Alright, a quick note. Ryan might think I'm being mean, but making him visit the Bernabéu? That's very generous .
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A roar. Not a sound that grew, but one he woke up inside of, like being plunged into a raging sea.
Ryan's eyes snapped open. He was standing. Cold air bit his arms. The world was a blur of stark, artificial light and shifting shadows.
His mind, struggling to reboot, latched onto the only familiar sensation: the feeling of falling.
Wait, not again. Did I die falling out of bed this time?
But this was different. His vision cleared.
A man in black. A whistle in his mouth.
Huh. A referee.
The rest of the world snapped into focus. He was in a narrow, concrete corridor. The roar of a thousand people vibrated through the walls.
He looked down. He was wearing a football kit. The colors were all wrong. A badge he'd never seen before.
A voice hissed from beside him. "¡Emilio, despierta! ¿Estás dormido?"
The words were sharp, guttural. Was that Spanish? Ryan's mind fumbled. And who is this 'Emilio' he's yelling at?
The player shoved his shoulder, glaring right at him. "¡Emilio!"
Realization dawned, cold and sickening.
Oh. He's talking to me. I'm Emilio.
He looked at his hands. They were wrong. Paler. A small, faded tattoo of an anchor on the right wrist. A jolt of pure vertigo hit him.
This isn't my body. Whose life am I wearing?
His eyes darted around the tunnel, trying to make sense of it. And that's when he saw them.
Across the narrow passage, lined up and waiting, was the other team. All in pristine white. His eyes scanned the faces, and his heart stopped.
There he was. Zinedine Zidane. Leaning casually against the wall, a look of intense calm on his face. The man was a legend. An icon. For Ryan, and every Algerian kid he'd ever known, Zidane wasn't just a player; he was a symbol of pride, a proof that someone from their corner of the world could be the best on the planet.
And standing not twenty feet away was Roberto Carlos, a powerhouse of muscle, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Next to him, the clinical focus of Raúl.
They were all here. Real Madrid. In the flesh.
A crazy, fanboy thought bubbled up: I'm close enough to ask for an autograph.
Then he glanced at the teammate who had spoken. The man had a neck thicker than Ryan's thigh and a glare that could start a fire. His muscular legs were like tree trunks.
The urge died instantly, replaced by cold, professional dread.
Right. Probably not the right time. One wrong look and a kick from him, and I'll be dead for the third time.
The roar of the crowd solidified into a distinct, thunderous chant. "¡Hala Madrid!" It echoed through the tunnel, a wave of sound so powerful he could feel it in his bones. They were at the Bernabéu.
The final piece of the nightmare clicked into place.
Okay. So they're Real Madrid. I'm some guy named Emilio on some team I've never heard of.
A strange calm settled over him. After dying and being reborn, what was there to fear? It was just a football match.
Well, at least it's just football. Could be worse. Could have woken up on an operation table.
Alright, let's play. Figure the rest out later.
The line of players surged forward, carrying
him with it toward the blinding green light.
The green light swallowed him whole. The roar of the Bernabéu hit him like a physical wave, so loud it felt like silence. For a breathtaking second, all he could see was the perfect green pitch and the legendary white jerseys.
His eyes locked onto the number 5. Zidane. Right there. Living, breathing, and close enough to touch.
A crazy, giddy thought cut through the fear. Holy shit. I'm actually here. Okay, new mission: Get the nutmeg. Retire immediately. Die a legend.
The referee's whistle pierced the air.
The ball became a blur. Players moved in patterns he couldn't decipher. For the first few minutes, he was just a ghost, chasing the play, always three steps behind the action.
Then it happened. A high, looping clearance sailed toward him. He adjusted his feet, his body moving on the smooth, natural instinct he'd always possessed. The ball dropped from the sky, and he met it with the inside of his foot, cushioning it perfectly. It settled at his feet as if it had come home.
A flicker of pride warmed his chest. See? I've still got it.
His head snapped up, his eyes frantically scanning the field. There! He saw a sliver of space, a teammate making a run on the wing. It was the pass. His brain sent the command to his foot.
But in the time it took for that signal to travel—a mere heartbeat—the professional world had already moved on.
The sliver of space vanished, closed by a reading defender. The run was covered.
And the shadow in white—Claude Makelele—had already arrived. Ryan's foot was still swinging for the pass when Makelele's own foot, precise and brutal, intercepted the motion, scooping the ball away cleanly.
The transition was instantaneous. Makelele to Zidane. Zidane, with one touch, spun away from the space Ryan had vacated and launched the ball forward. A few dizzying passes later, it was at Raúl's feet in the box. The finish was clinical.
Goooooool.
