The dream was beautiful. Rio was standing in the center of the Santiago Bernabéu, lifting the Champions League trophy while Diego Maradona wept tears of joy on his shoulder.
Brrrrring! Brrrrring!
The dream shattered. Rio groaned, swatting blindly at his nightstand.
He squinted at the screen, one eye glued shut with sleep.
Caller: Mateo
Rio slid the green icon. "Mateo? What... surely it isn't time yet?"
"TIME?!" Mateo's voice was so high-pitched it could have shattered glass. "Rio! Look at the clock! The team bus leaves for the airport in twenty minutes! TWENTY MINUTES!"
Rio froze. He looked at the digital clock on his desk.
07:40 AM.
The meeting time was 8:00 AM.
"Oh no," Rio whispered. The blood drained from his face.
"I turned off the alarm. I thought it was part of the dream."
"I don't care about your dream!" Mateo screamed. "Get your bag! I'm in a taxi outside your house right now! MOVE!"
He grabbed his official Girona tracksuit and wrestled his legs into it while hopping on one foot.
He snatched his toothbrush, scrubbed his teeth for exactly four seconds, grabbed his kit bag, and sprinted down the stairs.
"Bye Mom! Bye Dad! Love you!" he shouted, jumping the last three steps.
"Rio? Breakfast?" his mom called out from the kitchen, holding a plate of toast.
"No time! I'm going to be fired!"
He burst out the front door, his unlaced sneakers slapping against the pavement.
A yellow taxi was idling at the curb, the back door already open.
Mateo was inside, looking pale and furious.
Rio dove into the backseat.
"Go! Go! Go!"
The taxi driver, an old man with a toothpick in his mouth, looked in the rearview mirror.
"Where to? The hospital?"
"The airport!" Rio and Mateo screamed in unison. "Private terminal!"
The driver shrugged, shifted gears, and floored it.
They arrived at the small private terminal at 7:58 AM.
The Girona team bus was parked, the engine idling with a deep rumble. The First Team players were already filing off the bus and handing their luggage to the ground staff.
Coach Michel stood by the stairs of the plane, checking his watch.
He looked like a shark checking a dinner menu.
Rio and Mateo sprinted across the tarmac, their bags bouncing against their backs. They skidded to a halt in front of the coach, chest heaving, sweat dripping down their foreheads.
Michel slowly lowered his wrist. He looked at Rio's unlaced shoes. He looked at Mateo's panicked face.
"Nice of you to join us, gentlemen," Michel said, his voice dangerously calm. "We were just taking bets on whether you had decided to retire early."
"Sorry, Coach!" Rio gasped. "Alarm... malfunction."
"Malfunction," Michel repeated. "If you are late on the pitch, we concede a goal. If you are late to the airport, you pay a fine. That's €500 each. Welcome to professional football. Get on the plane."
Rio winced. Five hundred euros. That was a chunk of his new salary gone before he even earned it.
"Yes, Coach. Thank you, Coach," Mateo squeaked, dragging Rio up the metal stairs.
As they stepped into the cabin, Rio's breath hitched. He had never been on a plane before. His family vacations were always car trips to the coast.
The interior was luxurious. It wasn't like the cramped economy seats he had seen in movies.
There were leather seats, plenty of legroom, and tables.
"Act normal," Mateo hissed, straightening his jacket. "Don't look like a tourist."
Rio nodded, gripping the strap of his bag. He walked down the aisle.
Most of the players were already settled. Stuani was reading a newspaper. Gazzaniga was listening to music. Daley Blind, the experienced Dutch defender, was chatting with Yan Couto.
"Hey, rookies!" Yan Couto waved from the back.
"Back row is for the new guys. Don't steal the window seats!"
Rio and Mateo shimmied to the back. Rio collapsed into the leather seat next to the window. He looked out at the tarmac.
His heart was racing, but not from the run anymore.
"We're going to fly," Rio whispered. "In the sky."
Hand_Of_King: Look at him. He is trembling like a leaf. It is a metal bird, Rio. It is safer than a taxi in Naples.
Dinho_Magic_10: Flying is the best! You are closer to the sun! Just relax and listen to some samba. Or look at the clouds and imagine they are defenders you are dribbling past.
