**JANUARY 22, 2025 - MATCH DAY**
**REAL MADRID TRAINING COMPLEX, VALDEBEBAS**
**11:30 AM**
---
The dining hall was already filled with the aroma of carefully prepared food when Kaito arrived at exactly eleven-thirty, following the stream of teammates who'd made the short walk from the Castilla facilities across the training complex. The cafeteria was spacious and modern, large windows offering views of the training pitches where youth teams from various age groups were still working under their respective coaches. Long tables were arranged in neat rows, each set for exactly twenty-four people—the full Castilla match day squad plus coaching staff.
Natural light flooded the space, creating an atmosphere that was professional but not sterile, functional but not uncomfortable. This was where Real Madrid's young players learned that nutrition was as important as training, that what you put into your body directly affected what you could produce on the pitch.
At one end of the room, a buffet line had been set up with the pre-approved meal options. Dr. Carmen Ramírez stood near the serving area like a sentinel, her sharp eyes tracking each player's selections to ensure compliance with the nutritional protocol she'd designed. She held a tablet that displayed each player's individualized meal plan, and Kaito had learned during his first week that attempting to deviate from that plan would result in a very uncomfortable conversation followed by additional fitness work as punishment.
Kaito joined the queue behind Marvel and Asencio, grabbing a tray from the stack and moving through the line with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this enough times to know the routine.
Dr. Ramírez's assistant—a younger nutritionist named Laura who handled the actual food service while the doctor supervised—smiled at him as he approached the serving station.
"Kurosawa, yes? Four hours before kickoff meal. I have your portions ready."
She consulted the tablet mounted beside the serving area, then began plating his food according to the specifications Dr. Ramírez had programmed:
**PRE-MATCH MEAL - FOUR HOURS BEFORE KICKOFF**
**Carbohydrates:** Two hundred grams pasta with light tomato sauce (easily digestible complex carbs for sustained energy release)
**Protein:** One hundred fifty grams grilled chicken breast, sliced thin (lean protein without excessive fat that would slow gastric emptying)
**Vegetables:** One hundred grams steamed broccoli and carrots (vitamins, minerals, fiber in controlled quantities to avoid digestive issues)
**Fruit:** One medium banana, sliced (potassium for muscle function, quick-digesting natural sugars)
**Hydration:** Five hundred milliliters water (mandatory), optional: two hundred milliliters diluted fruit juice
**Forbidden:** Heavy sauces, fried foods, dairy products beyond minimal amounts, anything with high fat content, carbonated beverages
Laura portioned everything with precision that bordered on obsessive, using a small scale to verify weights before placing items on Kaito's tray. The pasta was measured to the gram. The chicken was weighed. Even the vegetables were portioned exactly according to the prescribed amounts.
Professional football nutrition wasn't about eating until you felt full. It was about consuming precisely calculated amounts of specific nutrients timed to optimize energy availability during competition. Too much food and your digestive system would be working overtime when that energy should be directed toward your muscles. Too little and you'd run out of fuel before the match ended.
Dr. Ramírez nodded approvingly as Kaito's tray passed her inspection. Some players ahead of him in line had tried to sneak additional items—extra bread, more sauce on their pasta, a second piece of chicken—and received sharp corrections delivered in rapid Spanish that suggested this wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation.
Kaito carried his tray to one of the long tables where several midfielders had already gathered. He took a seat between Chema and Antonio David, across from Marvel and a reserve midfielder named Víctor Muñoz who'd be on the bench today but was following the same nutritional protocol as the starters.
"You always eat so exact," Antonio observed, gesturing at Kaito's precisely portioned plate with his fork. "Never extra anything. Like robot following program. Don't you ever just want to eat what you want?"
"After the match I can eat what I want," Kaito replied, cutting his chicken into smaller pieces to aid digestion. "Right now I eat what helps me perform best. Dr. Ramírez designed this plan specifically for my metabolism and body weight. Following it exactly gives me the best chance to play well."
"See, this is why Japanese players always so professional," Chema said, loading his own fork with pasta. The Spanish midfielder had slightly more food on his plate than Kaito—his larger body mass requiring additional calories to fuel the same ninety minutes of work. "Everything by the book. Every detail managed. Europeans, we are more... how you say... relaxed with these things."
"You mean lazy," Marvel interjected with a grin, speaking around a mouthful of chicken. "Japanese players train harder, eat better, recover smarter. Then Europeans wonder why they always in good physical condition late in season when everyone else is tired."
"Not all Europeans are lazy," Antonio protested. "Germans are very professional. Dutch too. Scandinavians. It's mainly Southern Europeans who are more flexible with discipline."
