over his shoulder.
Nicolas Otamendi was stepping up aggressively to follow him.
Natán remembered the instruction.
He didn’t try to hold it.
He received a pass from David Silva and immediately played a lightning-fast, one-touch pass backward to Kevin De Bruyne, completing the wall-pass.
As soon as the ball left his foot, Natán spun on his heel and sprinted into the massive, gaping hole Otamendi had just vacated in the defensive line.
It was a brilliant piece of False Nine movement.
He had dragged the center-back out and exploited the space perfectly.
But De Bruyne, under pressure from Yaya Toure, didn’t play the return pass over the top.
The Belgian opted to swing the ball out wide to Jesus Navas on the right flank instead.
Natán sprinted thirty yards into the penalty area for absolutely nothing.
He pulled up, his chest heaving, deeply frustrated.
He had done the grueling physical and tactical work, and he hadn’t been rewarded with the ball.
“Good run, Natán! Excellent!” Pep applauded loudly from the sideline.
“You created the space for Jesus! That is the job!”
But Natán didn’t want to just create space for other people.
He was a goal-scorer.
Running aimlessly into the box just to act as a tactical decoy for a winger to cross the ball felt like a massive, heartbreaking demotion.
It felt like all the individual glory, the sheer, addictive joy of dribbling past players and scoring world-class goals, had been entirely stripped from his game.
The scrimmage continued, and Natán’s struggles compounded.
He wasn’t built for the physical demands of playing centrally.
The timing of his movements was constantly a fraction of a second off.
In the twenty-fifth minute, he tried to drop deep to link the play, but he arrived too early.
He stood static in the midfield, completely congesting the space David Silva was trying to operate in.
Kolarov, playing left-back for the blue team, easily intercepted a congested pass and sparked another counter-attack as the Blue Team managed to put it away.
2-0 to the Blue Team.
“Timing, Natán! Timing!” Pep screamed, pacing the touchline like a caged tiger.
“Do not arrive early! You must arrive at the exact moment the ball is played! If you stand still in the midfield, you are just another defender!”
Natán wiped the sweat from his forehead, his lungs burning.
The mental tax of playing False Nine was infinitely more exhausting than the physical exertion.
He was constantly analyzing geometric shapes, calculating distances, and anticipating the movements of massive center-backs who wanted to break him in half.
It was a suffocating, intellectual chess match, and he was losing horribly.
In the fortieth minute, Natán finally managed to string a cohesive attacking sequence together.
He started high, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Kompany.
As the ball was played into the midfield, Natán violently dropped his shoulder, faking a sprint in behind the defense.
Kompany bit on the fake, dropping his depth by two crucial yards.
Instantly, Natán slammed on the brakes, darting backward into the midfield to receive a pass from Fernandinho.
He had bought himself three yards of precious space.
He received the ball, turned cleanly, and drove at the retreating defensive line.
He engaged his elite dribbling, skipping past a lunging tackle from Fernando.
He was driving centrally, the defense collapsing around him.
Nolito, operating on the left wing, saw the defense narrow and made a brilliant, diagonal darting run in behind Zabaleta.
Natán looked up, slipping a perfectly weighted, disguised through-ball into Nolito’s path.
It was a flawless playmaker’s pass.
Nolito received the ball in stride inside the penalty area.
He had a clear shot on goal.
He opened his hips and fired, but Willy Caballero produced a brilliant, diving save, tipping the ball out for a corner.
“Yes! Yes! That is it!” Pep roared, clapping his hands furiously, his voice echoing across the training ground.
“Brilliant, Natán! You dragged them in, you found the winger! Perfect execution!”
Natán stood near the edge of the penalty area, his hands on his hips, breathing heavily.
He appreciated the praise, but a hollow, frustrating feeling sat deep in his stomach.
The second half of the scrimmage was a grueling, agonizing war of attrition.
Natán’s team was getting dominated.
