From Reject to Legend

The moment I signed my contract with Málaga CF's reserve squad, I knew my real journey had begun. Making it to the first team wouldn't be easy. I was still an unknown player, a gamble that Pellegrini took based on raw potential rather than experience. But potential meant nothing without hard work.

The next two weeks were brutal.

Training sessions at Málaga were unlike anything I had ever experienced. It wasn't just the intensity but the sheer precision and discipline required. The drills were relentless—high-pressing tactics, positional awareness, quick passing sequences, and an emphasis on off-the-ball movement.

From the moment I set foot on the pitch, I treated every session as a battle for survival. I had to prove that I belonged, that I was more than just a lucky trialist.

The first few days were humbling. The reserve squad consisted of players my age but with years of experience in professional settings. Their touches were crisp, their movements coordinated. Despite the incredible technical skills fused into me, I still had to adjust to Málaga's system.

There was no time to hesitate.

I studied every pass, every movement, and every tactical instruction. I woke up before dawn to train on my own, working on my agility, dribbling, and stamina. After team practice, I stayed behind to watch match footage, analyzing how Isco played, how Málaga moved the ball, and where I could fit into their system.

Each night, my body ached with exhaustion, but I welcomed the pain. It was proof that I was improving.

Pellegrini took notice.

He observed my sessions closely, sometimes stopping me mid-drill to correct my positioning or advise on my passing angles. The intensity of his gaze made it clear—he expected more from me than just raw talent.

Two weeks passed. Then, one afternoon, after another grueling training session, Pellegrini called me over.

"Adriano," he said, his sharp eyes studying me. "You've been working hard."

I wiped sweat from my forehead, nodding. "I want to prove I belong, coach."

He smirked slightly. "Then you'll get your chance."

My heart skipped a beat.

"I'm including you in the squad for our pre-season friendlies."

I swallowed hard, barely able to contain my excitement. Pre-season was where players could stake their claim for a spot in the starting eleven.

"You won't start immediately," Pellegrini warned. "You still need to learn the tempo of senior football. But if the moment comes, be ready."

I nodded firmly. "I'll be ready, coach."

Our first pre-season match was against RCD Mallorca, an experienced La Liga team that played compact, disciplined football. The match was held at La Rosaleda, our home ground, and the stadium buzzed with excitement as Málaga's fans gathered to see how their team would perform in the upcoming season.

I sat on the bench, dressed in full gear but knowing I wouldn't play—not yet. Pellegrini had chosen to start Isco, Málaga's undisputed midfield maestro, for this match.

I understood the decision. Isco was still the team's focal point, even though rumors of his move to Real Madrid loomed in the air. The crowd loved him. They cheered every time he touched the ball, expecting magic.

But as the game unfolded, it became clear that Málaga struggled without a proper midfield balance.

Mallorca pressed hard, disrupting our rhythm. Isco was a brilliant dribbler and creator, but he often played too advanced, leaving our midfield vulnerable in transition. Our defensive midfielder, Camacho, had too much ground to cover.

Despite Isco's moments of brilliance, Málaga failed to control the game. Mallorca capitalized on our instability, scoring in the 32nd minute after a well-worked counterattack. The frustration in the crowd was evident.

Málaga responded in the second half with a goal from our striker, Joaquín, but Mallorca struck back in the 78th minute with a long-range effort that caught our keeper off guard.

Final score: 2-1 loss.

The disappointment was palpable.

I sat silently, absorbing everything.

In the locker room, Pellegrini was visibly frustrated. Málaga needed stability in midfield, someone who could dictate the tempo and connect the defense with the attack seamlessly.

That was when he turned to me.

"Adriano," he said.

I straightened, heart pounding.

"You'll get your chance in the next game. Against Athletic Bilbao."

The words felt surreal.

"Seriously?" I asked, barely able to contain my excitement.

"You won't start," he clarified. "But you'll play."

I gritted my teeth and nodded with determination. "I won't let you down, coach."