"You mean Spanish and Italians who want to eat pizza and drink wine instead of following nutritionist's meal plan," Víctor added, and several players at nearby tables laughed.
The conversation continued in this vein—light banter about cultural differences in training approaches, joking arguments about which nationality produced the most disciplined athletes, the kind of casual talk that helped pass time and keep minds occupied without dwelling too much on the approaching match.
Kaito participated enough to remain socially engaged while keeping most of his focus on eating properly. Chewing thoroughly—Dr. Ramírez had been adamant about this, explaining that insufficient chewing forced the stomach to work harder to break down food, wasting energy that should be available for athletic performance. Drinking water between bites to aid digestion. Maintaining a steady pace that balanced the need for nutrition with awareness that eating too quickly could cause discomfort.
Across the dining hall, he could see Raúl and the assistant coaches eating at their own table, occasionally glancing toward the squad but mostly engaged in their own discussion. Likely final tactical adjustments based on whatever updated information they'd received about Talavera's likely approach, or contingency plans for different match scenarios.
Nico Paz sat at another table with several defenders and the substitute goalkeeper, his body language relaxed despite being dropped from the starting eleven. He was engaged in animated conversation with the players around him, laughing at something one of the center-backs had said, showing no outward signs of resentment about his reduced role today. Professional maturity on display—disappointed but not defeated, ready to contribute when called upon rather than sulking about the decision.
The meal lasted exactly thirty minutes, players eating at a measured pace that Dr. Ramírez monitored from her position near the buffet line. When the last player had finished, the nutritionist made her rounds collecting trays and offering final reminders:
"Hydration continues until ninety minutes before kickoff. Small sips throughout the afternoon, don't wait until you feel thirsty. Energy gels are available in the locker room if you want them thirty minutes pre-match—check with me first, not everyone's system handles them well. Otherwise, nothing else enters your mouth until halftime."
She fixed several players with a stern look that suggested she knew exactly who was most likely to try sneaking forbidden snacks.
"Your next meal after the match will be recovery nutrition—protein and carbohydrates within thirty minutes of the final whistle to optimize muscle recovery. But that's later. Right now, focus on hydration and mental preparation. Questions?"
No questions. Everyone understood the protocol by now.
The squad dispersed from the dining hall, some players returning to the locker room to rest during the remaining free time, others heading to the rest area designated for pre-match relaxation. Kaito chose the locker room, preferring his own space and the quiet that came with it.
The time was 12:04 PM when he settled back onto the bench in front of his locker.
Eleven minutes until the bus departed for Di Stéfano. Two hours and fifty-six minutes until kickoff.
He pulled out his phone and checked for any messages he'd missed during lunch, finding only one notification of significance:
**WHATSAPP - RAÚL GONZÁLEZ**
**Raúl (11:47):** *Bus boards at 12:10. Be in parking area ready to go. We leave at 12:15 exactly. No exceptions.*
**Kaito:** *Understood, míster. I'll be there.*
He set the phone to airplane mode and returned it to his locker. The remaining minutes before departure were for mental preparation, not external communication.
Kaito lay back on the bench with his legs elevated, closed his eyes, and began walking through the match in his mind. Not imagining perfect outcomes—that was fantasy, not useful preparation—but rather rehearsing realistic scenarios and his appropriate responses:
*Receiving the ball under pressure from Santos in midfield. First touch to create space. Looking up to assess options. Playing the pass that best serves the team's tactical objective. Moving immediately to support the next phase of play.*
*Losing possession in a dangerous area. Immediate transition to defensive mindset. Applying pressure on the ball carrier without diving into reckless tackles. Trusting teammates to provide cover. Staying disciplined in positioning.*
*The ball at my feet in the final third with multiple defenders closing down. Keeping composure under pressure. Protecting the ball. Waiting for movement to create a better passing option rather than forcing something that isn't there.*
The scenarios played out with as much detail as he could construct, building muscle memory for situations that would demand instant decisions during the actual match.
At 12:09 PM, Kaito stood and grabbed his bag. Time to go.
---
**[12:15 PM - THE JOURNEY TO DI STÉFANO]**
The Castilla squad assembled in the parking area at exactly 12:10 PM, professional discipline evident in the fact that all twenty-four people—twenty-two players, two coaches—were present and ready five minutes before the scheduled departure. The bus waiting for them was the same sleek white coach that transported them to away matches, the Real Madrid crest displayed prominently on the exterior, tinted windows providing privacy from whatever fans or media might be watching.
Players boarded in the informal hierarchy that had developed organically over the season. Senior players and regular starters gravitated toward the back seats, where legroom was slightly better and the engine noise was quieter. Younger players and those on the bench took seats toward the front. Coaching staff occupied the very front rows behind the driver, tactical tablets and notebooks already open as they reviewed final preparations.
