Rio noticed that he was receiving a lot of pitying looks thanks to his bright pink boots, which were currently resting idly on the heated turf, yet he didn't care all that much.
In essence, he was a panicked eighteen-year-old boy, therefore he cared a little too much about what everyone thought especially the fifty thousand people screaming in the stands.
The first forty-five minutes were as soul-crushing as he had feared, but thankfully he had Portu sitting next to him to ease his terror with grim commentary.
After what seemed to be a lifetime of watching Vinicius Jr. perform samba dances around the Girona defense, the whistle for halftime sounded, eliciting a heavy sigh from Rio in response.
If it wasn't for the fact that he knew what being a relegated player felt like sadness, pay cuts, oblivion he probably would have whined and complained about the skill gap like he wanted to.
