Media Room – Estadi Montilivi
Friday, May 24
The cameras were flashing before Michel even sat down. Every journalist in Catalonia was here. Not because Girona was famous, but because they were the final sacrifice on Real Madrid's victory tour.
And because Girona was one loss away from relegation..
Michel adjusted the microphone. He looked tired. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his jaw was set like concrete.
The first question came from Marca. "Mister, let's be honest. You need a win to guarantee safety. But you are playing the Champions. Vinicius, Bellingham, Rodrygo. They have scored 80 goals this season. You have conceded 50. Is this... Mission Impossible?"
Michel let the silence hang there. He took a sip of water.
"Impossible is a word for people who don't work," Michel said, his voice gravelly. "Real Madrid is a great team. The best. But they are human. They bleed. If you pinch them, they jump."
A reporter from Diari de Girona raised a hand. "You've been rotating the squad heavily. The young winger, Lance, didn't play a single minute against Valencia. Was that a tactical choice, or has he lost your trust after the yellow card against Atlético?"
Michel leaned forward. "Rio is eighteen. He has played twenty minutes of professional football. I didn't play him against Valencia because I didn't want to burn him out. But lost my trust? No."
"But will he play Sunday?" the reporter pressed. "Against Carvajal? Against Rudiger?"
Michel stood up, signaling the end of the press conference.
"Everyone is available," he said, staring directly into the camera. "And everyone better be ready to run until they vomit. Because that is what it will take."
...
La Vinya Training Complex – Hallway
10:30 a.m.
Michel walked out of the media room, loosening his tie. He let out a long, heavy breath.
"That went well," Quique Cárcel, the Sporting Director, said, falling into step beside him.
"They smell blood," Michel muttered. "They have already written our obituary."
"Can you blame them?" Quique checked his phone. "We haven't won in four games. The draw against Atlético was a miracle, but Valencia was a disaster."
They walked past the gym, hearing the clank of weights.
"Status on the squad?" Michel asked.
"Tsygankov is out. Hamstring," Quique said grimly. "That leaves the right wing empty. Portu is tired. Valery is nervous."
Michel stopped walking. He stared at the tactics board on the wall.
"And the kid?" Michel asked. "Rio?"
Quique hesitated. "Physically? He's a machine. His speed data from training yesterday was the highest we've ever recorded. But mentally... it's Real Madrid, Michel. If he makes one mistake against Vinicius, he destroys his confidence forever."
"Or," Michel said softly, "he destroys Vinicius."
Quique raised an eyebrow. "That's a big gamble. By the way, the Wolves scout called again. They are flying in for the match. They want to see if he can handle the Premier League intensity. If he plays and flops, the loan deal might disappear."
"I don't care about Wolves," Michel snapped. "I care about saving this club. I need speed. I need chaos. Madrid hates chaos."
"So he's in?"
Michel nodded slowly. "He's in. On the bench. But he's coming on early. Tell the kit man to prep the number 37."
...
Rio's Bedroom
Saturday Night – 9:00 p.m.
Rio sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his boots.
He had cleaned them three times. They were neon pink, loud, and obnoxious. They were the only thing about him that felt confident right now.
"You're going to rub the leather off," a voice said from the doorway.
Rio looked up. Leo was standing there, eating an apple.
"I'm just... checking the laces," Rio mumbled.
Leo walked in and sat on the desk chair, spinning around. "Dad is downstairs pacing a hole in the floor. Mom is lighting candles for every saint she knows. You're cleaning clean boots. The energy in this house is weird."
"It's Madrid, Leo," Rio snapped. "It's not a video game. I might have to play against Antonio Rudiger. Do you know who that is? He pinches people! He hits people for fun!"
Hand_Of_King: Rudiger is crazy. I like him. He reminds me of the defenders in the 80s who would bring a knife to the pitch.
The_Phenomenon_9: Don't let him touch you, Rio. If he gets close, you are dead.
Rio rubbed his temples. "The voices are telling me I'm going to die."
Leo took a loud crunch of his apple. "You know, I watched the tape."
"Of course you did."
"Vinicius," Leo said, chewing. "He doesn't track back. When Madrid attacks, he stays high. That means their left-back, Mendy, is alone. But Mendy tucks inside to help the center-backs."
Leo used his finger to draw lines in the air. "There is a pocket," Leo said, his eyes narrowing. "Between the sideline and the center-back. It's about five meters wide. If you stand there... and someone hits a diagonal ball..."
"I'm through," Rio finished the sentence.
"Exactly," Leo nodded. "But you have to be brave. You can't come short for the ball. You have to run away from it. Trust the pass."
Rio looked at his brother. The 'lazy' genius who hated running but understood the geometry of the universe.
"Thanks, Coach," Rio smiled weakly.
"Don't thank me," Leo stood up. "Just don't suck. I told the guys at the academy my brother was going to cook Real Madrid. If you fail, I look bad."
"Get out," Rio laughed, throwing a pillow at him.
Leo caught the pillow effortlessly with one hand and tossed it back. "Sleep. You look like a zombie."
Team Bus – Match Day
Sunday, May 26 – 6:30 p.m.
Rio sat in his usual spot next to Mateo. But today, the bus was quiet. No music. No jokes. Outside, the streets were packed. But it wasn't just Girona fans. There were thousands of white shirts. Real Madrid fans. They were everywhere, singing, drinking, acting like they owned the city.
"Look at them," Mateo whispered, peering out the window. "They think it's a friendly match."
"Let them think that," Rio said, gripping his backpack straps.
Just then, David Lopez, the veteran center-back, stood up in the aisle. He looked angry.
"Hey!" Lopez shouted, making everyone jump. "Why are we quiet? Are we scared?"
Silence.
"They are Champions, yes!" Lopez slammed his hand on the overhead luggage rack. "But this is our house! This is our grass! I don't give a fuck if they have Bellingham. I don't give a fuck if they have fifteen Champions Leagues. Today, they have to run!"
He pointed at the young players in the back. At Rio. At Mateo.
"You rookies!" Lopez barked. "You think this is just a game? This is our jobs! This is the club's life! If you step on that pitch and you don't sprint until your heart explodes, I will kill you myself in the locker room!"
Rio swallowed hard. "We got it, David," Stuani said calmly from the front. "Sit down. Save the energy for Rudiger."
Lopez sat down, fuming.
Mateo looked at Rio, his face pale. "Okay. No pressure."
Rio looked out the window again.
He saw a kid in a Girona shirt holding a sign: RIO LANCE > VINI JR.
Rio felt a sudden surge of electricity in his chest.
The bus turned the corner. The Estadi Montilivi rose up in front of them, bathed in the late afternoon sun. It looked like a fortress.
Rio stood up. He grabbed his bag.
He remembered the Wolves scout. He remembered his dad's face. He remembered the 61 rating floating above his hand.
He stepped off the bus and into the roar of the crowd.