Kaito found a window seat about halfway back, setting his bag in the overhead compartment before settling in. Chema dropped into the seat beside him moments later, the Spanish midfielder apparently having decided to adopt Kaito as a project worth investing time in.
"You ready?" Chema asked, his tone casual but his eyes assessing.
"As ready as I can be."
"Good answer. Anyone who says they completely ready for first professional match is lying. There is always nervousness. The question is whether nervousness helps you focus or makes you freeze."
The bus engine rumbled to life, and they pulled out of the parking area at 12:15 exactly, Raúl's emphasis on punctuality being respected by the driver who'd worked with the coach long enough to know that "leave at twelve-fifteen" meant the wheels started moving at 12:15:00, not 12:15:30.
The journey from Valdebebas to the Estadio Alfredo Di Stéfano was absurdly short—less than two kilometers in a straight line, barely ten minutes of driving even accounting for the need to follow actual roads rather than cutting directly across the training complex. They could have walked the distance in fifteen minutes if Raúl had been willing to break the ritual of bus transport to matches.
But rituals mattered in professional football. Routine created comfort, and comfort allowed players to focus on performance rather than logistics. So they rode the bus for ten minutes to cover a distance that would have been trivial to walk, because this was how match days worked and deviation from routine introduced variables that didn't need to exist.
Madrid scrolled past the windows, though there wasn't much to see on this particular route. The training complex giving way to the stadium approach, mostly functional architecture and service roads rather than the picturesque city center views that tourists associated with the Spanish capital. A few pedestrians were visible wearing Real Madrid scarves and jerseys, likely fans making their way to the match despite the modest attendance Primera Federación games typically drew compared to first-team fixtures.
The atmosphere on the bus was quiet but not tense. Some players had headphones in, listening to whatever music helped them focus—some preferred high-energy tracks to amp themselves up, others chose calming instrumental pieces to maintain composure. A few engaged in low conversations with seatmates, though the topics were carefully neutral, avoiding both excessive match discussion that would increase anxiety and completely ignoring the approaching game which would seem unprofessional.
Kaito watched the landscape change from training grounds to stadium approach, feeling his heart rate begin to increase slightly despite his best efforts at controlled breathing. This was real now. In less than three hours he would walk onto that pitch and play professional football for Real Madrid. All the preparation, all the training, all the tactical study—it was about to be tested under actual competitive conditions.
*Two hours and forty-eight minutes,* he thought, checking the time on the bus's digital display. *Two hours and forty-eight minutes until I find out if I belong at this level or if this was all a mistake.*
At 12:23 PM, the bus pulled into the secure parking area beneath the Estadio Alfredo Di Stéfano. The stadium loomed above them—modern architecture that seated six thousand spectators, modest by Real Madrid first-team standards but still significantly larger than any venue Kaito had played in during his time with Kawasaki Frontale's youth teams. This was where Castilla played their home matches. This was where the first team had competed during the Santiago Bernabéu's renovation. This was where careers were made or broken.
"Vamos," Raúl announced from the front of the bus as it came to a complete stop. "Straight to the away locker room. No wandering, no distractions. We have work to do before warm-up begins. Move with purpose."
The players filed off the bus in orderly fashion, grabbing their bags and making their way through the concrete corridors that connected the parking area to the inner facilities. The walls were painted in Real Madrid's white and gold, photographs of legendary players hung at intervals—Raúl himself appeared in several, frozen in moments of celebration from matches played decades ago. Motivational quotes in Spanish about excellence and tradition and the responsibility that came with wearing the club's colors were stenciled on walls at regular intervals.
Kaito followed his teammates through the maze of corridors, his bag feeling heavier with each step despite its actual weight remaining constant. The psychological burden of what was coming, manifest as physical sensation.
They reached the away team locker room—technically Castilla's "home" locker room since they played here regularly, but officially designated as the away facility because the first team maintained priority access to the primary space even when they weren't using it. The room was professional infrastructure, equipped with everything needed for proper preparation: individual lockers lined the walls, each assigned to a specific player. Benches ran down the center. Showers and treatment areas branched off to the sides. A large tactical board was mounted on one wall.
And hanging in each player's locker was their match kit.
Kaito approached his assigned space—number 8, his name stenciled on the metal door—and stood for a moment looking at what awaited him. The kit the equipment staff had prepared hung pristine and perfectly folded:
White shirt, the fabric catching the locker room's fluorescent lighting. The Real Madrid crest embroidered over the heart in gold thread. The number 8 on the back above his name: **KUROSAWA**.
