naaapseattle Chapter 293 293: Espresso Pass
Chapter 293 293: Espresso Pass
The Santiago Bernabéu was a cauldron of white noise, but inside the center circle, Enzo Moretti had found a pocket of silence.It was the 22nd minute. Barnsley had spent the entire game surviving. They were bruised, battered, and Diego Nunez was bleeding from the nose. But the score was still 0-0.
Enzo put his foot on the ball. He stood perfectly upright, chest out, beard groomed to perfection.
Luka Modric, the eternal genius of Madrid's midfield, pressed him. It was like watching a ghost hunt a shadow.
"Boss!" Arthur Milton squeaked from the bench, covering his eyes with a purple scarf. "He's not moving! Why isn't he moving?! Modric is going to steal his lunch money!"
"He's not waiting, Arthur," Michael Sterling whispered, his eyes glued to the Italian. "He's inviting him in for coffee."
Modric lunged. A subtle, experienced feint to the left.
Enzo didn't panic. He didn't even look down. With a movement so slight it barely registered on the cameras, he rolled the ball under his sole, spun 180 degrees, and shielded it with his body.
"Ciao," Enzo muttered.
Modric bounced off him.
The Bernabéu gasped. A collective intake of breath from 80,000 people. They weren't used to seeing their magician get out-magicked.
Enzo looked up. He saw the pitch not as grass and lines, but as a geometry equation.
He saw Jax (The Prodigy) on the right wing. The Brazilian teenager was currently fixing his hair while sprinting.
Enzo didn't pass normally. He sliced across the ball with the outside of his right boot—a trivela.
SWISH.
The ball curved. It defied physics. It bent around Camavinga, swerved past Rudiger's ear, and landed on a sixpence right in front of Jax.
"That pass was illegal," Michael breathed. "That pass should be in prison."
The Flank
Jax caught the ball on his chest. He was isolated against Ferland Mendy, one of the best defensive fullbacks in the world.
Most players would hold it up. Wait for support. Respect the opponent.
Jax was eighteen. He didn't respect gravity, let alone Mendy.
"Showtime!" Jax shouted (audibly picking up on the pitch-side mic).
He dropped the ball to his foot. He stepped over it once. Twice.
Mendy didn't bite. He stayed low, waiting.
Jax grinned. His neon-pink hair flashed under the floodlights.
He flicked the ball up. With his heel. Over Mendy's head.
The Sombrero.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Michael groaned, clutching the dugout roof. "If he loses it, I'm killing him."
But Jax didn't lose it. He ran around the stunned Frenchman, collecting the ball on the other side.
The Bernabéu went silent. It was the silence of shock. The silence of royalty realizing the jester had brought a knife.
Jax drove into the box.
"Center it!" Victor Osimhen screamed, making a run to the near post.
"Cut back!" Kaito Tanaka yelled, arriving late at the edge of the box like a stealth bomber.
Jax ignored both of them. He was young, dumb, and full of serotonin.
He did a fake shot. A violent, exaggerated chop that sent Eder Militao sliding into the advertising boards.
Now, Jax was six yards out. Courtois, the giant Belgian goalkeeper, loomed over him like a skyscraper.
Jax finally looked up. He saw the angle was tight. He saw Victor Osimhen screaming.
He squared it.
Not a hard pass. A gentle, rolling ball across the face of the goal.
It rolled past Courtois' outstretched hand. It rolled past Alaba's sliding tackle.
And there, arriving at the back post, having run seventy yards with his Titanium Hamstrings burning, was Kaito Tanaka.
The goal was gaping.
"Don't miss," Arthur whispered, fainting into the arms of the club doctor.
Kaito didn't miss. He didn't smash it. He simply passed it into the net.
THUD.
The ball hit the back of the net.
For one second, there was no sound. No cheers. No whistles. Just the sound of Kaito's boots hitting the turf as he wheeled away.
Then, the away corner—high up in the gods, a tiny purple speck in a sea of white—exploded.
GOAL.
REAL MADRID 0 - 1 BARNSLEY
Michael Sterling stood in the technical area. He didn't run. He didn't jump.
He slowly buttoned his suit jacket. He turned to the Madrid bench. He looked at Carlo Ancelotti.
Ancelotti wasn't chewing his gum anymore.
"We are here," Michael whispered.
On the pitch, chaos reigned.
Jax did a backflip. Then he hit the 'Griddy'.
Kaito slid on his knees, pointing to the sky.
Victor Osimhen picked up Jax and threw him into the air.
And Diego Nunez?
Diego ran into the net, grabbed the ball, and kissed it. Then he looked at the Madrid fans behind the goal—the Ultras Sur—and winked.
