Once the second half kicked off, Michael was stuck at the back, helplessly watching Morandi put on a clinic up front.
Morandi was on fire.
Firing blanks in the first half had only pissed him off.
Squaring up against Mario, the striker showed no mercy.
His very first shot ripped straight into the back of the net.
By the time the final whistle blew on the scrimmage, Morandi had bagged a clean hat-trick, and Koné had pounced on a loose rebound to grab one for himself.
Mario stormed back to the dressing room, his face looking like an ugly troll.
Michael stayed out on the pitch to grind through his extra goalkeeping drills.
Raul strolled over, hands buried in his pockets.
“Michael, listen up.
From now on, you’re my primary starter for the league fixtures,” Raul said.
“Mario is going to handle the cup matches.
We’ll rotate occasionally depending on fitness.”
Michael didn’t have a single complaint.
“Got it, boss.”
Raul walked away satisfied.
A low-maintenance player who actually performed was impossible for a manager to dislike.
Watching Raul leave, Michael felt the grinding reality of being a professional footballer sink in.
You were restricted by your own physical limits, your teammates’ mistakes, the manager’s tactics, the GM’s politics, and if things really went south, even the FA could screw you over.
Because of that suffocating reality, his drive to reach the top just burned hotter.
Only the elite players—the ones who had cemented their names globally—were ever allowed to truly play the game on their own terms.
…
The schedule over the next few weeks was brutal.
But starting from late October, Michael officially locked down the starting league spot.
On October 19, in Round 9, Racing Santander secured a 2–0 away victory over Zaragoza.
On October 25, in Round 10, they were held to a gritty 0–0 draw at home against Alavés.
Michael was a brick wall, keeping the goal firmly shut under heavy pressure.
On November 2, in Round 11, Santander cruised past Llagostera 2–0 on the road.
That made it five consecutive clean sheets.
Almost overnight, Michael Chen became the most talked-about goalkeeper in the Segunda División!
The Santander PR department capitalized instantly, dropping a flashy highlight reel of his best saves on the official website.
Now, whenever Michael walked through the club’s main lobby, the digital screens were looping high-res photos of him in action.
The local fanbase was rapidly falling in love with their new keeper.
Crowds of fans started camping out by the training ground entrance, desperate for his autograph.
But not a single one of them actually managed to meet him, mostly because Michael had no damn clue they were waiting for him.
He arrived hours before dawn on his new electric bike, and he always stayed on the pitch two or three hours longer than the rest of the squad.
Naturally, he bypassed the crowds entirely.
…
After training wrapped up one afternoon, Oriol jogged over.
“Michael, I’m hearing some shady rumors,” Oriol whispered.
“Mario has been sticking close to the general manager again!
I’m worried they’re plotting to screw you over.”
Oriol had only just rejoined the squad two weeks prior.
After getting cleared from the hospital, he had managed to play in the last two fixtures.
Originally, he was supposed to be discharged after just a week. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
But apparently, his conversations with the neurologist had been so weird and nonsensical that the doctors genuinely thought his brain was still scrambled, forcing him to stay under observation for an extra seven days.
Seeing the usually goofy defender looking so deadly serious, Michael chuckled.
“Don’t sweat it, Oriol.
As long as I keep putting up clean sheets, nobody can touch my spot.” He packed his towel into his bag.
“Also, I’ve got dinner plans tonight, so don’t wait up for me.”
Oriol nodded and headed toward the parking lot.
The defender had recently upgraded his own equipment, buying the exact same model of electric mountain bike as Michael.
Michael had actually sat him down and seriously advised him to buy a proper car instead, and Oriol had enthusiastically agreed.
There was just one minor issue: neither of them actually had a Spanish driver’s license.
…
When Michael walked out the front gates of the base, William’s taxi was already idling by the curb.
William was basically Michael’s personal chauffeur and number one fan at this point.
Whenever the keeper needed a ride, the guy magically appeared at exactly the right time.
“William, take me to Palm Restaurant, please,” Michael said, sliding into the back seat and immediately typing out a text.
Seeing his idol was busy, William gave a polite nod in the mirror and kept his mouth shut for the drive.
Today was the day.
Michael had finally managed to lock down a proper date with Emma.