White shorts, equally pristine.
White socks, folded neatly.
Everything tailored to his exact measurements, designed to fit his frame perfectly and allow optimal freedom of movement while remaining close enough to the body that opponents couldn't grab excess fabric during physical challenges.
"First time seeing your name on professional kit never gets old," Marvel said, appearing beside him. The Brazilian was already in front of his own locker, number 5 displayed prominently, his match kit already laid out for the transformation that would come later. "Even after hundred times, there is still something special about putting it on and knowing you represent this club."
"It feels surreal," Kaito admitted quietly.
"Is supposed to. Means you haven't become arrogant or taken it for granted." Marvel clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make Kaito take a half-step forward. "But don't let surreal become overwhelming. At end of day, is just shirt. What matters is what you do while wearing it."
Practical wisdom delivered without pretension, then Marvel moved away to begin his own pre-match preparations.
The time was 12:31 PM.
Two hours and twenty-nine minutes until kickoff.
Kaito decided to wait before changing into his match kit, not wanting to spend the next two-plus hours sitting in the uniform. The transformation from street clothes to professional footballer would come later, closer to when they needed to take the pitch for warm-up.
He sat on the bench in front of his locker and began the final phase of mental preparation—reviewing tactical instructions one last time, visualizing his role in the team's system, controlling his breathing to prevent the anxiety from spiraling into something counterproductive.
Around the locker room, teammates were settling into their individual rituals. Some changed immediately into their kits despite the time remaining, wanting to feel the fabric against their skin early. Others remained in training gear, preserving the psychological impact of the transformation for later. A few were already having specific muscle groups taped by the team's medical staff who'd set up a treatment station in the corner—ankles receiving extra support, wrists being wrapped, any body part that needed additional protection or stability being attended to with professional precision.
The energy in the room was building gradually, conversation becoming slightly louder, movements becoming slightly more purposeful. The match was approaching and bodies were beginning to respond to that approaching reality with increased adrenaline production, heightened focus, the particular state of arousal that preceded physical competition.
At 1:00 PM exactly, there was a knock on the locker room door—three sharp raps that announced official business.
"Captains!" Raúl called out.
Asencio stood immediately, the white captain's armband already secured around his left bicep despite still wearing his training gear rather than match kit. He was joined by Marvel as vice-captain, and together with Raúl they exited the locker room for the traditional pre-match meeting with match officials.
This ritual was more ceremonial than practical—the referee would explain his expectations regarding player conduct, confirm the coin toss procedure, review any special circumstances for today's match, verify jersey numbers and starting lineups. But ceremony mattered in football, and the captain's meeting was one of those rituals that connected modern professional football to its historical roots.
The rest of the squad continued their preparations during the captains' absence. The medical staff finished their taping work. Players who needed to use the bathroom before the anxiety made it uncomfortable handled that practical necessity. Water bottles were filled from the large dispensers the equipment staff had set up. Energy gels were distributed to those who'd requested them, small packets of concentrated carbohydrates that could be consumed thirty minutes before kickoff for a final boost to glycogen stores.
Kaito accepted two gel packets from Dr. Ramírez's assistant when she made her rounds, tucking them into his bag for later. He'd never used them in Japan—they weren't common in youth football there—but Dr. Ramírez had explained that at the professional level, any legal advantage that improved performance by even one or two percent was worth utilizing.
At 1:12 PM, the door opened and the captains returned.
"We won the coin toss," Asencio announced to the room, his voice carrying the authority that came with the armband. "We elected to kick off. We'll attack the north goal in the first half, which means we'll have sun at our backs rather than in our eyes. Their captain looked nervous—good sign for us."
"Their whole team nervous," Marvel added, taking his seat on the bench and beginning to remove his training gear in preparation for changing into match kit. "They know they supposed to lose this match. They know they fighting relegation while we fighting for promotion. Pressure is all on them to somehow get result. Our job is make sure they don't."
Raúl checked his watch, then addressed the squad with the same calm authority he'd shown all day:
"One-fifteen now. At one-thirty we begin changing into match kit. At one-forty-five we go out for pitch inspection and warm-up routine. Forty minutes on the pitch—technical work, tactical review, activation. At two-thirty we return here for final team talk. At two-fifty we walk to the tunnel. At two-fifty-five we line up for pre-match ceremonies. At three o'clock exactly, we kick off. Questions?"
No questions. The timeline was clear, the routine established, everyone knew their role.
"Use the next fifteen minutes however you need. Bathroom, hydration, mental preparation, whatever helps you get ready. But at one-thirty, we start the transformation. This is when you become Real Madrid players rather than just young men in a locker room."
