Chapter 3: Scrutiny of Losa
Mateo spent the next twenty-four hours in enforced solitude. The System's warning of MENTAL FATIGUE (CRITICAL) had been brutally accurate. He felt less like a person and more like a badly drained battery, his mind flickering between dull pain and sudden, sharp jolts of anxiety. He slept for nearly fourteen hours, waking only to drink water and reassure Ramón that he was simply suffering from bad sunstroke.
The faint, gray System overlay gradually regained a minimal glow, confirming his Mental Fortitude had stabilized.
MATEO RÍOS
Current MF: 2 (Regenerated from 1.2)
STATUS: RUSTED PRODIGY (MF Threshold Stable: Minimal.)
Two was pathetically low, confirming he was standing on the brink of another psychological crash, but it was enough. The deadline still burned: 6 DAYS, 22 HOURS, 10 MINUTES REMAINING.
He finally made the call to Marta, the academy secretary. He stepped outside the bar, seeking the relative quiet of the alley, his heart hammering against his ribs as he listened to the ring tone.
"Hola? Admissions Office, Marta speaking." The voice was brisk, professional, and utterly devoid of the warm, familiar tone he remembered.
"Marta? It's… it's Mateo Ríos. From the '99 class."
A stunned silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the club's operations. "Mateo? Dios mío. I thought you left the country. We haven't heard from you in two years." A flicker of genuine warmth or perhaps pity entered her voice. "How are you, Matty?"
"I'm fine. I'm working here, in Russafa," Mateo said quickly, avoiding the real question. "Marta, I wouldn't call unless it was urgent. I need an unscheduled trial. Not paperwork, not a review, a trial. I need five minutes with Javier Losa."
He heard her sharp intake of breath. "Losa? Mateo, he's running the Juvenil A team now. He doesn't do favors, especially not for... for former players. And why Losa? He's the toughest coach here. He hates soft players."
"Exactly," Mateo insisted, channeling the cold logic of the System. "He needs a DLP, and he needs someone who won't quit. Tell him I need him to test if the 'quit' is still there. Tell him I'm worth the risk."
There was a long pause, marked by the sound of furious keyboard clicking on Marta's end. "Mateo, I'll do this for Ramón. But Losa is not the man you remember. He lives to eliminate weakness. Wait outside the main training ground tomorrow at 16:00. No promises, Matty. And wear proper gear. Don't show up looking like a delivery boy."
Mateo thanked her profusely, his relief almost dizzying. He had successfully navigated the bureaucracy. The System, however, offered a grim assessment:
PQL 1 Progress: Trial Scheduled (Losa). (Time remaining: 6 Days, 0 Hours, 2 Minutes)
WARNING: Trial Environment: High-Risk. Coach Losa is a Pressure Amplifier. Expect immediate, high-stakes testing. Prepare for maximum MF drain.
The next afternoon, Mateo stood outside the metal gates of the Valencia CF Academy, Paterna. The air here smelled different not of salt and ham, but of fresh-cut Bermuda grass, bleach from the locker rooms, and high performance ambition. This was the fortress that had forged his talent and then crushed his soul.
He wore the only decent gear he owned: a blank, dark blue training shirt and shorts, and a brand new pair of molded-stud boots he'd bought with the four hundred euros from the street match. The boots felt foreign, heavy, and correct all at once.
He showed his temporary pass and was directed through the sterile, modern complex to the Juvenil A reserve pitch. The vast, flat expanse of the training ground was dotted with groups of young, focused players, their movements crisp and confident.
He stood by the touchline, watching a group of midfielders execute a rapid possession drill. He immediately saw the technical gaps Losa was trying to fill. They lacked a central orchestrator, a player with the deep vision to stretch the field.
A man peeled away from the group, jogging toward Mateo. He was lean, mid-forties, with closely cropped gray hair and eyes that seemed to constantly calculate trajectories. This was Javier Losa.
Losa didn't offer a hand, nor did he smile. He stopped two feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his track pants, inspecting Mateo from his worn boots to his anxious eyes.
"Mateo Ríos," Losa stated, his voice a low, gravelly monotone that conveyed absolute authority. "The ghost of '99. Marta tells me you want a trial. I was under the impression you had an allergic reaction to football."
Mateo swallowed, forcing his shoulders back. "Coach Losa, I know what happened. I'm not asking for pity or a second chance. I'm asking for five minutes of your objective assessment."