"I TOLD YOU!" Diego roared in Spanish. "THE MISFITS ARE HUNGRY!"
The Restart
The celebrations died down. The reality set in.
They had poked the bear. No, they hadn't just poked it. They had slapped it in the face with a wet fish.
"Focus!" Michael screamed, his voice raw. "They are going to come for us! Don't let them breathe!"
Real Madrid kicked off.
And suddenly, the atmosphere changed. The silence was replaced by a low, angry hum. The whistle of 80,000 people demanding blood.
This was the difference between City and Madrid. City got frustrated. Madrid got angry.
28th Minute.
Jude Bellingham got the ball. He didn't look for a pass. He drove forward.
Lars Jensen stepped out. The Wall.
Bellingham dropped a shoulder. He went past Lars.
"He's too strong," Lars grunted, turning like a battleship.
Bellingham unleashed a shot from twenty-five yards.
BANG.
It swerved. It dipped.
Jan Visser, Barnsley's stoned-looking goalkeeper, didn't even move. He just watched.
The ball shaved the outside of the post.
The sound of the ball hitting the stanchion behind the goal echoed like a gunshot.
"Fuck," Michael exhaled. "That was close."
35th Minute.
Vinicius Junior was tired of being bullied. He stopped trying to dribble past Lars. He started combining.
One-two with Rodrygo. One-two with Modric.
They cut through Barnsley's midfield like a hot knife through butter.
Enzo Moretti tried to intercept, but he was half a second too slow. His 'Magician' legs weren't built for tracking back against Ferraris.
Vinicius got to the byline. He cut it back.
Rodrygo was there. Ten yards out. Unmarked.
"BLOCK IT!" Michael screamed.
Sergio Ramos, the former Madrid captain, the legend of this very stadium, threw himself in the way.
It was poetic. The old king defending his new castle.
CRACK.
The shot hit Ramos in the chest. He went down.
But the ball didn't clear. It spun up into the air.
It fell to Jude Bellingham.
Six yards out.
Jan Visser scrambled across his line.
Bellingham headed it.
It looked like a certain goal.
But out of nowhere—literally nowhere—a purple boot appeared.
It was Jax. The teenager had sprinted all the way back from the right wing. He hooked his leg over his head in an acrobatic clearance.
A bicycle kick clearance off the line.
WHACK.
The ball flew away to safety.
Jax landed on his back, winded.
"DEFENSE!" Jax wheezed, giving a thumbs up. "I saw it on TikTok! Sergio Ramos highlights!"
Ramos hauled the kid up, grabbing his face with both hands.
"You crazy Brazilian bastard!" Ramos roared in Spanish. "I could kiss you!"
"No kissing!" Jax laughed. "Only vibes!"
The Half-Time Whistle
The referee blew the whistle for half-time.
REAL MADRID 0 - 1 BARNSLEY
The players collapsed. The intensity was suffocating.
They walked towards the tunnel. The Madrid players looked furious. Vinicius was arguing with the referee. Bellingham was shaking his head.
Michael stood at the tunnel entrance, high-fiving every player.
"Good job, Kaito. Great finish."
"Lars, keep hitting them."
"Diego, stop winking at the crowd, you psychopath."
He walked into the dressing room.
It was quiet. Not the silence of fear, but the silence of exhaustion.
Arthur Milton was handing out orange slices and jelly babies. His hands were shaking so much he was dropping them.
"Boss," Arthur whispered. "We are winning. At the Bernabéu. Is this real life?"
Michael loosened his tie completely. He looked at the squad.
They were bleeding. They were sweating. They were gasping for air.
But they were winning.
"Listen to me," Michael said, his voice low and dangerous.
"They are going to bring on Mbappe. They are going to bring on Valverde. They are going to throw the kitchen sink at us."
He looked at Enzo.
"Enzo, can you give me 45 more minutes?"
Enzo sipped his espresso (Arthur had brought him a fresh one). "Boss, for this? I give you my legs. I drive the bus home if I have to."
Michael grinned.
"Good."
He turned to the tactical board. He picked up a marker pen.
He drew a big circle around the Barnsley box.
"We suffer," Michael said. "For 45 minutes, we suffer. We park the bus. We lock the doors. We swallow the key."
He looked at Diego Nunez.
"Diego."
"Yes, Boss?"
"If Mbappe comes on..."
Diego grinned. A bloody, toothless grin.
"I know, Boss. I introduce him to the floor."
"Perfect."
Michael looked at his System Interface.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
[SECOND HALF DIFFICULTY: EXTREME]
[REAL MADRID 'REMOUNTADA' MODE: ACTIVATING]
[SURVIVAL CHANCE: 30%]