"Congratulations, José," Mikel spoke, voice trembling with the weight of the moment. "From today, you are no longer a youth player. Honestly, it feels like just yesterday you were recommended. And now… the professional arena awaits."
His office smelled of old leather, desperation, and the faint, holy aroma of liniment. He looked at me, his eyes glistening with the kind of pride usually reserved for a father who's just watched his son successfully perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.
I understood.
When you've supported a club since you were a teenager and are now a fifty-year-old man whose most passionate relationship is with a grass rectangle, it's normal to get emotional.
Every new kid is a potential heartbreak wrapped in shin guards.
He was looking at me like I was the next messiah, or at least the next guy who wouldn't immediately pass the ball to the opponent in our own penalty area.
I gave him my best 'humble prodigy' smile. "I'm over the moon, Mikel. Seriously. I started loving football because of an Atleti match. To be here now, one of first team players… it's a dream."
That was the understatement of the century. Fate, it turns, out, is a spectacular bitch with a killer sense of irony.
In my past life and this one, the first football team I ever laid eyes on was Atlético Madrid.
This glorious, gritty, perpetually heartbroken club under Simeone—a team that became a giant with the emotional stability of a toothpick in a hurricane. Always the historical underdog, forever one historical superstar short of actually beating Madrid and Barcelona in a beauty contest.
"That's good!" Mikel was now practically vibrating. "After Fernando, you're our second academy player to sign with the first team at sixteen! Look at your predecessor! The captain! The best player! The face of the franchise!"
I nodded, my smile becoming a little stiff. This was the awkward part.
"I'm sure if you continue on this pace, you will be no worse than him! Just imagine it! You and him, playing together! I can already see the best duo in Spain!"
I stayed quiet. Partly out of politeness, but mostly because I knew two things he didn't.
One: According to the original, un-fucked-with timeline, this coming season would be Fernando Torres's last at the club. So that dream duo Mikel was picturing had the lifespan of a mayfly in a blender.
And two: A glowing, semi-transparent blue screen was floating right in front of my face, which Mikel, in his blissful ignorance, seemed completely oblivious to. It was like trying to have a heartfelt conversation with a ghost obstructing your view.
I managed to keep my cool, mumbling affirmatives until a merciful knock on the door gave me an escape route. I practically fled.
Out in the hallway, the reality of my situation hit me. Life is profoundly, cosmically strange.
I've been riding this particular reincarnation carousel for five years now.
That's right. I died and got a do-over. My first life was a masterclass in tragicomedy: mother dead from childbirth, father checked out permanently when I was nineteen.
I was left with no safety net, a mountain of debt, and a profound disinterest in college, which was convenient because I couldn't afford it anyway.
But hey, when you have a talent, you roll with it. And it turned out I was weirdly, phenomenally good with languages.
It was this one neat trick that saved me from living in a cardboard box and eventually landed me a job on Diego Simeone's staff.
My official title was "Communications Liaison," which basically meant I was the guy who translated Cholo's furious, spit-flecked rants about tactical discipline and "cojones" into something vaguely comprehensible for the new French signing.
I died, probably from stress-induced spontaneous combustion, with a deep and abiding love for the Colchoneros.
So, yeah. Fate has a type.
This second go-around, the universe finally decided to stop being such a dick. I have a family. A good one.
My father is a Uruguayan diplomat—so I get that gritty, never-say-die Garra Charúa mentality by breakfast.
My mother is a Spanish teacher—so my grammar is impeccable. With this setup, a head full of future knowledge, and my language skills, I knew I'd never have to worry about a living.
My fallback plan, if this whole "football superstar" thing doesn't work out, is to waltz right back into Atleti's staff office, knowing exactly which players will be flops and which kids will be gems. I'd be the most successful psychic scout in history.
A veritable footballing Nostradamus. Why didn't it happen? Simple: I'm too talented for my own good.
See, I'm packing the mind of a jaded, almost-thirty-year-old inside a teenager's body which is a huge advantage.
While my peers were busy being angst-ridden morons obsessed with haircuts and hormones, I was laying a foundation so solid you could build a fortress on it. Or, you know, a half-decent football career.
My dream was to be that guy—the swashbuckling attacking midfielder who controls the game, racks up goals and assists, and gets the adoring headlines.
The problem? My ancient soul is, to put it bluntly, a small 'coward'. I have the survival instincts of a cockroach in a nuclear apocalypse.
So, I chose the path of most resistance for the opposition: Central Defender.
I became the human equivalent of a brick wall with surprisingly good footwork. I could pass, I could control the ball, and if needed, I could shuffle out to full-back and ruin someone's day over there too.
Now, with this fancy new 'system' that just popped into my head, it seems I'm finally allowed to dream a little. And maybe, just maybe, be a little less of a defensive player.
I couldn't go home. I knew the second I walked in, my family would ambush me with champagne to celebrate my first professional contract.
And while I love them, I'm more curious about potential for god-like powers more.
Fortunately, I had a perfect, sterile hideout right there at the club: the Film Room.
It's a place designed for quiet, individual research, which is a fancy way of saying "glorified broom closet where we stare at tactical mistakes until our eyes bleed."
I have my own dedicated screen there, a throne from which I judge the failures of better men.
The walk there was a gauntlet of grunts and nods. Everyone knew about the contract. It was the world's worst-kept secret.
"Hey, congrats, José," they'd mumble, their eyes already glazing over. I just nodded, stomping towards my destination with the single-minded focus of a man who needs to find a bathroom.
Finally, I burst into the film room. Empty. Perfect. I slammed the door shut, collapsed into a chair, and took a deep breath worthy of a free-diver.
Okay, system. Let's see what you've got. I'd been ignoring the pop-ups in my head like they were annoying adware, but now it was time to read the terms and conditions of my potential ascent to glory.
[Congratulations to the host, you've officially signed a professional football! the template trait system is now activated.]
My eyebrows tried to flee into my hairline. This thing had sass.
[Template trait system: At the end of each season, the host would receive a random template based on your accomplishments.]
[Win the Champions League and the World Cup in the same year? You might get Luka Modrić's template or someone who have won the Champions League and World Cup the same year.]
[Th system doesn't give the skills. It gave the traits. If you get a Lionel Messi template, you don't suddenly get his left foot skills. You get the weird DNA that makes it possible. His preternatural body sensitivity, his goblin-like center of gravity, his extraordinary pace.]
[Your welcome package includes one (1) complimentary template draw. do you wish to receive it?]
I sat there, speechless. Because... damn. This felt good.
In football, talent isn't just important; it's the cruel, unchangeable caste system.
Sure, you get the occasional Jamie Vardy who is my favorite British player by the way, a man who went from factory floors to lifting the Premier League trophy—a story we all cling to like a life raft.
But being real, even Vardy's 'overnight success' was built on a foundation of terrifying, 'holy-crap-he's-fast' talent that was just waiting to be uncorked.
I grinned. "Alright, you beautiful, glitchy bastard. Hit me."
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
Alright, who do you think would be the first Template?