Raúl moved to his own preparation area, leaving the squad to their individual rituals.
Kaito stood and made his way to the bathroom facilities one final time before the pre-match routine accelerated. Better to handle it now than risk discomfort during warm-up. The bathrooms were clean and modern, multiple stalls and urinals available, everything maintained to the professional standard Real Madrid demanded throughout their facilities.
When he returned to his locker at 1:22 PM, the nervous energy in his stomach had intensified to the point where he could feel his pulse in his throat. One hour and thirty-eight minutes until kickoff. Less than ten minutes until they began changing into match kit.
He sat on the bench and focused on breathing. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. The rhythm helped regulate his autonomic nervous system, preventing the anxiety from triggering the fight-or-flight response that would flood his system with adrenaline too early.
*This is what I trained for. This is why I came to Spain. This is the opportunity I've been preparing for my entire life. I'm ready. I have to be ready. There's no alternative to being ready.*
At 1:30 PM exactly, Raúl made the announcement that would begin the final transformation:
"Alright everyone. Match kit on. We take the pitch in fifteen minutes. Get changed, get focused, get ready to represent this club."
The locker room erupted into focused activity.
Kaito stood and began the ritual that would transform him from Kurosawa Kaito, fifteen-year-old boy from Japan, into Kurosawa Kaito, professional footballer for Real Madrid Castilla.
The compression shorts came first—black synthetic material designed to support muscles and reduce fatigue, fitting snugly against his skin. Then the compression shirt, equally technical in its construction, providing support for his core and shoulders. These were the foundation, the base layer that would be hidden beneath the visible kit but crucial to physical performance.
Then came the visible elements that the world would see.
The white shorts with Real Madrid's crest embroidered on the left leg. He pulled them up and fastened the drawstring, feeling the premium fabric settle against his compression layer.
The white socks next, pulled high to just below the knee in the European style he'd been learning to adopt. The shin guards slid into place inside the socks—lightweight carbon fiber that would protect against impacts while adding minimal weight. He secured them with medical tape, wrapping carefully around the socks to ensure nothing would shift during play.
And finally, the shirt.
Kaito lifted it from the locker with both hands, feeling the weight of it despite the fabric being designed for minimal mass. The Real Madrid crest was positioned over the heart, gold thread catching the light. The number 8 on the back, large and unmistakable above his name: **KUROSAWA**.
He pulled the shirt over his head, feeling it settle onto his shoulders and torso. The fit was perfect—not too tight, not too loose, allowing full range of motion while remaining close enough to the body that opponents couldn't grab excess material during physical challenges.
He looked down at himself, at the white kit that marked him as part of Real Madrid, and felt something settle in his chest. Certainty, maybe. Or acceptance of what was about to happen regardless of how nervous he felt about it.
This was real. This was happening. In seventy-four minutes he would kick off his professional career.
Around the locker room, twenty-two players were completing the same transformation. White kits covered athletic bodies prepared for ninety minutes of professional competition. The substitute goalkeeper wore bright yellow, a splash of color among the sea of white. The coaching staff wore matching Real Madrid tracksuits, tactical tablets in hand, ready to observe and analyze and make the adjustments that could mean the difference between victory and defeat.
Asencio stood at the center of the room in full kit with the captain's armband bright against his white sleeve. He raised his voice to cut through the ambient noise:
"Listen up! This is our house! This is our stadium! Talavera comes here desperate for points they need to avoid relegation! Are we going to let them steal from us?!"
"NO!" The response was immediate and unified, twenty-one voices joining the captain's battle cry.
"Are we going to show them the difference between fighting to survive and fighting to win titles?!"
"YES!"
"Then let's go warm up properly and show them exactly what level they're trying to compete against! HALA MADRID!"
"HALA MADRID!"
The energy in the room had transformed completely from the quiet focus of earlier hours. This was the pre-battle surge, adrenaline mixing with determination, individual preparation giving way to collective purpose. They weren't twenty-two separate people anymore—they were a team with shared objectives and mutual dependencies.
Raúl appeared in the doorway, whistle around his neck, tactical tablet under his arm, match ready.
"Vamos. Pitch inspection and warm-up. Let's work."
The squad filed out of the locker room in formation order—goalkeeper, defense, midfield, attack, substitutes following behind, coaching staff at the rear. They moved through the concrete corridors beneath the stadium, the sound of studs clicking against tile creating a rhythmic percussion that accompanied their march toward the pitch.
The tunnel ahead led to natural light and grass and the place where everything they'd prepared for would finally be tested.
And Kurosawa Kaito walked toward it with his heart hammering and his hands slightly trembling and the absolute certainty that there was no turning back now.