Rio_Lance: I've never flown before. What if it falls?
Total_Football_14: If it falls, we will have a very interesting conversation about physics. But statistically, you are fine. Focus on your teammates. Look at Mateo.
Rio looked to his right. Mateo had already recovered from the panic. He was leaning over the aisle, talking to Eric Garcia, the center-back on loan from Barcelona.
"So, Eric," Mateo was saying smoothly. "That tackle you made against Atletico last week? The timing was incredible. Do you watch the attacker's hips or the ball?"
Eric Garcia smiled, putting down his tablet.
"Thanks, man. Mostly the hips. The ball can lie, but the hips don't. You're a defender too, right? I saw you in training. You have good positioning."
Mateo beamed. He was in. He was making friends. He was networking.
Rio sank lower in his seat. Mateo's social skills were rated at least 85. Rio's were... well, probably a solid 60.
I should talk to someone, Rio thought. I need to fit in.
He looked ahead. Sitting directly in front of him was Portu, a club legend and a tireless winger.
Portu turned around to grab a bottle of water from his bag.
Rio made eye contact. Say something cool. Say something professional.
"Hi," Rio blurted out. "Do you... do you like planes?"
Portu blinked. He looked at the plane ceiling, then back at Rio.
"Uh... they get me to the game. So, sure?"
"Cool," Rio said. "Me too."
Portu gave him a confused smile and turned back around.
Hand_Of_King: 'Do you like planes?' Really? That is your opening line?
Zizou_5: Leave the boy alone. He is nervous. Rio, do not force it. Respect is earned on the pitch, not with small talk.
Rio sighed, putting his headphones on.
As the engines roared to life and the plane accelerated down the runway, Rio squeezed his eyes shut.
He felt the lift, the strange sensation of his stomach dropping, and then... smoothness.
He opened one eye. Below him, Girona was shrinking. The stadium, the cathedral, his house—they were all becoming tiny toys.
I'm really doing it, he thought. Next stop: Seville.
The flight was short, but the arrival was a whirlwind.
A sleek black bus waited for them on the tarmac in Seville.
Fans were already waiting at the airport exit, screaming names as the bus rolled past.
"Stuani! Stuani!"
"Michel! A photo!"
Nobody screamed "Rio!" or "Mateo!", but that was okay.
The hotel was a five-star palace in the city center. The lobby had marble floors and a chandelier that looked like it cost more than Rio's entire neighborhood.
"Room keys," the team manager announced, handing out plastic cards. "Lance and Ruiz, Room 304. Curfew is 10:00 PM. No leaving the hotel. No ordering from the mini-bar unless you want to pay €10 for a Toblerone."
Rio and Mateo went up to their room. It was huge. Two queen-sized beds, a massive TV, and a balcony overlooking the city.
"This is the life," Mateo said, flopping onto the bed face-first.
"I could get used to this."
Rio walked to the balcony.
Tomorrow, Rio thought. Tomorrow we play Betis.
...
24 HOURS LATER
MATCH DAY
The bus ride to the Benito Villamarín stadium was terrifying.
Rio had seen crowds before, but nothing like this. Real Betis fans were famous for their passion. The streets were a sea of green and white. Thousands of people lined the road, banging on the side of the bus, lighting green flares that filled the air with thick smoke.
"Puta Girona!" someone screamed, pressing their face against the window right next to Rio.
"Relax," Stuani said from the seat behind him. He looked calm, almost bored. "They are just saying hello. It means they respect us. If they were quiet, that would be an insult."
The bus turned into the stadium tunnel, descending into the belly of the beast.
Inside the locker room, the music was pumping. Reggaeton blasted from the speakers.
The kit man had laid out the jerseys.
Rio found his spot. There it was.
LANCE
37
It wasn't a First Team number (1-25), but it was his. His official match shirt.
"Listen up!" Michel's voice cut through the music. He turned the volume down.
The players gathered in the center.
"Betis is a good team," Michel said, pacing the room. "They have Isco. They have Fekir. They have magic in the midfield. But they are lazy in defense. If we press them, they break."
He looked at the starting eleven.
