Chapter 11
1370 Words
The night of the Copa del Rey at the Bernabéu carried a restless edge in the air.
On the giant scoreboard above the pitch, Real Madrid’s starting lineup for the evening flashed across the screen, imprinting itself on the retinas of all 80,000 in attendance.
Solari. Morientes. Pavón. Portillo…
One name after another—familiar, yet tinged with the rust of long absence.
The message was unmistakable.
It told every fan in the stands and every viewer glued to their television screens: tonight was a full-scale rotation.
In the press box, whispers swelled into a low hum. Reporters exchanged incredulous glances, their faces lit with equal parts shock and schadenfreude.
“He’s lost it. The German has completely lost it.”
“The Copa del Rey is still a trophy. He’s gambling with Madrid’s honor.”
“Arrogant fool. Beat Deportivo once, and now he thinks he can rewrite the laws of football?”
Doubt fermented in the air, thickening into a suffocating pressure.
The fans were no calmer. They were used to the dazzling constellations of the Galácticos, and tonight’s lineup felt like staring into the void of uncertainty.
The referee’s shrill whistle cut through the unease like a blade.
Kickoff.
Real Betis were prepared.
From the very first second, they launched into a relentless high press. Madrid’s makeshift back line, stitched together from reserves and youth prospects, buckled instantly under the strain.
Every pass stuck to their feet like glue, every reception accompanied by the hot breath of an opponent at their neck, every clearance chased down by a vicious sliding tackle that tore up clumps of turf.
The game spiraled into chaos.
Madrid’s shape disintegrated, players scrambling in isolation with no cohesion. The murmur in the stands grew into a rumbling tide.
And then there was Guti.
Captain for the night, the blond mane of Madrid’s midfield general flickered like fire in the storm of collisions and tackles.
He dropped deeper, then deeper still, determined to seize control with his signature scalpel-like through balls, desperate to carve a path forward.
He saw it—a gap.
Between Betis’s two center-backs, a fleeting seam of space.
His right foot caressed the ball with the outside of his boot, sending it arcing with elegance and venom, the very definition of a “Guti pass.”
But Betis had read the script. Their holding midfielder, lying in wait, stepped into the path with ease and snuffed it out.
Guti’s arm lashed in frustration.
Minutes later, he tried again. The same idea, the same vision—met with the same result.
It was as if Betis had installed a program to pre-read his mind, intercepting every spark before it ignited. Irritation burned in his chest, spreading faster with each failed attempt.
On the touchline, Julian stood with hands buried in his coat pockets, face impassive. His eyes scanned every detail, his brain whirring at high speed, overlaying reality against the predictive models in his mind.
Inside his pocket, his fingers tapped rhythmically, silently confirming calculations.
The Apex Tactical Suite showed a prediction accuracy of 87%. Each Betis interception unfolded exactly as expected.
This wasn’t a surprise. This was a controlled trial.
He needed the chaos. He needed this failure to prove his point.
Thirty minutes into the first half, Madrid’s midfield coughed up a loose pass. Betis sprang instantly, switching to the flank. A simple one-two triangle tore Madrid’s back line apart.
Cross. Run. Leap. Header.
0–1.
As the ball rippled into Casillas’s net, sections of the Bernabéu erupted—not with gasps, but with whistles sharp as knives.
The jeers weren’t aimed at the blundering youngster in defense.
They were aimed squarely at the touchline, at the young German coach who had not flinched once all evening.
“Julian out!”
“He’s humiliating Madrid!”
The chants grew louder, harsher, sharper.
Still, Julian stood unmoved, shoulders squared, jaw tight. He absorbed the fury, then walled it off.
Turning to his assistant, he spoke with a calm gravity:
“Note it down. Thirtieth minute. Left-side defensive gap. Prediction accuracy—92%.”
The assistant blinked, stunned, before jotting it mechanically into his notebook. He couldn’t shake the thought—maybe the German really was insane.
Halftime.
Madrid’s players trudged toward the tunnel, heads bowed, eyes hollow. The stench of failure clung to the air.
In the dressing room, Guti ripped off his captain’s armband, crushing it in his fist. His face was thundercloud-dark as he kicked the door open and stormed inside.
With a roar, he hurled his sweat-soaked towel against the locker, the c***k reverberating like a gunshot.
“Bang!”
Silence fell like a shroud. Even breathing seemed f*******n.
“What the hell kind of tactics are these?!” Guti’s voice erupted. “We’re being humiliated at the Bernabéu—by a Segunda side!”
Young Pavón shrank into a corner. Morientes bowed his head, scrubbing at his face with a towel. Despair thickened in the room.
Then the door creaked open.
Julian walked in.
No rage. No theatrics. Not even the faintest flicker of anger. His composure was chilling, set against the suffocating gloom of defeat.
He strode to the tactics board, set his laptop down, and plugged it in. The hum of the fan filled the dead air.
“Guti.”
The name was spoken softly, yet it carried like a hammer blow.
“Come here.”
Guti’s jaw clenched, chest heaving, eyes ablaze with fury.
“You dare call me over? What, your data says we’re winning?” His sneer cut like glass.
Julian didn’t bite. He only looked at him, unblinking, steady as a mountain.
In the end, Guti stormed forward, bristling with anger, until he stood at the board.
Julian turned the screen. The Apex Tactical Suite interface glowed to life, replaying the first half. Each intercepted pass was dissected, frozen, and highlighted.
Then Julian marked Betis’s holding midfielder in red.
“Joaquín Sánchez—he pulls the defense’s focus every time he cuts inside.”
“When he does, Assunção slides wide to cover. That lateral shift leaves a fleeting gap with the center-backs. A 1.5-second passing window.”
The screen lit up, tracing a green line to a seemingly empty patch outside the box.
“Next half, when Joaquín cuts in, don’t look for the striker. Feed the ball into this space. Morientes will break from the half-space to collect it.”
Guti’s eyes narrowed at the bizarre green line.
His gut reaction: absurd. A prank.
“Coach, football isn’t a video game!” he snapped. “One-point-five seconds? A pass to thin air? You want me to try this circus trick in front of 80,000 people?”
Murmurs rippled through the squad. Some smirked. Others shook their heads.
Morientes spoke hesitantly: “Boss… I don’t think there’s even space there. Can I really get on the end of it—”
“Shut up!” Guti barked. “You’re buying this nonsense?”
The air stretched taut as wire.
Julian’s gaze never wavered.
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
His voice was quiet but carried the weight of iron.
“First fifteen of the second half, you play to the data. If it fails, if nothing comes of it…”
He paused, eyes sweeping the room before locking on Guti once more.
“…then the last thirty minutes are yours. You’ll coach from the pitch.”
The dressing room froze.
Guti’s pupils shrank. He searched Julian’s face, hunting for doubt, for a c***k, for bluster.
He found only stillness. Absolute stillness—and beneath it, a terrifying, unshakable conviction.
“You’re mad,” Guti rasped. “Do you even understand what you’re saying? If we lose—”
“Then it’s on me,” Julian cut him off, calm but implacable. “But if you play by the data, we’ll win.”
The silence dragged on.
Finally, Guti nodded, slow and reluctant.
“Fine. Fifteen minutes.” His voice was a whisper, but it echoed through the room.
He stared at Julian, his eyes conflicted.
“But if your numbers are wrong—”
“They won’t be.” Julian’s tone was steady, absolute. “Trust me.”
- Writer