He had been working toward this for a whole month, though he honestly still had no clue where he stood with her!
Sitting alone at a candlelit table, Michael checked his watch, waiting.
Just as his mind started to wander, a striking face appeared in his periphery.
He looked up, his gaze locking onto her immediately.
Emma was walking toward the table.
Her pale pink hair was pinned up elegantly, and she was wearing a sleek dark evening dress paired with black heels.
She stood out effortlessly from the crowd.
Her sharp eyes and delicate features hit Michael like a fresh wave of adrenaline every single time they met.
Half the restaurant had noticed her walking in, with several heads turning to watch her pass.
Michael quickly stood up to pull her chair out.
“Have you been waiting long?” Emma asked, flashing an apologetic smile.
“I only managed to slip out after finally getting Alice to sleep, so I’m running a bit behind.”
“No, don’t worry about it.
I just got here myself,” Michael lied smoothly.
Sitting across from her, the guy felt his pulse tick up.
She had this quiet, intelligent elegance about her that was genuinely intimidating.
Over the meal, they kept the conversation light, catching up on the last few weeks.
Michael couldn’t shake the feeling that Emma’s calm, observant eyes saw right through his usual confident act.
She carried herself with a warm, composed grace that made her incredibly easy to talk to.
As the plates were cleared, the atmosphere between them shifted, growing a little more intimate.
Then, Emma’s phone buzzed sharply on the table.
She checked the screen, her smile turning apologetic.
“My niece just woke up crying.
I have to head back early to deal with it,” Emma sighed.
The way she said “okay” carried a soft but firm tone that left zero room for argument.
Michael nodded.
He wasn’t about to argue with that.
He paid the bill and escorted her out to the street.
As he watched her red Porsche merge into the night traffic, Michael stood on the curb, letting out a long breath.
‘If I end up marrying a woman like that,’ he thought, ‘it’ll be the ultimate payout for whatever good karma I’ve got.’
…
Heading into November, Racing Santander were sitting comfortably at third in the league table.
Real Betis held the top spot, Sporting Gijón was second, and Las Palmas trailed closely in fourth.
For the upcoming weekend fixture, Santander was traveling away to face Las Palmas.
It was a massive six-pointer for third place, and neither squad could afford to drop points.
Out on the training pitch, Raul called the squad in for the tactical huddle.
His face was uncharacteristically grim.
“Listen up.
I’m confirming the starting eleven for tomorrow’s match.”
“Up front: Koné, Miguel…” Raul rattled through the midfield and defense before pausing.
“In goal…
Mario.
Michael, you are on the bench.”
“If anyone has an issue with this setup, my office door is open.”
Without another word, Raul turned and marched straight back toward the administrative building.
The players exchanged confused glances, but nobody dared to speak up.
In the middle of the pack, Mario casually smoothed his hair back, quietly clenched his fist in victory, and headed for the dressing room.
While the rest of the squad scattered, Michael grabbed his gloves and silently walked over to the penalty box to begin his extra drills.
…
The next afternoon, the pre-match press conference was tense.
“Coach Raul, we have the official team sheet and Michael Chen is conspicuously missing from the starting eleven,” a reporter from Team Daily noted.
“There are rumors circulating that he has been benched due to a locker room conflict with your veteran goalkeeper.
Is there any truth to that?”
“That is entirely false,” Raul fired back, his voice hard.
“This dressing room is completely united.
Every tactical decision I make is purely focused on securing three points.
Rotating players is a standard part of surviving a grueling season, nothing more.”
The reporter seamlessly pivoted to the Las Palmas head coach.
“Mr.
Silva, what are your thoughts on tomorrow’s tactical battle against Raul’s side?”
“Without a doubt, our attacking line holds an advantage,” Silva smirked, leaning into his microphone.
“Honestly, if Santander manages to walk away with a win tomorrow, it will only be because God personally protected their net.”
To rub it in, Silva mockingly pressed his hands together in a quick prayer.
…
That toxic energy from the press room bled directly into the stadium on matchday.
Lined up inside the tunnel before kickoff, Las Palmas’ star striker Araujo pounded the wall and screamed at his teammates.
“Let’s fucking crush them!
They’re nothing but trash!”