The match against Athletic Bilbao was set to be even tougher than Mallorca. Bilbao was known for their physicality, aggressive pressing, and non-stop running. Unlike Málaga, who emphasized technical football, Bilbao played with sheer intensity, relying on high energy and strong aerial duels.

I knew that if I got the chance to play, it wouldn't be easy.

The game started at a furious pace. Bilbao's midfield pressed relentlessly, giving our players no breathing space. Our passing lanes were shut down quickly, and Isco found himself isolated, unable to dictate the game.

Bilbao nearly scored twice in the first half, forcing our goalkeeper, Willy Caballero, to make two stunning saves. The pressure was building, and Málaga struggled to gain control of possession.

At halftime, the score was 0-0, but it was clear that we were losing the midfield battle.

Then, Pellegrini turned to me.

"Adriano," he called.

I jumped from my seat, barely able to contain my nerves.

"You're going in."

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering in my chest. This was it. My debut with the first team.

"You're replacing Iturra," he continued. "Sit deeper, control the tempo. I want you to dictate play from midfield."

I nodded, determination flooding my veins.

As I walked toward the pitch, the roar of the crowd filled my ears. This was the moment I had been waiting for.

I stepped onto the grass, taking my position. Bilbao's players barely paid attention to me. To them, I was just another reserve player.

They had no idea what was coming.

The referee blew the whistle.

The ball rolled toward me.

And I took my first touch as a professional footballer.

I controlled the ball with my right foot, letting it roll smoothly as I lifted my head. Instantly, I saw the entire pitch—movements, gaps, pressing angles.

As soon as I took my first touch, I felt it. The rhythm of the game, the pulse of the team, the energy of the crowd—it all surged through me like an electric current. This was it. My debut for Málaga CF.

Bilbao's midfielders were closing in fast, but I had already seen the passing lanes open up before they even realized it. Their mistake? Treating me like just another reserve player.

I shifted my weight slightly, letting the ball roll toward my left foot, baiting the first midfielder into thinking I would play it wide. The moment he lunged, I quickly reversed direction, flicking it with the inside of my boot past him. He stumbled, caught off guard.

The second midfielder was sharper, reacting immediately. But I had Nedvěd's aggression fused into me—I didn't just try to escape tackles, I powered through them. As he reached for the ball, I used my body to shield it, absorbing the contact before shifting it onto my right foot and slotting a precise pass forward.

The ball landed at the feet of our winger, Joaquín, just before Bilbao's defense could react. The crowd gasped at the sudden change in tempo.

Málaga had been struggling to control the game. Now, the rhythm was different. I was dictating it.

Bilbao's coach shouted at his players to press harder. They had suffocated Málaga's midfield in the first half, but now they had to adjust to me.

I was a new element they hadn't accounted for.

When the ball returned to me, I barely even needed to look up. I already knew where my teammates were moving. I took a single touch, then swung a long, diagonal pass across the field with pinpoint accuracy. The ball curved beautifully through the air, landing right in front of our left-back, who surged forward into space.

Gasps echoed through the stadium. Even the commentators hesitated before their voices burst into excitement.

"That's an incredible pass from the young midfielder!"

The left-back immediately cut inside, finding space to send in a cross, but our striker mistimed his jump, and the ball sailed over his head.

Still, the shift was clear.

Bilbao's dominance was fading.

The score was still 0-0, and Athletic Bilbao was suffocating us with their relentless pressing. They were fast, aggressive, and determined to dictate the game. But they hadn't faced someone like me before.

The ball rolled toward me from a simple pass by Camacho, our defensive midfielder. The moment I received it, time slowed.

My mind processed everything instantly. The positioning of every player. The pressing angles of the Bilbao midfield. The gaps in their defensive structure.

Two Bilbao midfielders rushed toward me, their cleats stabbing at the turf, ready to smother my space.

Big mistake.

With a subtle feint, I shifted my weight as if to pass sideways, tricking the first midfielder into lunging in. At the last second, I rolled the ball behind my standing leg, smoothly pivoting and escaping his tackle.

The second Bilbao player reacted quickly, stepping forward to block my passing lane. But I already knew where my next move was.

