From Reject to Legend

** alright, some of the comments has been just… like a sheer hot burning rod of hatred filled with hate 💀

and honestly , I don't need that. Some of the things I had to explain and break down for you guys are just ridiculous, and I'm tired after working all day and dealing with all that. There's just no winning whatever I do.

I also appreciate a lot of you understanding and continuing to support, I mean It's less than week and we are in top 100 comfortably 🥹 That's the only reason I move my tired fingers to type out these chapters.

But I'll say one thing straight, since the romance stuff is causing so much confusion and triggering people , and since some of you can't take reality , Imma just erase that mostly and make MC and his future partner robotic and their interactions will be once in a hundred chapters for a single paragraph .

That too will be written by ai since some can't accept reality at all. I hope that makes you happy.

Honestly, sometimes I just feel like totally stop checking notifications and comments cz 1 out of 10 would piss me off. Anyway, enjoy or hate the chapter I worked hard on 🤷🏼‍♂️ **

I returned to training the day after the Levante match with a heavy heart—but also a renewed determination. Walking into the Málaga training complex, I could feel the familiar buzz of energy in the air.

My teammates were already gathered around the pitch, stretching and chatting animatedly, their voices a mix of playful banter and focused determination.

As I stepped off the team bus, I noticed several curious glances from fans, and heard murmurs of, "There he is," "Our magician's back," and, most persistently, questions about why I hadn't played in our previous match.

Within minutes of joining the warm-up, the questions began. Griezmann, ever the inquisitive one, came bounding over with that trademark mischievous smile of his.

"Adriano, man, why didn't you take the field against Levante?" he asked, his tone teasing yet laced with genuine concern. I managed a small smile and replied, "It was something personal—but that's solved now."

Before I could escape further grilling, Samuel sidled up and leaned in so I could hear his hushed comment. "Did you break up or something?" he whispered, eyes darting sideways as if checking that no one else was listening.

I playfully smacked his head. "Stop thinking about other people's relationships, Samuel. Get yourself a girlfriend, and then we'll talk about relationship drama," I retorted.

Samuel's face fell for a brief moment, and I heard a few stifled laughs around us as the others joined in the light teasing. "I'll get a hotter girlfriend than you one day and brag about it," Samuel muttered under his breath, which only made the room erupt into laughter.

Despite the levity, I couldn't completely shake the bittersweet memories of that conversation with Blanca—the unresolved weight of what we'd lost, and what we might never regain.

After training, as we cooled down and the questions subsided, Coach Pellegrini approached me with that all-too-familiar look in his eyes—half concern, half pride.

"Adriano," he said softly, "you've been off these past few days. I know things have been difficult, but remember that we're a team. When you're ready, we need that spark back on the field." I nodded silently. His words were kind, but they only deepened the contrast between my public success and the private void I carried.

That evening, the club's focus shifted to our next major challenge: the home fixture against Barcelona.

With the season nearing its climax and our status at the top of La Liga hanging in a delicate balance, every match was a battle for honor. The anticipation in the city was palpable—Málaga supporters filled the streets in a sea of blue and white, their voices rising in chants of "¡Vamos, Málaga!" and "¡El mago ha vuelto!" The atmosphere was electric with expectation, and even though I wouldn't start the match immediately, I knew that my presence and influence in the locker room still counted.

When morning arrived, the city of Málaga was already abuzz with excitement. Reporters swarmed the training ground as the team prepared for the big game. My phone buzzed incessantly with messages of encouragement and reminders of our lofty season goals. I tried to let the noise wash over me and instead concentrated on the tactical briefing.

In the locker room before the match against Barcelona, Coach Pellegrini laid out the game plan. "We know Barcelona likes to control possession and press high," he began, his voice calm but authoritative as he traced a diagram on the whiteboard. "They have a formidable midfield, and their defense is well-drilled. But if we can disrupt their rhythm early and force them to rely on defending, we might just tilt the balance in our favor. Last time, we beat them at their home, and now we have them on our turf."

I listened intently as he continued, "I want us to mix up our attack. When we get close to the goal, we press and try to break through—but if they clamp down, we switch gears. I'm asking for mid to long-range shots.

Adriano," he said, turning his eyes toward me, "I know you're just coming back, but I want you to give it your all . Repeat what you did the last time we met them, and switch it up if necessary. You will guide the team accordingly, and everyone will follow your adjustments. You'll be the conductor for this orchestra."

I nodded calmly , " Don't worry coach, I'll take care of it," feeling both the weight and the promise of the task ahead.

The match began under the dazzling floodlights of our home stadium—a fortress where every supporter had come to witness history. The crowd roared as the teams took to the field. Barcelona, known for their fluid passing and relentless pressing, immediately set up in their familiar 4-3-3.

Their coach, Martino, appeared calm and collected, confident in his side's ability to control the game.

In the early minutes, Barcelona took control of midfield, circulating the ball with precision and keeping our defense on constant alert.

I watched from the midfield as our players moved with urgency—Griezmann weaving between midfielders, Joaquín darting down the wing, and Juanmi orchestrating plays from deep. The game was a tense affair , each side probing for weaknesses.

Despite their early dominance in possession, it soon became evident that our plan was unfolding well .

In the 15th minute, after a sustained spell of Barcelona's midfield control, our midfielders began to press high, forcing a hurried clearance from one of their defenders. That was the signal for our plan to shift into gear.

I sensed the moment building. In the 22nd minute, as Barcelona's players looked to recycle possession, I found myself with space on the edge of the box. I took a deep breath, recalling Coach Pellegrini's words, and unleashed a shot from nearly 35 yards out.

