**JANUARY 22, 2025 - MATCH DAY**
**KUROSAWA KAITO'S APARTMENT, VALDEBEBAS, MADRID**
**06:00 AM**
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The alarm screamed at 6:00 AM, dragging Kurosawa Kaito from dreams he wouldn't remember into the cold reality of match day. His hand shot out from beneath the blanket, slapping at his phone until the noise stopped, and for three disoriented seconds he lay in the darkness of his Madrid apartment wondering why his heart was already racing before consciousness had fully returned.
Then he remembered.
Today was match day.
His first official match in a Real Madrid shirt.
Kaito sat up in bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, and stared at the clock glowing on his nightstand. Six-oh-three AM. Nine hours until kickoff. Nine hours to prepare mentally and physically for the most important ninety minutes of his life so far. His heart hammered against his ribs with enough force that he could feel the pulse in his neck, in his wrists, even in the tips of his fingers where they gripped the edge of the mattress.
The apartment Real Madrid had provided was small but functional—a studio space in a modern building less than two kilometers from the Valdebebas training complex, close enough that he could walk if necessary but far enough that he wasn't literally living on club property. One room serving as bedroom, living area, and study. A kitchenette with a two-burner stove and a refrigerator that hummed too loudly in the pre-dawn silence. A bathroom with a shower stall so narrow Kaito had to angle his shoulders to fit inside.
It was infinitely better than what he'd left behind in Kawasaki—the cramped two-bedroom apartment his mother still occupied with his twin sisters Mei and Mio, where the walls were so thin you could hear neighbors arguing through them and the hot water only worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays if you were lucky. But it was also sterile, impersonal, empty of everything that made a space feel like home. No photographs on the walls except the single framed picture of his father he'd brought from Japan. No familiar smells of his mother's cooking drifting from the kitchen. No sound of his sisters' laughter or arguing or the particular chaos that came from twelve-year-old twins navigating life together.
Just silence, and the weight of being completely, utterly alone for the first time in his fifteen years of existence.
Kaito pushed the duvet aside and swung his legs out of bed, his bare feet meeting the cold tile floor with a shock that helped complete the transition from sleep to wakefulness. The January morning was dark beyond his window, Madrid still sleeping under a winter sky that promised clear weather for football. He stood and moved immediately into his morning routine, each action designed to prepare his body and quiet his mind before the storm of emotions that match day always brought.
Shower first—cold water, because the shock helped activate his nervous system more effectively than coffee ever could.
His father had introduced this practice years ago during their early morning training sessions in Kawasaki, back when Kaito had been eight years old and Takeshi Kurosawa had still been alive, still been there to guide him through the fundamentals of the sport that would eventually take his son ten thousand kilometers from home. Takeshi had believed that comfort in the morning led to complacency during matches, that the body needed to be shocked awake rather than gently coaxed into consciousness. Even though his father had been dead for three years, two months, and six days—even though Kaito could sometimes go hours without thinking about him now, which itself brought its own particular flavor of guilt—his teachings remained carved into muscle memory, instincts that operated below the level of conscious thought.
Kaito turned the shower handle all the way to cold and stepped under the spray before his brain could mount a convincing argument against it.
The icy water hit his skin like a physical assault, and every nerve ending in his body screamed in protest. His breathing hitched, his muscles contracted violently, and for a heartbeat he considered stepping back out and just using warm water like a normal person. But he forced himself to remain under the stream, counting the seconds in his head while his body gradually adjusted to the temperature, the initial shock transforming into something clarifying.
*One. Two. Three.*
His father's voice echoed in his memory, patient and steady: "The discomfort is temporary. What you gain from pushing through it lasts all day."
*Four. Five. Six.*
The water cascaded over his lean frame, still developing despite the intensive training regime Real Madrid's strength and conditioning staff had implemented. Fifty-two kilograms distributed across a one-hundred-sixty-eight-centimeter frame. Four kilograms heavier than when he'd arrived in Spain one week ago, the result of the high-protein diet and weight training designed to build muscle mass without sacrificing the agility and technical ability that had convinced Real Madrid to spend ten million euros on him.
*Seven. Eight. Nine.*
His heart rate was slowing now, the panic of cold water giving way to controlled breathing, his mind sharpening with each passing second. This was meditation as much as hygiene, a ritual that separated sleep from wakefulness, yesterday from today, preparation from performance.