With a quick flick of my left foot, I lofted a perfectly weighted ball over his head, splitting the midfield line entirely.

Joaquín, our winger, sprinted into space, controlling the pass beautifully before whipping in a cross.

Our striker, Juanmi, met it with a powerful header—just over the bar.

A groan rippled through the stadium, but I wasn't discouraged. That was just the first of many.

Bilbao quickly realized I was the key to Málaga's resurgence. Their pressing intensified, but the harder they pressed, the more space I exploited.

Minutes later, I found myself near the center circle, surveying the pitch. Joaquín was making a diagonal run between the right-back and center-back.

Perfect.

I stepped forward and delivered a curving, 40-yard pass over the Bilbao defense, the ball spinning like a guided missile.

Joaquín latched onto it, barely breaking stride, before drilling a low cross into the box.

Juanmi slid in—goal.

1-0, Málaga.

The stadium erupted. The bench jumped to their feet, clapping. Joaquín pointed at me in celebration, acknowledging the pass that made it possible.

On the sideline, Pellegrini nodded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. He was taking note.

Bilbao refused to go down easily. They threw more bodies forward, leaving gaps in midfield. I took full advantage. In the 74th minute, I received the ball just outside the box and faked a shot, forcing a defender to lunge. The moment he did, I slipped a delicate pass through the legs of another defender, putting Juanmi one-on-one with the keeper. His shot, however, was blocked at the last second.

In the 77th minute, I spotted our left-back, Antunes, making an underlapping run. I played a disguised pass, fooling Bilbao's entire backline. Antunes squared the ball, but Joaquín's shot clattered off the post.

The crowd oohed in frustration, but Málaga was dominating now.

Bilbao was being pulled apart, their structure breaking with every pass I played.

Then, in the 81st minute, I struck again.

We won possession deep in our half, and I immediately ran into space, demanding the ball. The moment it came, I spun around a defender and launched a stunning cross-field pass to our right-winger.

The entire Bilbao defense shifted toward the ball, leaving Juanmi in a one-on-one situation in the box.

He didn't miss this time.

He rounded the keeper and slotted it home. 2-0, Málaga.

My second assist of the game.

The crowd roared. Fans were now chanting, my name starting to spread through the stands.

With the match nearing its end, Bilbao desperately pushed forward, throwing everything they had at us.

I knew exactly how to punish them.

The 89th minute.

We won the ball back, and I sprinted into space, signaling for the pass.

Camacho found me quickly, and now I had only one defender in front of me.

The crowd rose to their feet as I surged forward.

The defender hesitated. Was I going to pass again? Set up another goal?

I saw the gap.

I took a step to my left, faking a pass to the wing, then cut sharply to my right, creating space at the edge of the box.

I pulled back my leg—and unleashed a thunderous strike.

The ball soared through the air, curving viciously before dipping at the last second.

The keeper stretched desperately—too late.

The net rippled.

The stadium exploded.

3-0, Málaga.

I stood frozen for a second, staring at the goal.

Then, the moment sank in. I had just scored on my debut, be it a pre season friendly.

My teammates rushed me, slapping my back, ruffling my hair. The entire stadium was chanting my name now—"Adriano! Adriano!"

From the sideline, Pellegrini smirked, arms still crossed. But his eyesgleamed with approval.

The final whistle blew. Málaga 3-0 Athletic Bilbao.

I walked off the pitch, heart still pounding. The fans were still cheering, some even bowing as I passed.

Pellegrini met me at the tunnel.

"You said you want to be the one replacing Isco," he remarked.

I chuckled, still catching my breath. "I changed my mind. I want to show I can be greater than Isco."

He nodded. "So did I."

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You're not just in the first-team reserve anymore." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "You're in contention for the main squad, and soon the starting eleven as long as you keep this performance."

The words hit me like a shockwave.

From a trialist nobody to a key player in Málaga's future first team—in just one match.

As I walked into the locker room, I knew.

This was my chance to show the world, that Adriano Riveiro is someone they should never underestimate.