---
**[1:45 PM - WARM-UP]**
The tunnel opened onto the pitch and Kaito's breath caught despite having seen this stadium before during his introductory tour.
The Estadio Alfredo Di Stéfano was perfect.
Not in the sense of being the most impressive stadium he'd ever seen—it was modest by Real Madrid first-team standards, smaller than the legendary Santiago Bernabéu where galácticos played in front of eighty thousand fans. But perfect in the way it had been prepared for today's match. The grass was cut to exactly the right length for optimal ball control, short enough that the ball wouldn't get caught in thick turf but long enough that the surface wasn't hard and unforgiving. The white lines were painted with geometric precision, marking out zones and boundaries with clarity that left no room for disputed calls. The goals stood at either end, nets pristine white against the green of the pitch.
The stadium itself was still largely empty, kickoff being over an hour away, but a few hundred early arrivals were already scattered through the stands. Die-hard Castilla supporters claiming their preferred seats. Scouts with notebooks and cameras, assessing players for their own clubs or simply gathering intelligence on Real Madrid's prospects. Media personnel setting up equipment for the Real Madrid TV broadcast that would carry the match to fans worldwide.
And somewhere in that sparse crowd, cameras were already recording—capturing footage that would be analyzed and discussed and potentially used to judge whether Kurosawa Kaito had been worth the investment Real Madrid had made in him.
"Let's go, let's go!" One of Raúl's assistant coaches clapped sharply, directing the squad toward their designated warm-up area on the right side of the pitch. "Jogging first! Two laps, moderate pace! This is activation, not fitness work!"
The team broke into an easy jog, circling the perimeter of the pitch at a pace designed to raise heart rates without depleting energy reserves. Kaito fell into the rhythm easily, his body responding automatically to the familiar motion of running, his eyes taking in details of the environment while his mind continued processing tactical information and scenarios.
The smell of the grass—fresh and alive, recently watered. The texture of the turf beneath his boots—firm but responsive, giving just enough that he could feel his studs gripping the surface. The temperature of the air—cool but not cold, perfect conditions for the kind of sustained physical effort football demanded. The ambient noise of the stadium—distant voices from early arriving fans, the electronic systems powering up, birds calling from somewhere beyond the stands.
This was the stage. This was where he would prove himself.
After two laps, the jogging gave way to dynamic stretching—high knees, butt kicks, lateral shuffles, carioca steps, everything designed to activate muscle groups and prepare joints for the rapid direction changes and explosive movements the match would require. The coaching staff led them through the routine with practiced efficiency, calling out instructions and corrections, ensuring everyone was preparing properly.
Then came the technical warm-up that would bring their sharpness to match-ready levels.
The squad broke into pairs with footballs, beginning the progression from simple to complex that would gradually tune their technical precision. Kaito paired with Chema, the two of them standing ten meters apart and passing back and forth with increasing pace:
Right foot inside. Left foot inside. Right foot outside. Left foot outside. Volleys. Headers. Trapping with thigh, chest, controlling with different surfaces. Each touch designed to remind his body how the ball felt, how it moved, how to manipulate it with precision.
"Good," Chema called after Kaito controlled a difficult bouncing ball with the outside of his right foot, killing its momentum perfectly. "Your touch is so consistent. Every time perfect weight, perfect control."
The warm-up progressed through various stages over the next thirty minutes. Passing patterns in groups—triangles and squares, the ball moving crisply between players with emphasis on weight and accuracy. Shooting practice on goal, the substitute goalkeeper getting his own preparation by facing shots from various angles and distances, his reflexes being tested and sharpened. Positional drills where players rehearsed their match day roles and movements, walking through the patterns they'd studied all week.
Kaito moved through it all with focused attention, feeling his body fully activate, his mind entering the competitive state that would carry him through the match. This was the final bridge between preparation and performance, and he treated it with the seriousness it deserved.
At the far end of the pitch, CF Talavera had emerged for their own warm-up session. Their blue and white striped kits were distinct against the green of the turf, their body language carrying a different energy than Castilla's confident professionalism. More desperate. More intense. The movements of a team fighting for survival rather than chasing glory.
Kaito watched them briefly during a water break, confirming what he'd studied in the scouting reports:
Number 9, Moreno—tall and physical, dominating the aerial work during their heading practice. Exactly as described.
Number 6, Santos—stocky and aggressive-looking, already barking instructions at teammates despite warm-up barely being underway. The defensive midfielder who would likely shadow Kaito throughout the match.
Number 5, Hernández, their captain—older, experienced, organizing the defensive line during positional drills with veteran authority.
These were professionals who'd earned their place through years of work. Lower level than Real Madrid, yes. Struggling this season, certainly. But still dangerous if underestimated.