*Ten.*
Kaito reached for the small bottle of shower gel that sat on the narrow shelf—unscented, hypoallergenic, approved by Real Madrid's medical staff who monitored everything from nutrition to skin care products to ensure optimal performance. He lathered quickly and efficiently, his movements economical, wasting no time or motion. The water rinsed away soap and the last remnants of sleep, leaving him alert and focused.
By the time he stepped out of the shower five minutes later, his body was fully awake, his skin reddened from the cold but his mind clear and ready. He dried off with the same efficiency he'd shown while washing, then stood in front of the small mirror above the sink and examined his reflection.
Kurosawa Kaito, age fifteen, professional footballer for Real Madrid Castilla, stared back at him.
His face was still soft with youth, features that hadn't yet sharpened into adult angles. Dark eyes that his mother said he'd inherited from his father, along with the particular intensity of focus that could make him seem older than his years. Hair that needed cutting but not urgently enough to matter today. A small scar on his left eyebrow from a childhood accident he barely remembered. Nothing remarkable, nothing that would make someone look twice if they passed him on the street.
Except today he would walk onto the Estadio Alfredo Di Stéfano wearing the white shirt of Real Madrid, and the weight of that responsibility sat heavy on his shoulders despite the physical lightness of the actual kit.
His phone buzzed from where he'd left it on the bedroom floor, the vibration loud against the tile. Kaito moved to check it, his reflection disappearing from the mirror as he turned away.
The screen showed multiple notifications that had accumulated while he'd been in the shower. He scrolled through them with practiced efficiency, separating the important from the noise:
**WHATSAPP - KUROSAWA YUKI (MOM)**
**Mom (05:47):** *おはよう,カイト!試合の日だね.ちゃんと朝ごはんを食べてね.お父さんも見ているよ.頑張って!愛してる.* (Good morning, Kaito! Match day. Make sure you eat breakfast properly. Dad is watching too. Do your best! Love you.)
The message hit him in the chest like it always did when his mother invoked his father's presence. Three years hadn't been long enough to dull the particular ache that came with reminders that Takeshi Kurosawa would never see his son play professional football, would never know that the dream they'd shared had actually come true.
Kaito's fingers hovered over the keyboard, considering his response. His mother would be at work now—6:47 AM in Madrid meant 2:47 PM in Japan, and she'd be on her lunch break from the hospital where she worked as a nurse, probably sitting in the staff cafeteria with the homemade bento she'd prepared before her shift began at dawn. His sisters would be in school, trying to stay awake through afternoon classes while knowing their brother's debut was happening that evening their time.
**Kaito:** *ありがとう,ママ.しっかり準備してる.試合の後で電話するね.愛してる.* (Thank you, Mom. I'm preparing properly. I'll call after the match. Love you.)
Simple. Honest. Carrying none of the anxiety that was currently making his stomach twist itself into knots.
He scrolled to the next message.
**WHATSAPP - CASTILLA TEAM GROUP**
**Chema Andrés (05:47):** *Buenos días hermanos! Match day! We're going to dominate today. Talavera won't know what hit them. 💪⚽*
**Asencio (05:52):** *Team meeting at Valdebebas 09:00. Light training session before we head to the stadium. Don't be late.*
**Marvel (06:03):** *First official match! Exciting no? Just remember—is still football. Same game you been playing since you were kid. You got this mano.*
**Antonio David (06:15):** *@Kurosawa Kaito don't be nervous Japanese. We carry you if you freeze up 😂*
**Nico Paz (06:22):** *Good luck today everyone. Let's get three points.*
Kaito read each message carefully, noting the different energies each teammate brought. Chema's confidence was characteristically Spanish—direct, unambiguous, carrying none of the false modesty that Japanese culture often demanded. Asencio's reminder about timing was practical leadership from the team's captain, the kind of organizational detail that separated good teams from chaotic ones. Marvel's encouragement was genuine, the young Brazilian center-back having taken it upon himself to mentor Kaito since his arrival one week ago.
Antonio's teasing was more complex—playful on the surface but with an edge of genuine competitiveness underneath, a reminder that Kaito was starting today partly because Antonio hadn't done enough in training this week to secure the more advanced midfield role for himself. And Nico Paz's message was the most interesting of all—professional and supportive despite being the player Kaito had directly displaced from the starting eleven, showing the kind of maturity that would serve him well in a career where competition for positions was constant and unforgiving.
