My Football Legends Chat Group-Chapter 22: Zero Hour at Montilivi

Rio noticed that he was receiving a lot of pitying looks thanks to his bright pink boots, which were currently resting idly on the heated turf, yet he didn’t care all that much.

In essence, he was a panicked eighteen-year-old boy, therefore he cared a little too much about what everyone thought especially the fifty thousand people screaming in the stands.

The first forty-five minutes were as soul-crushing as he had feared, but thankfully he had Portu sitting next to him to ease his terror with grim commentary.

After what seemed to be a lifetime of watching Vinicius Jr. perform samba dances around the Girona defense, the whistle for halftime sounded, eliciting a heavy sigh from Rio in response. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

If it wasn’t for the fact that he knew what being a relegated player felt like sadness, pay cuts, oblivion he probably would have whined and complained about the skill gap like he wanted to.

Hand_Of_King: This is not a match. This is a public execution. They are playing with you like cats play with a dead mouse!

The_Phenomenon_9: Vini is electric today. Did you see that flip-flap? Beautiful. Painful for you, but beautiful.

Rio_Lance: Whose side are you on?!

The two subs headed off toward the tunnel, yet there was no excitement in the air like there usually would be at a home game against the champions.

Rio had already seen Michel earlier on the touchline and noted how he looked more murderous than usual.

Not long later, everyone gathered in the center of the locker room in front of the Coach. His usual fiery atmosphere was a little off, breathing a cold, heavy silence into the sweaty men who waited for his words.

The score was 0-2. It felt like 0-10.

"Well... There’s no use keeping this polite any longer. I watched the first half and I have decided that we are not playing football today," the Coach said simply, keeping his face expressionless.

"What!?"

"But we are trying, Coach!"

"This is bullshit. Did you see the foul on Aleix? The ref is wearing a Madrid shirt!"

Immediately, the players erupted with frustration and began to shout out in disagreement.

Rio seemed a little bummed from his corner, however, he had been expecting something like this.

There was no way that Michel would allow his team to roll over and die, even if it was against the Kings of Europe.

They would rather die pressing high than lose their dignity in front of their own families. A performance like this could be held over the club’s head for much longer than they would be here for; it may even haunt them in the relegation battle.

"Now now. No amount of whining or bickering will change the fact that Vinicius has turned our right side into a highway," the Coach continued, throwing a water bottle into the recycling bin with terrifying force.

This violent action seemed to quell much of the backlash, however, there were still a few defenders who looked upset with the lack of support.

Rio’s eyes lit up as Michel turned to the tactical board. "Coach, are you saying we’re changing the system?"

The Coach nodded. "Since we cannot stop them from scoring, and no one here can catch Vinicius, I have decided that losing 0-2 is the same as losing 0-5. Consider yourselves unchained."

Hearing that they would still get to attack instead of parking the bus, the team rejoiced or at least, grunted in approval.

"However, to help you all understand the consequences of fear, I am making a substitution that defies logic," Coach Michel said matter-of-factly.

"A substitution?"

"We are taking off a defender. We are putting on a forward. We go 3-4-3. Suicide tactics."

A collective groan rang out between the defensive players, however, it quickly died down when they saw their coach’s expression.

"I trust no one has any objections to trying to actually win?" His face seemed apathetic, however, there was a danger within his eyes that was almost daring someone to speak out of line.

"No Coach!" Everyone replied, no matter how terrified they felt on the inside.

"Good. Now, everyone, drink your fluids and shut up for two minutes. I need to think." Coach Michel made a shooing motion and retrieved his clipboard once more.

This time, no one uttered a word, quickly grabbing energy gels and staring at the floor.

While he may seem harsh on the outside, Coach Michel really cared about this team. Originally, the pundits had decided Girona would be relegated months ago, seemingly already spending the TV money on other clubs in their heads.

It was only thanks to the Coach’s madness and tactical bravery that he was able to salvage the season so far.

Of course, he would never say this aloud as it risked undoing his ’crazy genius’ facade that he had worked so hard to put into place.

He watched on as the players panted and adjusted their shin guards, taking note of the usual few who looked defeated.

"Okay, defenders, stop crying. Midfielders, wake the fuck up. The rest of you, get ready to run until you vomit." The Coach barked out his orders, waiting for some of the team to get off the benches and head to the tunnel.

"Mateo, come here for a moment."

Rio raised his eyebrow in question, yet he still nudged Mateo to go by himself.

Mateo seemed a little confused but agreed, heading towards the coach. Rio was too far away to listen to what was being said, but he saw the shocked and confused expression on his friend’s face and felt his curiosity thicken.

"Rio! Come here too." The Coach waved him over after a minute or so.

"What’s up Coach?"

The Coach had a bit of a frown on his face, as if he wasn’t sure why he was about to gamble his career on two teenagers.

"I’ve suggested that Mateo stop playing short passes. I told him to ignore the midfield buildup entirely. However, he said that he won’t make the decision without your input for some reason."

"I’m not sure why, but as a speed merchant, you should understand that Mateo has the vision to hit a ball sixty yards into space," The Coach finished, looking almost pleadingly at Rio.

Rio’s eyes lit up. He had been wondering how he would get the ball against Madrid’s high press, but it seemed as if Coach Michel was already way ahead of him.

Total_Football_14: Long ball? It is primitive... but effective. I approve.

Hand_Of_King: YES! Launch it! Like a missile!

"Mateo! You should do it for sure!" Rio all but jumped up and down in his excitement, startling Mateo.

"Remember, Leo also told us that Vinicius leaves a gap behind him. Now that we have nothing to lose, it’s the perfect opportunity to exploit it," he continued, grabbing Mateo by the shoulders.

"A-Ah, I almost forgot that’s what your brother said. Well, if Rio says so, then I’ll do as you say Coach," Mateo responded after a moment, looking pale but determined.

"Great! You’re coming on. Both of you. Right now." The Coach said with a beaming smile that looked more like a shark baring its teeth.

’Wait... Did Mateo just listen to my brother’s advice over the tactical analyst?’ He thought while walking away toward the fourth official.

"Hey, Rio," Mateo whispered as they stood by the touchline, the roar of the crowd washing over them.

"Yeah?"

"Dude, go check the reflection in the dugout glass. You look like a highlighter."

"Highlighter?"

Rio quickly glanced at the glass panel. It seemed that the neon pink boots combined with his bright yellow substitute bib made him look like a walking traffic safety cone.

"Ha ha." Rio let out a sarcastic laugh before ripping off the bib, revealing the red and white jersey underneath. If he was being perfectly honest, he too enjoyed the joke, yet his nerves didn’t need anymore encouragement.

The fourth official raised the board.

OUT: 20 (Yan Couto)

IN: 37 (Rio Lance)

The loudspeaker boomed his name. "Entra al camp... RIO LANCE!"

A mix of cheers and confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. They wanted a savior. They got a kid in pink boots.

"Don’t suck," Mateo muttered, running onto the pitch beside him.

"You neither," Rio shot back.

Rio looked up. Standing five meters away was Dani Carvajal. The Real Madrid legend. He had a beard that looked like it was made of steel wool and eyes that had seen a thousand wingers try and fail.

Carvajal looked at Rio. He looked at the pink boots. He smirked.

Rio took a deep breath.

The referee blew the whistle for the second half.