"Don't worry about them," Asencio said, appearing beside Kaito during the break. "Worry about us. We play our game, impose our quality, they can't handle it. Simple as that."
At 2:25 PM, exactly forty minutes after they'd taken the pitch, the warm-up concluded.
"Back inside!" Raúl called, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. "Final preparation! Move with purpose!"
The squad jogged back toward the tunnel, leaving the pitch to Talavera who would continue their own warm-up for another few minutes. The contrast was stark—Castilla moving with the confident efficiency of a team that expected to win, Talavera working overtime to convince themselves they could compete.
The locker room felt different now that they'd been on the pitch and felt the grass beneath their boots. The pre-match nerves had transformed into something more focused, anxiety giving way to controlled anticipation. Players moved to their lockers and made final adjustments—retaping ankles that had loosened slightly during warm-up, applying additional muscle warming ointment to areas that felt tight, hydrating with controlled sips of water.
Raúl stood at the front of the room, checking his watch, waiting for everyone to settle before delivering his final team talk.
The time was 2:33 PM.
Twenty-seven minutes until kickoff.
This was it. The last moment of calm before the storm.
Raúl began to speak, and the locker room fell into complete silence.
---
**[2:35 PM - FINAL TEAM TALK]**
"In twenty-five minutes," Raúl said, his voice calm but carrying absolute authority, "we walk out of this locker room and onto that pitch to play ninety minutes of professional football. Everything we've prepared for this week—every tactical session, every technical drill, every conversation about roles and responsibilities—it all comes down to how you execute when the referee blows his whistle to start the match."
He gestured to the tactical board behind him where the formations were displayed.
"Talavera is exactly what we expected them to be. Desperate. Physical. Limited technically but organized defensively. They will sit deep in their four-four-two and dare us to break them down. They will look to frustrate us, to make the match ugly, to commit tactical fouls when we threaten to create danger. They will play for set pieces because they know they can't beat us in open play."
His eyes moved across each player, making contact, ensuring his message was being received and internalized.
"But here's what they don't have—" His voice became harder, more intense. "They don't have our technical quality. They don't have our tactical discipline. They don't have our squad depth. They don't have the confidence that comes from playing for Real Madrid instead of fighting relegation in third-tier Spanish football."
He pointed at the defense.
"Back four—dominate physically. Win every aerial duel. Don't give Moreno space or time to establish himself. Make him frustrated. Make him drop deeper looking for touches because he can't get them in dangerous areas. Asencio, you lead that line. I want them to feel your presence every time they try to attack."
Asencio nodded, the captain's armband gleaming on his sleeve.
"Midfield—" Raúl's finger moved to Chema, Kaito, and Antonio on the tactical board. "Control possession. Thirty percent for them, seventy percent for us. Make them chase. Tire their legs. And when you see opportunities to break lines with passes, take them. Don't be safe when being aggressive is the right decision."
His gaze settled on Kaito specifically for a moment.
"Kaito. Santos will try to intimidate you physically. He'll foul you because he can't match you technically. Don't retaliate. Don't get drawn into his game. Play your football. Use his aggression against him. Draw fouls in dangerous areas. Make the referee notice his discipline problems."
Kaito nodded, his throat too tight to speak even if a response had been required.
"Forwards—" Raúl addressed the front three. "Be ruthless. When we create chances, finish them. First shot on target should be a goal. Don't give their goalkeeper confidence by letting him make saves. Put the ball in the net early, break their spirit, and the match becomes easy in the second half."
He stepped back from the tactical board and his voice shifted to something even more intense.
"This is Real Madrid. This is what we do. We don't accept moral victories. We don't celebrate 'playing well' in defeat. We win. We dominate. We show everyone watching why this club has won more titles than almost any other in football history."
His hand gestured to the crest on his own tracksuit.
"You wear this shirt. You represent this tradition. Act like it. Play like it. HALA MADRID!"
"HALA MADRID!" The response shook the walls.
Raúl checked his watch one final time.
"Two-fifty we walk. Two-fifty-five we're in the tunnel. Three o'clock we kick off and show Talavera exactly what level they're trying to compete against. Now take five minutes. Use the bathroom if you need. Hydrate. Get your mind right. When I call, we go."
The next five minutes passed in a blur of final preparations. Players making last trips to the bathroom. Medical staff doing final checks on tape jobs and muscle groups. Water bottles being topped off one last time before they wouldn't be accessible again until halftime.
