Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

The pre-match scrimmage on Friday afternoon ran for thirty minutes.

Mateo was in the B Team again - the only rostered first-squad player among the B Team’s midfielders, which made him the default organiser whether he wanted to be or not. All the B Team’s build-up passed through him. Every time they won the ball back, someone found him.

Three days of point allocation had moved Dribbling from 64 to 67. It wasn’t a transformation - 67 was still a number he’d be embarrassed to show anyone but it was enough to change the margin. His first touch no longer bobbled away from him in tight spaces at the same rate. The La Croqueta still fired correctly because the skill card operated above his base attributes, but now, in the moments between the technical moments, his ordinary close control was marginally more reliable.

He was still making errors. He was also making more of the right decisions faster.

”He’s finding his feet,” Daniel said from the sideline, watching the B Team move the ball through three consecutive passes without losing it, something they hadn’t managed in the previous three sessions.

”Diligent,” Wickliff said beside him. ”Most diligent player in the squad. And he’s not cutting corners on the diet either, eating the chicken breast every day without complaint. I checked.”

”The diet matters at his age.” Daniel watched Mateo receive on the half-turn and play it immediately to the left without looking. ”With that physique he needs every edge he can get.”

”He can play,” Wickliff said.

Daniel didn’t respond immediately. He watched another sequence - Mateo pulling wide to create an angle, feeding it back into the channel, arriving at the right moment to receive the return. The B Team’s striker, receiving a ball that had been weighted perfectly into his stride, managed to hit it directly at the goalkeeper from close range.

Daniel exhaled. ”The midfielder can play. I can’t speak for the striker.”

At two o’clock Daniel cancelled the afternoon session.

Match day tomorrow. The players needed rest. He sent them off with instructions: eat properly, sleep early, be at the ground by ten-thirty tomorrow morning.

Mateo packed his cones and stood on the empty pitch for a moment. He had the afternoon. Afternoon meant training hours. Training hours meant the bar moved.

His phone rang.

He looked at the screen - Farfán.

He answered.

”What are you doing tonight?” Farfán’s Spanish came through direct and unhurried, the same manner he’d had at the canteen that first day.

”Training.”

”Come for dinner first. I’ll cook something. Seven o’clock.”

He hung up before Mateo could respond.

Mateo looked at the phone for a moment, then put it in his pocket. He had time. Four hours of training, then dinner, then back out after - the bar wouldn’t stop just because he left the pitch for an hour.

He set up the cones.

At six-fifteen he showered and changed, which took eight minutes because he didn’t own enough clothes to make getting dressed a complicated process. On the way out he stopped at the small supermarket near the club entrance and bought a bag of apples and a bunch of grapes. It felt right. You didn’t show up at someone’s place without something, not because of any specific obligation, just because it was the decent thing to do.

Farfán was waiting at the club entrance in a dark jacket, keys in hand.

”You bought fruit,” he said, looking at the bag.

”Yes.”

”You haven’t been paid yet.”

”It’s fruit,” Mateo said. ”Not a car.”

Farfán took the bag from him without further argument and they walked to the car - a standard Volkswagen, mid-range, a few years old. Practical. Nothing that would draw attention.

”No luxury car?” Mateo asked, getting in.

”I’m new here,” Farfán said, pulling out into the street. ”Low profile makes sense when you’re still finding your feet. Less to manage.” He glanced across. ”You’ll understand in a few years.”

The apartment was fifteen minutes from the club - a modern building, twelfth floor, clean and quiet. The kind of place that cost more than a dormitory but didn’t announce itself. Inside: a living room with a good view of the city, a kitchen that smelled of something with garlic and onion already in progress.

Farfán’s girlfriend was visiting family that week, so it was just the two of them. He plated the food - a simple rice dish with chicken, the kind of thing a professional athlete made when he was cooking for one and had accidentally made enough for two. They sat at the table and Farfán poured water.

”How are you finding it?” he asked.

”The training is fine,” Mateo said. ”The food situation needs work.”

”The canteen closes at seven.”

”I know.”

”Buy bread. Keep it in your bag.” Farfán ate for a moment. ”The first month is always the hardest administratively. After that you know where everything is.”

Mateo ate. The chicken was well-seasoned and the portion was larger than he’d had in three days. He didn’t say this but the rate at which he worked through it probably communicated it clearly enough.

”Raúl mentioned you to a few of the first-team players,” Farfán said, watching him. ”Specifically the passing. He said the outside-of-foot curve was the cleanest he’d seen from a youth player at this club.”

Mateo looked up briefly. ”He said that?”

”He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.” Farfán refilled his water. ”Don’t let it go to your head. But also - don’t pretend it doesn’t matter. It matters. Remember it and keep working.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a moment.

”I’m on the eighteen-man squad,” Mateo said. ”For tomorrow.”

Farfán looked at him.

Then he put his glass down on the table a little too quickly, water sloshing, and stared.

”You’ve been here five days.”

”Four and a half.”

”Daniel put a four-and-a-half-day signing on the matchday squad.”

”Bench. Not starting.”

Farfán sat back in his chair. He looked at the ceiling briefly, then back at Mateo, with the expression of a man recalibrating something.

”Daniel never does that,” he said. ”He takes months to trust new players. Even players who transfer from Bundesliga clubs.” He paused. ”What did you do in that trial session?”

”Two assists,” Mateo said. ”One with the outside of the foot.”

Farfán was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed - a short, genuine sound.

”Right,” he said. ”Right.” He picked up his fork again. ”Okay. Then you might actually play tomorrow.”

”Last few minutes, maybe. Daniel hasn’t confirmed anything.”

”He doesn’t put players on the squad list to warm the bench all season. If you’re on the list you’ll play.” Farfán pointed at Mateo’s plate. ”Eat more. You need it.”

Plz Drop Some Power Stones.

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