**Kaito:** *Thanks everyone. See you at 09:00. Ready to work.*
He kept his response simple and professional, the way his father had taught him to communicate with teammates. Some players used excessive emojis and casual language in their messages, treating the team group chat like a social media platform. Kaito preferred directness. Communication should convey information efficiently without unnecessary decoration.
His phone showed additional notifications from social media platforms he'd been advised to maintain for "brand development"—a concept Kaito found somewhat unnecessary at fifteen but understood was part of modern professional football, where players were expected to be performers both on and off the pitch.
**INSTAGRAM - @kurosawakaito_8**
**Real Madrid Castilla Official:** *Tagged you in a post*
The club's official account had posted the match day graphic—a sleek design featuring the Castilla crest, the opponent's logo, kickoff time, and stadium information. The caption was in Spanish with English translation:
*🏆 PRIMERA FEDERACIÓN - JORNADA 21*
*⚪ @realmadridcastilla vs @cftalaveradelareinaSAD*
*🏟️ Alfredo Di Stéfano*
*⏰ 15:00 CET*
*📺 Real Madrid TV*
*#HalaMadrid | #RMCastilla*
The post already had fifty-eight thousand likes and forty-three hundred comments despite being published less than an hour ago. Kaito scrolled through a few of the replies, his Spanish still halting enough that he could only catch about sixty percent of the meaning:
**@madridista_tokyo:** *黒澤頑張れ!(Kurosawa ganbatte!) First match! Make Japan proud! 🇯🇵⚪*
**@footballscout_es:** *Watching Kurosawa today. Curious if he can handle the physicality at this level. Big test for a 15-year-old.*
**@castilla_analysis:** *Smart signing. Kid has vision. Looking forward to seeing him in competitive match. Raúl wouldn't start him if he wasn't ready.*
**@talavera_1925:** *We're fighting for survival. No easy points today for Madrid's kids. Vamos Talavera! 💙⚪*
**@nico_paz_fans:** *Why is Nico on the bench???? He's been our best creative player! This makes no sense!*
**@realmadrid_br:** *Torcendo pelo Kaito! Show them what Asian football can do! 🇯🇵🇧🇷*
The comments were predictable in their diversity—support from Japanese fans excited to see one of their own representing Real Madrid, skepticism from Spanish supporters who questioned whether a fifteen-year-old was ready for professional football, tactical analysis from armchair experts who'd probably never played the game at any serious level, and concern from Nico Paz supporters who felt their favorite player was being unfairly treated.
Kaito closed the app without responding to any comments. Social media engagement could wait until after the match, assuming the match went well enough that he had anything worth saying. Right now his focus needed to be internal, on preparation rather than external noise.
The time on his phone showed 6:34 AM.
Two hours and twenty-six minutes until the team meeting at Valdebebas. Eight hours and twenty-six minutes until kickoff.
Kaito moved to the kitchenette and began preparing breakfast with the precision of someone following a prescribed formula rather than cooking from intuition. The Castilla nutritionist—Dr. Carmen Ramírez, a stern woman in her mid-forties who treated meal planning with the seriousness of tactical preparation—had designed a specific pre-match nutrition protocol for him that accounted for his age, body weight, position, and the demands he'd face during ninety minutes of professional football.
The laminated instruction sheet was taped to the refrigerator door, and Kaito consulted it now despite having memorized the contents days ago:
**MATCH DAY BREAKFAST - NINE HOURS BEFORE KICKOFF**
**Objective:** Maximize glycogen stores for sustained energy while avoiding digestive discomfort during play.
**Components:**
- One hundred fifty grams white rice (easily digestible complex carbohydrates, minimal fiber to reduce GI stress)
- Three whole eggs, scrambled (high-quality protein, healthy fats, no added oils or butter)
- One medium banana (potassium for muscle function, quick-digesting natural sugars)
- Three hundred milliliters fresh orange juice (vitamin C for immune support, simple carbohydrates)
- One serving protein supplement shake - twenty grams whey isolate (amino acids for muscle support and recovery)
**Forbidden:** Heavy sauces, fried foods, dairy products beyond what's in the protein shake, anything with high fat content that will slow gastric emptying.
**Hydration:** Minimum five hundred milliliters water with breakfast. Continue hydrating at regular intervals until ninety minutes pre-kickoff.