"Gazzaniga. Arnau, Blind, Eric, Miguel. Aleix, Yangel, Ivan. Tsygankov, Dovbyk, Savio's replacement... Portu."
Rio felt a tiny pang of disappointment, even though he knew he wouldn't start. He was on the bench.
"Bench," Michel pointed to them. "Valery, Torre, Stuani, Couto... Lance, Ruiz. Stay warm. If the game opens up, I will use you."
Rio nodded, his throat dry.
They walked out to the tunnel. The noise from above was deafening.
Lo-lo-lo-lo-lo! Real Betis Balompié!
Rio stepped out onto the pitch for the warm-up, and the wall of sound hit him physically.
The stadium was a towering coliseum of green. It felt vertical, like the fans were on top of them.
Total_Football_14: Breathe, Rio. Look at the grass. It is the same grass as yesterday. The dimensions are standard. The crowd cannot tackle you.
Hand_Of_King: Listen to that noise! It makes the blood boil! I love it! Rio, stick your chest out! Show them you are not afraid!
Rio tried to stick his chest out, but he felt very small. He looked over at the Betis warm-up. He saw Isco, the former Real Madrid star, juggling the ball effortlessly. He saw Nabil Fekir, the World Cup winner.
These were giants. And Rio was a Level 2 rookie with a speed stat and a dream.
He went through the warm-up drills—sprints, stretching, passing with Mateo.
He tried to ignore the whistles every time a Girona player touched the ball.
Then, the warm-up ended. They went back inside, put on their match kits, and returned to the bench.
The referee blew the whistle.
KICK OFF.
The game began at a furious pace. Betis attacked immediately. Isco danced through the midfield, making the Girona players look heavy.
A shot hit the side netting in the second minute. The crowd roared.
Rio sat on the padded bench seat, his legs bouncing nervously.
"Fast game," Mateo whispered next to him.
"Too fast," Rio muttered.
The first half was a war. Girona fought back. Dovbyk missed a header. Gazzaniga made a flying save.
It was 0-0, but it felt like a goal was coming any second.
Then, in the 40th minute, disaster struck.
Portu, the winger playing in Rio's position, went for a sprint down the line. He collided with the Betis fullback.
Portu went down screaming. He clutched his hamstring.
The stadium went quiet for a moment. Michel threw his water bottle on the ground.
"Mierda!"
"Doctor!" Michel shouted.
The medical team ran onto the pitch. After a few seconds, the doctor made the dreaded 'X' sign with his arms. Substitution needed.
Michel turned to the bench. His eyes scanned the players.
He looked at Valery, the experienced winger.
He looked at Pablo Torre, the midfielder.
He looked at Rio.
Rio's heart stopped.
Valery was the safe choice. He had played dozens of La Liga games.
But Michel hesitated. He looked at the Betis defense. Their right-back, Bellerín, was playing very high up the pitch. Leaving space.
Michel rubbed his chin. He looked at Rio.
"Lance," Michel barked.
Rio jumped. "Yes, Coach?"
"Warm up. Fast. You have two minutes."
Rio scrambled off the bench. He ran down the sideline to stretch. The Betis fans near the corner flag booed him.
"Who are you?!" one fan yelled. "Go back to school!"
Hand_Of_King: He is asking who you are? Tell him! You are the Nightmare!
King_10: Tie your laces, Rio. Double knot. This is it. The big stage.
Rio stretched his quads, his hands shaking.
The fourth official held up the board.
OUT: 7 (Portu)
IN: 37 (Lance)
The stadium announcer boomed: "Substitution for Girona FC. Entering the field, making his debut... Rio Lance."
Rio stood by the centerline. Portu was being carried off on a stretcher. Michel grabbed Rio by the shoulder.
"Rio," Michel said, leaning close so Rio could hear him over the crowd.
"Don't think. Just run. Bellerín is fast, but you are faster. scare him."
"I will," Rio squeaked.
He stepped over the white line.
[System Notification!]
[Career Milestone: La Liga Debut]
[Reward: 500 XP]
[LEVEL UP!]
[Current Level: 3]
[Passive Skill Unlocked: Adrenaline Rush (Speed +5% when crowd noise is high)]