Without a traditional striker to pin the center-backs deep, and with Natán still struggling to master the microscopic timing of his drops, the blue team was pressing high and suffocating their build-up play.
In the sixtieth minute, Natán tried to execute a rapid one-two combination with Jesus Navas on the edge of the penalty area.
Natán laid the ball off and spun in behind Otamendi.
Navas played a beautiful, chipped return pass over the defensive line.
Natán tracked the ball over his shoulder, bursting into the penalty area.
He brought the ball down flawlessly with his left foot, preparing to unleash a devastating volley.
TWEET!
The assistant coach on the touchline raised his flag sharply.
Offside.
Natán stopped dead, dropping his head in absolute despair.
He had timed his run a fraction of a second too early.
He didn’t understand the complex, instinctive timing required to break a central offside trap.
As a winger, he always had the entire defensive line in his field of vision.
As a False Nine, he was running blind.
The frustration finally began to boil over.
Natán was getting visibly annoyed.
He started waving his arms when passes didn’t reach him.
He began dropping too deep, completely abandoning the forward line to demand the ball directly from the center-backs, trying to take the game entirely into his own hands by attempting to dribble past five players at once.
Pep didn’t stop the scrimmage.
He just stood on the touchline, watching the teenager’s psychological unraveling with a cold, analytical gaze.
Pep knew the kid was suffering.
He knew it was an impossible ask to expect a nineteen-year-old winger to master the False Nine in a single training session.
But Pep needed to see how Natán reacted to failure.
In the dying minutes of the scrimmage, Natán finally managed to make a tangible impact, though it was born purely of frustrated, individual brilliance rather than tactical execution.
He dropped deep into his own half to receive the ball.
He was immediately pressed heavily by Yaya Toure.
Instead of playing the simple, one-touch pass that Pep demanded, Natán engaged in a dangerous, arrogant piece of street football.
He utilized a rapid, blindingly fast double-stepover, dropping his shoulder violently and completely spinning the massive Ivorian midfielder out of the play.
Natán drove forward, bypassing the midfield entirely.
He drove directly at the blue team’s defensive line, his neon-green boots a blur of terrifying speed.
He didn’t look for a pass.
He didn’t wait for overlapping runs.
He just put his head down and engaged in a spectacular, weaving, slalom dribble.
He skipped past a desperate slide tackle from Kolarov, chopped the ball violently inside to avoid Kompany, and found himself on the edge of the penalty area.
He didn’t have the angle to shoot with his left foot.
Operating purely on instinct, Natán slipped a reverse pass through the chaotic defense to Jesus Navas, who was arriving late on the right side of the box.
Navas didn’t hesitate.
He smashed a low, hard shot past the goalkeeper, finally putting the orange team on the board.
3-1.
The final whistle blew immediately afterward, signaling the end of the grueling, ninety-minute tactical nightmare.
The players collapsed onto the wet grass, entirely exhausted.
Natán didn’t celebrate the assist.
He didn’t high-five Navas.
He just stood near the center circle, his chest heaving violently, his hands resting heavily on his knees, staring down at the pitch.
His team had lost 3-1.
He hadn’t scored a single goal.
He had spent ninety minutes getting tackled from behind, flagged offside, and screamed at for poor scanning.
He hated it.
He absolutely, profoundly despised playing False Nine.
It stripped him of his joy.
It stripped him of his space.
It forced him to think like a mathematician instead of playing like an artist.
He felt entirely exposed, clumsy, and inadequate in the center of the pitch.
As he slowly began the long, miserable walk toward the locker room, his muscles aching and his ego completely shattered, Natán came to a grim, undeniable realization.
Pep Guardiola was a genius, yes.
But Pep was wrong about this.
Natán Comas was a winger.
He was born to paint the chalk, isolate full-backs, and curl the ball into the top corner.
He simply wasn’t built for this False Nine thing.
And if Pep forced him to play there on Wednesday against Steaua București, it was going to be an absolute, unmitigated disaster on live European television.
And the worst part was that he had wanted Kylie to come watch him play.