The roar of the Bernabéu was a physical force. The scoreboard flickered. Real Madrid 1 - 0.
It was the 7th minute. And it was his fault.
The tree-trunk-legged teammate was in his face, screaming, "¡Suelta! ¡RÁPIDO! ¡Idiota!" Release it! QUICK! Idiot!
The lesson wasn't over. When Madrid had the ball, a new kind of confusion set in. His teammates shifted around him in a coordinated dance, a defensive shape he didn't recognize. They moved as one unit, pressing, dropping, covering for each other. Ryan was a step behind, a cog out of sync, constantly in the wrong place. He was either too far from the man he was supposed to be marking, or he was crowding a teammate's space, breaking the entire structure.
A sharp whistle from his own coach on the sideline. A furious gesture from his captain, pointing to a patch of empty grass Ryan should have been occupying. He was lost. He had the feet, but he didn't have the map, and the game was moving too fast to let him read it.
The humiliation was a physical weight on his shoulders. Desperation began to set in.
Okay, forget everything else. Just... stick to Zidane. If I can at least stop him, I'll have done one thing right.
He began to shadow the Frenchman, ignoring the complex defensive shape his team was trying to hold. He was a puppy following its owner.
Then Zidane received the ball.
Ryan crouched, ready. What's he going to do? A dribble? A pass?.
Zidane took a single touch, pulling the ball across his body as if to shield it. Ryan lunged for it, committing to the tackle.
It was a feint. A complete, beautiful lie. Zidane had already read Ryan's momentum and used it against him. As Ryan stumbled past, Zidane simply rolled the ball the other way with the outside of his boot, creating a yard of space that felt like a mile. He didn't need to beat Ryan with speed; he beat him with a thought.
The pass that followed was a laser-guided missile, splitting the defense that Ryan had just abandoned. The ball found the net. 3-0.
The halftime whistle was a mercy.
In the locker room, the air was thick with sweat and despair. The coach launched into a furious, rapid-fire tirade in Spanish, scribbling frantic lines and arrows on a tactics board.
Ryan sat in the corner, a ghost. The words were just noise. Zidane... presión... línea. It was meaningless. The coach's plan looked as complex as a military operation.
What is he even drawing? Ryan thought, watching the furious scribbles. You can't just draw a few arrows and make a plan to stop the Galacticos in the Bernabéu. It's like bringing a spoon to a gunfight.
His eyes drifted to the team badge on the wall. He still didn't recognize it. He'd watched La Liga for years. Who were these guys? Some random team that would be forgotten by history? And he was the worst player among them.
The coach finished, slamming the marker down. The players stood up, their faces grim and determined, as if they'd actually understood and believed they could turn this around.
Ryan just felt tired. He was failing a test he hadn't known he was taking, in a language he didn't speak, for a team that didn't exist.
The second half whistle blew. The torture resumed.
There was no anger, no fight left. Just the stark, humbling realization of his own glaring inadequacy. He had met the mountain, and the mountain hadn't even noticed he was there.
His eyes drifted to the sideline, to the manager. Please. Just take me off. This is torture.
The coach stared right through him, his arms crossed, his face a mask of stony disappointment. No substitution board was raised.
You sadistic bastard, Ryan thought, too tired for real anger. Don't you want to win?
The match became a formless, painful blur. A training exercise for Madrid, a public flogging for him.
Then, in the 93rd minute, a foul was called just outside the box. Roberto Carlos stepped up. The run-up was short, explosive. The connection was a thunderclap. The ball became a blur, swerving with impossible, violent physics into the top corner of the net. 6-0.
The final whistle blew instantly.
Okay... but that one. That Roberto Carlos free kick? Yeah, that one wasn't my fault. Nobody was stopping that.
His teammates were scattered across the pitch, sitting on the grass with their heads in their hands. None of them moved to exchange shirts. The tradition felt like a luxury for teams that had been humiliated.
Ryan looked across at Zinedine Zidane, who was walking off, untouchable and calm.
It's now or nothing.
He jogged over, his heart hammering for a completely different reason now. "Zizou?" he called out, his voice rough. "Je suis un grand fan. On peut échanger les maillots?" I'm a big fan. Can we exchange shirts?
Zidane stopped and turned. For a second, he just looked at Ryan, this anonymous, defeated player. Then, a slight, almost gracious nod. He grabbed the hem of his legendary white jersey and began to pull it up.
The world began to tilt. The roaring stadium faded into a distant hum. The pristine white jersey was halfway over Zidane's head, almost in his grasp.
Then, everything dissolved into nothing.
Ryan's consciousness fled, his final, furious thought a shout into the void.
Fuck all of that. Flogged 6-0 by Real Madrid and I didn't even get the fucking shirt.