Chapter 8
1087 Words
The final whistle cut through the eerie silence of the Bernabéu.
A smattering of applause rose—thin, brittle, like stubborn leaves clinging to winter branches.
Almost immediately, it was drowned out by sharp whistles.
Most of the crowd said nothing. They just stared blankly at the scoreboard, at that glaring 1–0.
They had won.
But the win was ugly. So ugly it hardly felt like Real Madrid.
Julian didn’t rush onto the pitch to celebrate.
He stood still, allowing Raúl’s pointing gesture to gather all eighty thousand eyes and fix them upon him.
Then he turned away.
And walked alone into the players’ tunnel.
Cold.
The concrete walls shut out the noise, and with it, warmth.
Only his footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, one after another, striking the silence like a hammer.
On the way to the press room there were no congratulations, no high-fives.
The staff watched him from a distance, their eyes full of curiosity, suspicion, even unease.
Inside the press room, the lights blazed like daylight.
Cameras formed a steel jungle, each lens hiding a predator ready to pounce.
Julian sat down beneath the Real Madrid crest, a mountain of microphones and recorders piled before him.
The air felt taut, a silent duel.
A senior journalist from Marca struck first, his voice sharp with hostility.
“Mr. Julian, congratulations on your first victory. But tell me—was this kind of dreary, cynical, even ugly football worthy of the sacred white shirt of Real Madrid? Is this what you promised Bernabéu?”
The question was a poisoned dagger aimed straight at the heart.
Every camera zoomed in, hunting for the faintest twitch of his expression.
Julian paused.
His gaze didn’t lock onto the reporter. Instead, it drifted across the room, sweeping each face as if weighing their intent.
“For a team in crisis…”
His voice wasn’t loud, but the chatter vanished instantly.
“Victory is the noblest tradition of all.”
Every word landed like a stone on marble.
He leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, eyes hard as steel.
“From the first to the ninetieth minute, my players ran without rest. They threw their bodies into every challenge. They soaked their white shirts in sweat. And in the end—they won.”
“I am proud of them.”
“As for entertainment…”
A faint curve tugged at his lips. It wasn’t mockery. It was iron resolve.
“I can’t think of anything more entertaining than eighty thousand fans going home able to sleep in peace—because we won.”
The press room froze.
Every barbed question lost its teeth.
He hadn’t dodged the word ugly. He had placed sweat and sacrifice above spectacle—and shut every mouth in the room.
Some neutral reporters even nodded, impressed despite themselves.
…
When Julian pushed open the dressing-room door, the atmosphere was just as peculiar.
No cheering.
No chaos.
Only the smell of sweat, grass, and ointment—battle’s aftermath.
Most players sat shirtless, exhaustion etched deep into their muscles. Yet their eyes were utterly different from before kickoff.
Soldado was the first to break the silence, his face glowing with uncontainable excitement.
“Coach! That run—it was genius! When I dragged their last defender away, I knew the play was ours!”
Cicinho followed, sweat still glistening on his brow.
“Coach, that route… it felt like I’d practiced it a hundred times! And Beckham’s pass—it landed right at my feet, not an inch too far or too short!”
Their words rippled through the room, breaking the final layer of ice.
In the corner, Raúl stood after the physio finished with his ankle.
Casillas, Helguera—the Spanish core all turned toward their captain.
Raúl walked slowly to Julian.
The dressing room fell silent again, every breath audible.
This was the captain.
The flag of Madrid.
His judgment could decide the coach’s fate.
“Coach.”
His voice was hoarse, but steady.
“Your tactics worked.”
No flourish. No exaggeration.
Just a plain, direct recognition.
But it carried the weight of a mountain.
For the first time, Real Madrid’s captain had acknowledged Julian’s authority.
Julian held his gaze.
There was no suspicion left—only the pure respect shared by warriors.
He nodded.
“It worked because you executed it.”
On the other side of the room, Zidane approached.
The midfield maestro’s face held a flicker of intrigue.
In French, soft enough for only Julian to hear, he said:
“An interesting strategy. Brutal… but effective.”
It was respect—from the pinnacle of artistry itself.
Meanwhile, in another corner, Ronaldo packed his shirt into his bag.
Roberto Carlos and the Brazilian group remained silent, their space cold as stone.
Ronaldo didn’t join the chatter.
He zipped up his bag and headed for the door.
But at the threshold, his stride faltered.
He turned, his eyes locking on that thin figure in the black suit, surrounded by Raúl, Zidane, and the Spanish core.
That man had benched him.
And still—won.
A shock like a tectonic shift ripped through his chest.
He had always believed he was the team’s only guarantee of victory.
But tonight, the win came without him.
When the room finally emptied, Julian leaned against the cold locker, exhaustion washing over him in waves.
He shut his eyes.
A stream of data scrolled silently across his vision.
【Ding! Key victory achieved. Energy +20. Current Energy: 25/100.】
【Dressing-room faction conflict index: 8.9 → 6.5.】
【Managerial status: downgraded from “Severe Danger” to “Moderate Tension.”】
The cold numbers were the truest footnote to the night.
The boulder that had crushed his chest since his appointment finally shifted, just a little.
He was no longer just a paper strategist.
One real victory had made him, at least to some, a leader.
Just then, his phone buzzed softly in his pocket.
He pulled it out.
A message from General Manager Valdano:
“Chairman congratulates the team on the victory.”
The first half of the line eased his brow.
The second half knotted it tighter than before.
“But he hopes the next match will be… more entertaining.”
The pale glow of the screen lit Julian’s face as it hardened.
Winning wasn’t enough.
The fractures in the dressing room had barely begun to heal—
and already, pressure from the summit pressed down again.
- Writer