Kaito measured everything precisely using the kitchen scale Dr. Ramírez had insisted he purchase during his first week in Madrid. In professional football, nutrition was science, not guesswork. Your body was the instrument that performed on the pitch, and that instrument required precise fuel to function optimally. Too little food and you'd run out of energy by the seventieth minute. Too much and you'd feel sluggish, your stomach working overtime to digest when that energy should be directed toward your muscles.
The rice cooker—another required purchase—was already programmed from last night, and it chimed softly now to indicate the rice was ready. Kaito transferred exactly one hundred fifty grams into a bowl, the white grains steaming gently. The eggs went into a small non-stick pan over medium heat, and he scrambled them with chopsticks rather than a fork, the technique his mother had taught him producing smaller, fluffier curds.
While the eggs cooked, he peeled the banana and poured the orange juice into a glass, measuring the volume carefully. Everything had to be exact. Dr. Ramírez conducted random spot checks on players' meal compliance, and those who deviated from their prescribed nutrition plans found themselves running extra fitness drills as punishment.
The protein shake was last—a chalky vanilla-flavored mixture that tasted vaguely medicinal despite the manufacturer's promises of "delicious natural flavor." Kaito mixed it with water rather than milk per Dr. Ramírez's instructions, the powder dissolving into a pale beige liquid that he'd learned to drink quickly rather than savor.
By 6:52 AM his breakfast was plated and ready. Kaito carried everything to the small table that doubled as his desk and dining area, positioning his phone face-down so he wouldn't be distracted by notifications, and began eating with methodical focus.
The rice was perfectly cooked—individual grains separate but slightly sticky, the texture exactly right for easy digestion. The eggs were soft and plain, unseasoned because Dr. Ramírez believed excess sodium this close to kickoff could affect hydration balance. The banana was ripe enough to be sweet but not so ripe that it had become mushy. The orange juice was fresh-squeezed from the premium fruit Real Madrid provided to all their players, sharp and bright on his tongue.
He ate slowly, chewing each bite thoroughly to aid digestion, drinking water between portions to help his stomach process the volume of food. This wasn't a meal to be enjoyed, exactly. It was fuel. Medicine. The foundation that would support his body through ninety minutes of sprinting and jumping and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from playing professional football.
His phone buzzed against the table despite being face-down, the vibration loud enough that he could hear it. Kaito ignored it, staying focused on his meal. Whatever notification had just arrived could wait until after breakfast.
Twenty minutes later, his plate was empty and his stomach comfortably full without being overstuffed. The protein shake went down in four long swallows, and then breakfast was complete. Kaito cleared his dishes to the small sink, washed everything by hand—the apartment didn't have a dishwasher—and dried them before putting them away. Dr. Ramírez's instructions had been specific: maintaining cleanliness and organization in your living space promoted mental clarity and discipline that would transfer to the pitch.
Only after the kitchen was clean did Kaito pick up his phone and check what he'd missed during breakfast.
**WHATSAPP - INCOMING CALL MISSED**
**Kurosawa Yuki (Mom) - 06:58**
A video call that he'd missed by three minutes. Kaito calculated the time difference quickly—7:15 AM in Madrid meant 3:15 PM in Japan. His mother's lunch break would be ending soon, and his sisters would still be in school. He could call back now and catch her before she had to return to work, or he could wait until after the match when he'd hopefully have good news to share.
His finger hovered over the callback button for several seconds before he made his decision and pressed it.
The call connected after two rings, and his mother's face filled the screen, her expression immediately brightening when she saw him despite the exhaustion visible in the dark circles under her eyes.
"Kaito!" Her voice carried the particular warmth she reserved for her children, though he could see the fatigue that came from working double shifts to support the family. "Did you eat breakfast? You look thin. Are you eating enough?"
This was a recurring concern, maternal instinct apparently unable to process the fact that he'd actually gained four kilograms since arriving in Spain and was under the supervision of professional nutritionists who monitored his diet more carefully than she ever could.
"I just finished breakfast, Mom. I'm following Dr. Ramírez's meal plan exactly. I've gained four kilograms since I arrived—all muscle, she says."
"Four kilograms of muscle or just four kilograms of height?" His mother's eyes narrowed with the particular skepticism that mothers deployed when they suspected their children weren't being entirely truthful. "You're growing so fast, Kaito. I wish I could be there to make sure you're eating properly prepared food, not just what some Spanish nutritionist thinks is appropriate."
"Dr. Ramírez knows what she's doing, Mom. Really. And I'm fine. My body weight is exactly where it should be for my position and the demands of professional football."