Kaito sat in front of his locker and went through his mental checklist one final time:
✓ Boots properly laced, double-knotted
✓ Shin guards secured
✓ Compression gear comfortable
✓ Kit fitting correctly
✓ Tactical instructions memorized
✓ Breathing controlled
✓ Mind as ready as it would ever be
At 2:49 PM, Raúl's voice cut through the locker room:
"Time. Everyone line up. We walk together. We enter the stadium together. We represent this club together. Vamos."
The squad formed into their walking order—Fran González first as the goalkeeper, then the defensive line, midfield, attack, substitutes following behind. Asencio at the front of the formation with the captain's armband bright white against his sleeve.
They filed out of the locker room and into the concrete corridor that led to the tunnel.
The walk felt longer than it actually was, time doing strange things under the influence of adrenaline and anticipation. The sound of studs clicking against tile created a rhythm that matched Kaito's heartbeat. Ahead, natural light spilled in from where the tunnel opened onto the pitch, growing brighter as they approached.
At 2:54 PM they reached the tunnel entrance.
CF Talavera's players were already waiting, having arrived from their own locker room on the opposite side of the stadium. The two teams lined up side by side, players finding their opposite numbers for the traditional pre-match handshakes and ceremonies.
Kaito found himself standing next to Talavera's number 10, the midfielder named Vega according to the scouting reports. The player was perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four years old, with tattoo sleeves visible beneath his short-sleeve jersey and the wiry build of someone who relied on technique over physicality. He glanced at Kaito, registered his age with a brief widening of eyes, but said nothing. His expression was tight with pre-match tension, the pressure of fighting relegation evident in the set of his jaw.
Behind them, the respective captains stood tall—Asencio for Castilla in pristine white, Hernández for Talavera in blue and white stripes, exchanging the kind of measured looks that professional competitors gave each other before battle.
The referee appeared at the front of the tunnel—a fit official in his early forties wearing the standard black kit, whistle already in his mouth, cards in his breast pocket, the tools of his trade ready. He consulted his watch, then nodded to both teams.
"Gentlemen, it's time. Remember we're here to play football. Keep it competitive but respectful. Let's give the fans a good match. Ready?"
Both captains nodded.
The stadium announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, amplified and dramatic:
"Señoras y señores, please welcome to the pitch... CEDEFÉ TALAVERA DE LA REINA!"
Polite applause from the Castilla fans who'd filled perhaps three thousand of the stadium's six thousand seats, mixed with some jeers and whistles. The Talavera supporters—perhaps three hundred who'd made the ninety-minute trip from Toledo—cheered loudly for their team, desperately hopeful that today might be the day their struggling side managed to steal points from Real Madrid's reserves.
Talavera's players walked out first, their captain leading them onto the pitch to face the sparse but vocal crowd.
Then the announcer's voice returned, louder and more enthusiastic:
"And now... REAL MADRID CASTILLA!"
The sound that greeted them was significantly louder—three thousand Castilla fans rising to their feet, applauding, chanting, creating an atmosphere that while modest compared to first-team matches was still substantial enough to feel like real support. Real energy. Real stakes.
"HALA MADRID! HALA MADRID! HALA MADRID!"
The chant echoed through the stadium as Asencio led the team onto the pitch, and Kaito walked out into that noise, into the afternoon sunlight that painted everything gold, into the moment that separated preparation from performance.
His legs felt unsteady. His heart was trying to escape through his ribcage. His hands were trembling slightly despite his best efforts to control them.
But he was here. He had made it to this moment. And there was no turning back now.
The teams lined up for the pre-match ceremony—both elevens standing in neat rows while the officials verified jersey numbers and confirmed starting lineups one final time. Photographers circled, capturing images that would be posted on social media and archived in databases, evidence that this match had happened and these players had been part of it.
Kaito stood in his position in the midfield line, trying to look calm and professional despite the chaos in his chest. To his left stood Chema, solid and reassuring. To his right, Antonio, focused and intense. Behind him, Marvel and Asencio anchoring the defense. In front, the forwards ready to attack.
This was his team. For the next ninety minutes, these were the people he would fight alongside.
The ceremony concluded. Both teams broke from their formation lines and began moving to their respective halves of the pitch. The substitutes jogged to the technical area where they'd spend the match unless called upon. The coaches took their positions in the dugout, tactical boards ready, water bottles prepared.
Raúl caught Kaito's eye from the sideline and gave him a single nod. No words needed. Just acknowledgment. *You're ready. I believe in you. Now prove it.*
The referee checked with both linesmen and the fourth official, confirming everyone was in position. He placed the ball at the center spot where Gonzalo would take the kickoff for Castilla.
The stadium fell into expectant silence, thousands of people holding their collective breath.
The referee raised his whistle to his lips.
Three o'clock exactly.
Time to play football.
---