Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Mateo woke at eleven.

This was unusual. His body had been waking him at five or six every morning since he’d arrived in Germany, the internal clock of someone who had trained early for long enough that sleeping past seven felt like a transgression. But last night Raúl had declared the win required celebrating, and the squad had gone out, and Neuer had demanded his rematch, and Mateo’s stamina had — once again, unhelpfully, outlasted everyone’s expectations including his own.

He lay still for a moment. The room was quiet.

The Equipment Treasure Chest was waiting.

He sat up, opened the system, and tapped the golden chest icon. He’d been putting it off since the match, too many people around on the pitch, then the changing room, then the bus, then the nightclub. Now the room was empty and the morning was his.

[Ding... Equipment Treasure Chest opened.]

[Reward: Reinforced Compression Shorts — Grade: Silver]

[Effect 1: Enhanced structural protection for the groin and upper-thigh region. Reduces injury risk from physical contact in that area. Compatible with standard kit.]

[Effect 2: An unspecified enhancement to situational fortune. Those who wear them are said to experience unexpected good outcomes. The mechanism is unclear. The effect is real.]

[Equip now?]

Mateo read this twice.

The system had given him underwear?

After an SSS debut in the Bundesliga. After four assists across two matches. After a Man of the Match award. The system’s reward for all of this was a pair of Silver-grade compression shorts with an unspecified luck effect and a note that they were slightly chafing.

He confirmed the equip.

A small gear icon appeared at the bottom of his attribute panel. The virtual model in the system space now wore the item in its appropriate location. He closed the system and sat on the edge of the bed looking at the wall for a moment.

He would tell nobody about this. Ever.

The team bus back to Gelsenkirchen left at two. Magath had given everyone the rest of the day off once they returned, reasonable, given the travel and the match.

Mateo was about to follow the others to his dormitory when Magath called him back.

”Silva. A moment.”

The hallway emptied. Magath waited until the last player had rounded the corner, then turned to Mateo with the specific expression of a man who had been preparing a conversation and had decided on an approach.

”I’ve spoken to the club,” Magath said. ”I want to arrange a pay increase and better accommodation. You’re a first-team player now, living in the academy dormitories isn’t appropriate.”

Mateo looked at him. He understood the situation clearly: one good match, the buyout clause alarm, Magath trying to create obligations that made leaving less attractive. It was a reasonable tactic. It was also transparent enough that pretending not to see it would be slightly insulting to both of them.

”I appreciate that,” Mateo said. ”But I’m genuinely fine where I am. The training ground is close, the canteen is good, the schedule works. I don’t need better accommodation.”

Magath looked at him. The expression of a man who had expected this response and still found it faintly frustrating.

”The pay—”

”I’ll think about it,” Mateo said. ”If there’s nothing else, I’ll head to training.”

He said it without aggression. The way someone said it when they meant it.

Magath stood with his hands in his pockets and watched Mateo walk toward the exit. He had the look of a coach who had just attempted a straightforward piece of man-management and discovered that the seventeen-year-old on the other end of it had done the math faster than he had.

He went back to his office.

The club manager, Reinhardt, was already there.

He was a compact man in his fifties who wore his suit jacket even in the training complex, which said something about his relationship to the job. He had the practiced warmth of someone who had spent thirty years making difficult financial conversations feel sociable.

”Felix!” He stood when Magath entered. ”Magnificent performance yesterday. The whole board has been talking about it, there’s discussion of a bonus for the squad. Schalke hasn’t played attacking football like that in years.”

Magath sat down and looked at him.

”He’s not signing a new contract,” Magath said. ”I tried everything. He actually prefers staying in the basic dorms and has zero interest in a nicer place. As for the salary? He told me he’d ’have to think about it.’ The boy is seventeen years old and he’s running circles around me.”

Reinhardt’s professional warmth flickered slightly. ”No agent?”

”No agent.”

”So it’s just the boy himself.”

”Yes, just the boy himself.” Magath leaned back in his chair. ”Five hundred thousand euros, Klaus. Any club in Europe can trigger that today. Bayern’s been keeping an eye since yesterday evening. Manchester United’s scout already tried to make his move before this too right.”

Reinhardt was quiet for a moment.

”Let me try,” he said. ”I’ll go to his dormitory directly. Sometimes when it comes from the club administration rather than the coaching staff-”

”You can try,” Magath said. He didn’t sound optimistic. ”Don’t promise him anything we can’t deliver. He’s too sharp for that.”

Reinhardt straightened his jacket and left.

Magath poured himself a coffee, sat back, and looked at the ceiling.

The contract department had acknowledged the problem last night. But acknowledging it and solving it required Mateo’s signature, and Mateo had made it clear, without quite saying it, that his signature wasn’t available today.

His phone buzzed. Hughes Yves.

Bayern technical department requested footage from the league. Courtesy request, which means they’ve already pulled it from the broadcast.

Magath set the phone face-down on his desk.

The sword was still there.

Plz Drop Some Power Stones.

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