The sound of excited voices erupted in the background of his mother's call, and suddenly the camera was being wrestled away from her, the image shaking violently before two familiar faces crowded into the frame, pushing against each other to claim more screen space.
"ONII-CHAN!"
His twin sisters burst into view—Mei and Mio, twelve years old, their school uniforms slightly disheveled from whatever activities had occupied their lunch break and afternoon classes. They were identical twins, though Kaito had long since learned to distinguish between them through subtle differences in expression and mannerism that most people missed. Mei was the more analytical one, her eyes always calculating, processing information with the kind of systematic thinking that made her excel at mathematics and science. Mio was pure emotion, wearing her heart on her sleeve, the sister who cried during sad movies and laughed too loud and felt everything with an intensity that sometimes worried their mother.
"Are you nervous?" Mio asked immediately, her eyes wide with dramatic concern that was partly genuine and partly performed for effect. "What if the other team tries to hurt you? What if you mess up and it's on camera forever and everyone in Japan sees and they put it on the internet and—"
"He'll be fine," Mei interrupted, her tone carrying the particular exasperation that came from having to constantly talk her twin down from catastrophic thinking. "Real Madrid wouldn't let him play if they didn't think he was ready. Right, onii-chan?"
"Right," Kaito confirmed, carefully keeping his voice steady despite the anxiety that was currently making his stomach twist itself into knots. "It's just football. Same game I've always played. Just at a higher level."
"But it's REAL MADRID," Mio insisted, her voice rising with emphasis that made several of her classmates visible in the background turn to look at her. "That's not the same as Kawasaki Frontale! You're going to be on TV! Actual TV that people watch! What if you freeze up? What if you forget how to play? What if—"
"Mio, breathe." Their mother's hand appeared in the frame, gently pulling her more excitable daughter back from the camera. "Your brother has been training for this his entire life. Have some faith in him."
"I have faith! I just also have anxiety!"
Despite the nervous energy he'd been carefully containing all morning, Kaito felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. His sisters' chaotic energy was familiar and grounding, a reminder that life existed beyond football and pressure and the weight of expectations he'd been carrying since signing his contract with Real Madrid one week ago. They were still just kids worrying about school and friends and their brother's debut, unconcerned with tactical formations or contract clauses or the ten-million-euro price tag that Spanish media couldn't stop mentioning.
"When you score your first goal," Mei said, her tone becoming serious in the way she adopted when she wanted to be taken seriously despite being twelve years old, "what celebration are you going to do? You should plan it now. Something cool that we can recreate for our TikTok. We already have like two hundred followers and if you do something we can copy it'll probably go viral and—"
"I don't know if I'll score today," Kaito replied honestly, setting realistic expectations even though part of him wanted to promise his sisters the spectacular debut they were imagining. "My position is to create chances for the forwards, not necessarily score myself. I'm playing as a number eight, not a striker. My job is to control the midfield and make passes that lead to goals, not score them directly."
"But IF you score," Mio pressed, leaning so close to the camera that her face filled the entire screen and Mei had to push her back to reclaim her own space, "you have to do something for us. Point to the camera and make a heart with your hands or something. So we know you're thinking about us even though you're like a million kilometers away."
"Ten thousand kilometers," Mei corrected automatically. "Madrid to Tokyo is approximately ten thousand eight hundred forty-seven kilometers if you measure the great circle distance, though the actual flight path is—"
"Nobody cares about the exact distance, Mei!"
"I was just being accurate!"
"You're being annoying!"
"Girls!" Their mother's voice cut through the argument with the particular firmness that meant the discussion was over. "Your brother has to prepare for his match. Let him go."
Both sisters immediately quieted, though Mio's expression suggested she had more to say and was only holding back out of respect for their mother's command. Mei adjusted her glasses and tried to look mature and supportive rather than disappointed that her geography lesson had been interrupted.
Their mother reclaimed the phone from her daughters, her expression softening as she looked at her son through the screen. The hospital cafeteria behind her was busy with other staff on their lunch breaks, the ambient noise of conversations and clattering dishes creating a soundtrack of normal life that felt very far away from Madrid and professional football and the weight of representing Real Madrid.
"Your father would be so proud," Yuki said quietly, and the words hit Kaito in the chest like they always did when his mother invoked Takeshi's presence. "Watching you play for Real Madrid, even if it's the reserve team. He always knew you had something special. He told me the week before he died that you'd play in Europe someday. I didn't believe him then, thought he was just being an optimistic father seeing what he wanted to see. But he was right. He was always right about you."