The ball soared in a graceful arc over the advancing defenders, curving toward the far side of the goal. For a split second, time seemed to slow as the stadium held its collective breath—then, in a moment of pure magic, the ball found the top corner of the net. A resounding cheer erupted from the Málaga faithful.

"GOAL! Adriano with a thunderbolt from 35 yards! Málaga leads 1-0! A long range shot from nowhere stuns Valdes and Barcelona! Are we witnessing another defeat of Barcelona in Malaga's hand?" the announcer bellowed, his voice carrying across every corner of the stadium.

In that instant, the shock on the faces of the Barcelona players was unmistakable—they hadn't expected such audacity, and neither had their coach.

I rushed out to the sidelines and opened my arms as the crowd roared, " The king is here!", adrenaline surging through me as my teammates tackled me into a huddle. The celebrations were brief; I needed to focus.

"Listen up guys!" I called, my voice steady despite the rapid beating of my heart. "We can't get too close to the goal—they're going to pack it in. So let's use this to our advantage. Keep the pressure, take shots from distance whenever we can. Let's force Valdés into a nightmare. If he's constantly under fire, he'll crack, and that's when we make our move."

The huddle buzzed with agreement. Griezmann clapped me on the back, and Joaquín nodded fiercely. Even Samuel, still smarting from our earlier banter, managed a supportive grin. "Alright, maestro, show them what we're made of," he muttered, half-joking.

As we broke the huddle and resumed play, the tactical shift became apparent. Instead of driving directly into the congested penalty area, our players began to take more long-range shots. Every time a pass was intercepted or an attack stalled near the edge of the box, a player would quickly settle the ball and take a shot from distance—even if the strike wasn't the most powerful or precise, the sheer volume of attempts started to take its toll.

Barcelona's goalkeeper Valdés, normally cool and composed, was visibly rattled. With each shot whizzing past him or forcing a desperate, awkward save, his face grew increasingly pale. His hands trembled as he tried to organize his defense. I could see it even from the bench: the relentless barrage of long-range efforts was starting to break his concentration.

The strategy worked like a force of nature. In the 28th minute, a series of quick passes saw our midfielders swing the ball from one end to the other.

With Barcelona's defenders momentarily caught off guard, I took another shot from just outside the area—a well-placed effort that forced Valdés into a spectacular, yet ultimately ineffective, save. The noise from the crowd was deafening; every shot, every attempt, added to the mounting pressure on the Catalan side.

I could hear the grumblings from behind our bench. "Even stones break under continuous waves of water," one of the players murmured, watching Valdés struggle to recover his rhythm after each attempt.

Both Our coach Pellegrini and Barcelona's coach Martino were left dumbfounded by our unorthodox tactic. Every time Barcelona tried to clamp down on us by crowding the ball or forcing us to play safe, our players would simply pass and pivot, evading the pressure before unleashing another strike from distance. If it's too dangerous, just kick it all the way for them to start with a goal kick.

The crescendo reached its peak in the 42nd minute.

In a moment that seemed to encapsulate the entirety of our plan, Griezmann found himself with a rare opportunity inside the box. With a quick interplay that had left the Barcelona defense disorganized and off balance, he received a sharp pass from Joaquín.

Without hesitating, Griezmann fired a close-range shot that curved wickedly, slipping past a tired Valdés. The net bulged, and the roar from the Málaga stands was explosive.

"GOAL! Griezmann makes it 2-0! Malaga is one step closer to the La Liga title! The dream has become a reality for Malaga! " the announcer cried out, his voice echoing in the stunned silence of the opposition. Griezmann grinned and as he celebrated wildly. Joaquin smacked my shoulder and laughed, " How do you even come up with a strategy like that man! It's just evil! Valdes will have trauma after this!" I laughed and replied, " Their coach can just sub him, so let's make use of it before that."

In the blink of an eye, our long-range strategy had paid dividends. Barcelona, already reeling from the earlier strike, now found themselves further off balance as our lead doubled.

At half-time, the stadium was a picture of organized chaos. The Málaga section celebrated wildly, their chants and songs mingling with the jubilant roars of victory. In the first half, Malaga took about 20 shots and 12 were on target. Barcelona? just 2 shots, 1 on target , but easily saved by Oblak.

In the tunnel, I saw my teammates enveloping one another in embraces. There were flashes of humor too—a light-hearted tease from Samuel about needing to "get a girlfriend" (a jab at his earlier comment), and playful ribbing that our tactic had "broken" the Barcelona keeper. Coach Pellegrini, usually reserved, allowed himself a rare smile of pride as he watched the team's performance.

Pellegrini came over, his tone gentle but firm. "Adriano," he said, "I know you've been through a lot lately, but today you showed what it means to be a champion—not just with your goals, but with your leadership and strategy .

Your long-range shot was brilliant. It gave us the spark we needed and changed the dynamics of the game. And the strategy you used, it's something we usually see in lower league teams, but you adjusted it perfectly to take down Barcelona . Good job kid."

I offered a small nod in thanks. "Coach, it felt good… like I was back, truly back,q" I murmured, though the words couldn't quite erase the heaviness of my personal struggles.

He patted my shoulder reassuringly. "Keep that focus, both on and off the field. Sometimes, a match like this is exactly what you need to remind you who you are. Today, you reminded everyone—and yourself—that you belong on this pitch, and you can own it."

In that moment, as I looked around at my teammates—Griezmann grinning broadly, Joaquín laughing with joy, and even Samuel offering a teasing wink—I felt a spark of renewed purpose.

The first half against Barcelona was not just a ours, now let's make the 2nd half ours as well. A win today and a draw in next match, that's how close we were standing close to making history.