Losa tilted his head. "Objective assessment? Your profile is a 90-rated player whose Mental Fortitude is zero. That's not objective; that's a liability. We don't deal in promises here, Mateo. We deal in results. And your last result was catastrophic."
The bluntness was a physical blow. Mateo felt his internal anxiety spike. This is it. The pressure.
The System responded instantly to the internal stressor
PRESSURE SPIKE DETECTED. MF STRESS LEVEL: 75%
Current MF (2) cannot withstand sustained scrutiny.
WARNING: Failure to execute may result in immediate MF collapse.
"I've fixed it, Coach," Mateo lied, his voice barely holding steady. "I know what the problem was. I need you to confirm that the talent is still there."
Losa let out a short, dry laugh. "Talent is cheap, Mateo. Composure is gold. I have twenty kids out there with talent. You think I'm going to waste time running you through sprints? No."
Losa motioned to the possession drill nearby. "I'm running a simple Rondo drill. Five players in the center, eight surrounding them. One objective: maintain the ball for thirty passes without a turnover. The tempo is high, the passes are short, and the space is nonexistent."
Losa's eyes bored into Mateo's. "I'm taking the current DLP out and putting you in. You must complete five consecutive successful passes. No turnovers, no forced clearances. Five clean passes under match pressure. If you break the chain, you're done. If you freeze, you're done. If you try to hold the ball for more than two seconds, you're done. Are we clear?"
The task was simple, yet terrifyingly perfect. The Rondo drill was a microcosm of match pressure: tight space, rapid decision-making, and zero margin for error. The failure state was instantaneous and visible to everyone. This was pure, concentrated pressure designed to trigger The Yips.
Mateo nodded, pushing past the rising nausea. "Clear, Coach."
"Good. Get in the middle of the box. No warm-up." Losa barked at the current DLP, "Ramírez, out. Ríos, in. Tempo up! Do not let the new man settle!"
Mateo stepped onto the pitch, the sound of his new boots crunching the specialized turf. The eight players around the perimeter immediately ramped up the intensity, their bodies closing the space. The five midfielders in the center looked at him with a mix of curiosity and resentment.
The ball came to him. A hard, low pass from the center forward, aimed at his left foot.
The Spatial Vision (SV 98) activated on instinct, painting the field in light and shadow. He saw four angles to pass, three players closing in, and the exact second the perimeter player on his right would shift his weight. The information was overwhelming, yet perfectly organized, a beautiful, devastating blueprint.
But the fear was there, too. A familiar coil tightening in his stomach. Pass now. Don't hold it. Don't make the mistake.
Losa stood just outside the box, his arms crossed, a human stopwatch. "Two seconds, Ríos! Move it!"
Mateo didn't need the System to tell him his Mental Fortitude was failing. He could feel the familiar stiffness in his ankle, the desire to simply hoof the ball away and escape.
He had the perfect angle, a subtle, disguised reverse-pass to the right back, setting up an immediate switch. His right foot went to strike, but his mind flashed back to the missed penalty, the overwhelming silence, and the collective judgment.
Don't fail.
The System's interface, fighting through the pressure, suddenly displayed a crucial metric over the ball
Execution Window: 0.5 Seconds Remaining
Current Pass Accuracy (MF 2): 30%
He knew he couldn't afford a 70% chance of failure on his first pass in front of Losa. He pulled back his foot instinctively, deciding to take the safer, lateral option.
No, I have to be the orchestrator. I must execute the difficult pass! The internal conflict was a scream, paralyzing him for a critical fraction of a second.
Losa's face remained neutral, but his eyes narrowed, registering the hesitation. "Too slow, Ríos. Next pass will be an interception."
Mateo pushed the terror down, focusing on the sheer geometric certainty provided by his System. Trust the numbers, not the fear.
With a sudden burst of decision, he abandoned the reverse pass and executed a crisp, immediate touch, sending the ball diagonally into the tightest space he could find, connecting perfectly with the far left-back.
One clean pass. The chain held.
The ball came back, faster this time, from a defender who saw his hesitation. This pass was even harder, requiring a delicate, first time flick to bypass a lunging center mid.
Losa's voice cut through the air, sharp as glass. "Second pass, Ríos. Show me the composure you 'fixed'!"
Mateo felt the pressure intensify, knowing his career depended on the next few touches. He had to prove he was more than a ghost.
[PQL 1: THE RETURN — 5 PASSES REMAINING.]