The mention of Takeshi Kurosawa brought the familiar tightness to Kaito's chest—grief that had dulled over three years, two months, and six days but never entirely disappeared, just changed shape and learned to coexist with everyday existence. His father had died when Kaito was twelve years old, killed in a car accident while driving home from work on a rainy Tuesday evening. One moment he'd been alive and planning to watch Kaito's youth match that weekend. The next moment he was gone, and Kaito's world had collapsed into a grief so profound he'd stopped playing football entirely for four months.
The cruel voice had started during those four months. The whisper that told him he was worthless, that he'd never be good enough, that his father had been wrong to believe in him. It had grown louder and more insistent until the night behind the gymnasium when everything changed, when Kaito had been so broken that something else had stepped in to fill the void.
But that was three years ago, and the voice was quiet now. Dormant. Waiting.
"I know, Mom," Kaito said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "I'm playing for him today. But also for myself. And for you and Mei and Mio. For all of us."
"Play for yourself first," his mother corrected gently but firmly. "This is your dream too, not just his. Don't carry his memory like a burden. Let it be fuel instead."
"I will."
"We'll be watching online. The game starts at eleven PM here, so we'll probably fall asleep before it ends—"
"You should sleep, Mom. You have early shift tomorrow. I saw it on the family calendar app."
"I'm not missing my son's professional debut for sleep. Don't be ridiculous." Her tone was firm enough to end that line of discussion. "Now eat properly throughout the day—I know you just had breakfast but you'll need to maintain energy. Drink water. Stay focused. And Kaito—"
"Yes?"
"Just do your best. That's all anyone can ask. Don't try to be perfect. Just be yourself and play the football you know how to play. The football your father taught you and that you've spent your whole life mastering."
"I will. I promise. I love you, Mom. Tell the girls I love them too."
"We love you too. Call us after the match, no matter how late it is or what the result was. We want to hear your voice."
"I will."
The call ended, and Kaito was alone again in his apartment with eight hours and seventeen minutes until kickoff.
He sat at his desk and pulled up the tactical analysis software Raúl had given the entire squad access to during their first team meeting. The CF Talavera scouting report was already open—Kaito had reviewed it three times this week, but repetition reinforced memory and revealed details that might have been missed on previous viewings.
**CF TALAVERA DE LA REINA - TACTICAL ANALYSIS**
**COMPILED BY: Real Madrid Castilla Scouting Department**
**CURRENT FORM:** L-L-D-L-D-L (1 point from last 6 matches, winless in 8)
**LEAGUE POSITION:** 15th of 20 teams (5 points above relegation zone)
**HOME/AWAY RECORD:** 2-1-7 away, 3-3-4 home (struggling in both environments)
**FORMATION:** 4-4-2 (compact, defensive, rarely deviates)
**STYLE OF PLAY:** Direct, physical, defensive. Low possession percentage (average 38% this season). Prefer to sit deep and hit on the counter. Limited technical quality in midfield forces reliance on long balls to forwards.
**DEFENSIVE SHAPE:**
When defending, Talavera drops into a compact 4-4-2 block with both forwards pressing the opposition center-backs while the midfield four sits narrow and deep, typically forming two banks of four that compress the central areas. They are willing to concede possession and space in wide areas, preferring to force opposition attacks wide where they can defend with greater numbers and reduced danger.
**Pressing triggers:** Almost none. They rarely press high. Only exception is when opposition goalkeeper or center-back takes a heavy touch—then nearest forward will close down aggressively to force a mistake.
**Defensive weaknesses:**
- Slow transitions from defense to attack (average 4.2 seconds to organize counter-attack after winning possession)
- Right-back (number 2, Cristian Muñoz, 19 years old) is inexperienced and struggles against technical wingers
- Center-back partnership lacks pace—vulnerable to balls played in behind the defensive line
- Defensive midfielder (Santos, number 6) has discipline issues—8 yellow cards in 20 matches, tends to foul when beaten
**ATTACKING APPROACH:**
Very direct. Average pass sequence before shot is 3.1 passes (league average is 5.8). Rely heavily on:
1. Long balls to target man Moreno (number 9)
2. Winning second balls in midfield
3. Quick transitions when they win possession in dangerous areas
4. Set pieces (7 goals from set pieces this season—above league average)
**KEY PLAYERS:**
**Number 9 - Javier Moreno (ST):** 28 years old, 187cm, 84kg. Target man. Strong in the air (wins 64% of aerial duels), good at holding up play with his back to goal. 8 goals this season (team's top scorer). Primary aerial threat on set pieces. Will drop deep to link play when service is poor, creating space for midfield runners.
**Weakness:** Poor mobility. Struggles to press effectively. Can be isolated if midfield doesn't support him quickly enough.
**Number 10 - Dani Vega (AM):** 23 years old, 175cm, 68kg. Creative midfielder, technically decent but inconsistent. 4 goals, 4 assists this season. Only player in their squad with genuine creative ability and vision to play final passes. Right-footed, prefers to drift inside from left half-space.
**Weakness:** Physically weak, easily bullied off the ball. Tends to disappear in big matches or when his team is under sustained pressure. Defensive work rate is poor.
**Number 5 - Pablo Hernández (CB, Captain):** 31 years old, 183cm, 79kg. Experienced defender who has played over 300 professional matches across Segunda and Segunda B. Organizes the back line, vocal leader. Good reading of the game compensates for declining physical attributes.
**Weakness:** Lacks pace (will struggle against fast forwards running in behind). Has received 8 yellow cards this season—frustration leads to poor discipline when his team is losing.
**Number 6 - Miguel Ángel Santos (DM):** 26 years old, 178cm, 73kg. Defensive midfielder. Physical, aggressive, decent tackler but limited technical ability. His job is purely destructive—break up play, win second balls, provide physicality in midfield. Yellow cards in 4 of last 6 matches.
**Weakness:** Poor passing range (mostly simple balls to Vega or long balls forward). Gets caught out of position when trying to press. Disciplinary issues—tendency to foul when beaten, especially by technical players who embarrass him with skill.
**PREDICTED APPROACH VS CASTILLA:**
Based on their recent matches and their current league position (fighting to avoid relegation), Talavera will likely:
1. Sit deep in compact 4-4-2 defensive block
2. Look to frustrate through organization rather than pressing
3. Concede possession and invite Castilla to attack
4. Play long balls to Moreno to bypass midfield pressure
5. Commit tactical fouls to prevent dangerous counter-attacks
6. Use physical challenges to test Castilla's technical players, especially younger ones
7. Focus on set pieces as primary scoring opportunity
8. Possible time-wasting tactics if they manage to score or keep game close
**TACTICAL RECOMMENDATIONS FOR CASTILLA:**
**In Possession:**
- Overload flanks to pull their compact midfield apart
- Quick switches of play to exploit space on far side
- Number eights (Kaito and Antonio) should position in half-spaces between their midfield and defense
- Forwards make diagonal runs to pull center-backs out of position
- Be patient—they want to frustrate us into making mistakes
**Out of Possession:**
- High press on their center-backs and goalkeeper (they struggle playing out from back)
- Force them wide where their technical quality is lowest
- Win second balls in midfield (critical—this is where they create danger)
- Track Vega (number 10) closely—he's their only creative threat
- Be alert to Moreno's movement on set pieces
**Individual Matchups:**
- Kaito vs Santos (number 6): Expect physical challenges. Use movement and technical superiority to draw fouls in dangerous areas. Don't engage in physical battles you can't win—use his aggression against him.
Kaito read through the report carefully, his mind processing tactical information and converting it into practical application. This wasn't abstract theory—this was the blueprint for how he'd need to play in eight hours and fourteen minutes when the match began.
Santos, the defensive midfielder who'd likely be assigned to shadow him throughout the match, was the key opponent to understand. Physical, aggressive, limited technically, prone to discipline issues. The kind of player who tried to intimidate through contact, testing whether Kaito could handle the rougher aspects of Spanish football.
This was predictable and therefore manageable. Kaito had faced aggressive defenders throughout his youth career in Japan—bigger, older players who thought they could bully the small technical kid out of the game. The solution was always the same: technical superiority. Quick first touch to evade pressure. Intelligent movement to find space before the ball arrived. Using the defender's aggression against him by drawing fouls in dangerous areas.
If Santos picked up his fifth yellow card today, he'd be suspended for Talavera's next match. That was relevant information. It meant he'd be slightly more cautious than usual, knowing another card would have consequences. Or it might make him more reckless, frustrated by the pressure of needing to avoid bookings while also doing his defensive job.
Either way, Kaito could exploit it.
His phone buzzed again, pulling him out of tactical analysis.
**WHATSAPP - RAÚL GONZÁLEZ**
**Raúl (07:41):** *Kaito, I'll be posting the starting lineup when you arrive at Valdebebas. Wanted to let you know personally first: you're starting today. Left number eight position. You've earned it through your training performances this week. Play your game, trust your teammates, and don't try to do too much. See you at 09:00.*
Kaito stared at the message for several seconds, reading it twice to make sure he'd understood correctly.
Starting.
He was starting in his first official match for Real Madrid Castilla.
Not coming off the bench. Not getting garbage time minutes at the end if the match was already decided. Starting. In the eleven. From the first whistle.
The reality settled over him like a physical weight, and he had to consciously control his breathing to prevent his heart rate from spiking too much. This was what he'd worked for. This was the opportunity he needed to prove he belonged at this level. Raúl González—Real Madrid legend, proven coach, someone who'd scored over three hundred goals for the club and won three Champions League titles—had looked at Kaito's training performances over the past week and decided he was ready to start in a competitive match.
The trust implicit in that decision was overwhelming.
**Kaito:** *Thank you, míster. I won't disappoint.*
**Raúl:** *I know you won't. That's why you're starting. See you at nine.*
Kaito set the phone down and stood, suddenly needing to move. Starting. The word repeated in his mind like a mantra, like a promise, like a threat. He began pacing the small apartment, excess nervous energy demanding physical outlet, his mind racing through implications and expectations and the weight of what it meant to be chosen over Nico Paz who'd been in the Real Madrid system for years and knew Raúl's tactics intimately.
He forced himself to stop pacing and moved through a series of dynamic stretches instead, channeling the nervous energy into productive preparation. Hamstrings first—standing on one leg, pulling the other foot toward his glutes, feeling the stretch through the back of his thigh. Hold for thirty seconds, switch legs. Quadriceps next, then hip flexors, then calves. Each muscle group receiving attention, ensuring optimal flexibility for the match ahead.
By 8:15 AM he was packed and ready. His training bag sat by the door, everything checked and double-checked using the list Dr. Ramírez had provided during his first week:
**MATCH DAY EQUIPMENT CHECKLIST:**
✓ Match boots (Adidas X Crazyfast, cleaned and maintained, laces double-knotted)
✓ Training boots (slightly worn pair for warm-up, preserving match boots' condition)
✓ Shin guards (lightweight carbon fiber, custom-fitted to his leg dimensions)
✓ Compression gear (shorts and shirt to wear under kit, moisture-wicking)
✓ Extra socks (three pairs—white for match, backup pairs in case of damage)
✓ Medical tape (for securing shin guards and providing additional ankle support)
✓ Water bottle with Real Madrid crest (filled with electrolyte solution)
✓ Energy gels (two packets for 30 minutes pre-kickoff if needed)
✓ Small towel (for wiping sweat during breaks in play)
✓ Headphones (though he rarely used them, preferring mental preparation in silence)
And tucked into a zippered inner pocket where it wouldn't be visible to anyone else: a photograph of his father in his playing days, standing on a muddy pitch in Kawasaki wearing amateur league kit, football in hand, smile wide despite visible exhaustion. Written on the back in Takeshi's handwriting, the ink slightly faded but still legible:
*"For Kaito: Remember that football is joy before it is anything else. Don't let the pressure steal that from you. Play because you love it, not because you have to prove something."*
Kaito pulled out the photograph and allowed himself exactly ten seconds looking at it, connecting with the memory of a man who'd believed in him when he was just a child with a dream that seemed impossible. His father's face in the photo was younger than Kaito remembered him in his final year—this must have been taken when Takeshi was in his late twenties, before marriage and children and the responsibilities that would eventually lead him to give up playing football himself.
*Today I play for Real Madrid, Dad. Just like you said I would. I hope you're watching somehow. I hope you can see that your faith wasn't misplaced.*
He returned the photograph to its protective pocket and checked the time: 8:27 AM.
The car service would arrive in three minutes. Juan, the driver who'd been assigned to transport him to and from Valdebebas, was punctual to the point of obsession. Kaito had learned quickly that if the appointment was 8:30, Juan would be waiting at 8:29 at the latest, the black Mercedes idling at the curb with German precision.
Kurosawa Kaito grabbed his bag, took one final look around the small apartment that had been his home for the past week, and headed to the lobby.
Professional football waited.
And he was ready.
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