**JANUARY 22, 2025 - MATCH DAY**
**REAL MADRID TRAINING COMPLEX, VALDEBEBAS**
**08:30 AM**
---
The black Mercedes pulled up to the curb with German precision at exactly 8:30 AM, the engine's purr barely audible even in the quiet morning street. Juan stepped out of the driver's seat with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd performed this routine thousands of times, his weathered face breaking into a warm smile when he saw Kaito approaching with his training bag slung over one shoulder.
Juan Martínez was fifty-three years old, had been driving for Real Madrid's youth teams for fifteen years, and had transported everyone from current first-team stars during their Castilla days to prospects who'd never made it past a single season. He'd seen hundreds of young players chase the dream of professional football—some successful, some not, all of them carrying the same mixture of hope and fear that Kaito currently felt twisting his stomach into knots.
"Buenos días, Kaito," Juan said, his greeting carrying genuine warmth that went beyond professional courtesy. He opened the rear door with a slight flourish, gesturing for Kaito to enter. "Gran día hoy, ¿no?" (Big day today, no?)
"Sí, Juan. Gran día." Kaito's Spanish was improving daily through a combination of formal lessons Real Madrid provided and the immersion that came from being surrounded by the language every waking hour. Complex grammar still required careful thought, but simple conversational phrases were becoming more natural.
"Vas a jugar muy bien. Lo sé." (You're going to play very well. I know it.) Juan's confidence was stated as simple fact rather than hopeful encouragement, and something about the certainty in his voice was oddly comforting.
This man had driven hundreds of young players to training and matches over fifteen years. He'd seen prospects arrive with enormous potential and fail to develop. He'd watched talents blossom into first-team players. He'd witnessed careers end before they'd truly begun, and others that exceeded every expectation. If someone with that much experience believed Kaito would play well, perhaps there was reason to trust that assessment.
"Gracias, Juan." Kaito slid into the back seat, the leather cool against his legs despite the car's heating system maintaining a comfortable interior temperature.
Juan closed the door with a solid thunk and returned to the driver's seat, and moments later they were pulling away from Kaito's apartment building and into the light Saturday morning traffic. The dashboard clock showed 8:32 AM. Twenty-eight minutes until the team meeting at Valdebebas. Six hours and twenty-eight minutes until kickoff.
Kaito settled into the familiar routine of the drive, watching Madrid scroll past the tinted windows as Juan navigated the morning traffic with the efficiency of someone who knew every shortcut and traffic pattern in the city. The route from Kaito's apartment to Valdebebas was short—barely three kilometers in a straight line—but Juan took a specific path that avoided the worst congestion points, the Mercedes moving smoothly through streets that were beginning to fill with weekend activity.
The January sun was climbing higher now, painting the urban landscape in shades of gold and shadow that transformed ordinary buildings into something almost beautiful. Madrid in winter was cold but not brutal—temperatures hovering around eight degrees Celsius this morning, the sky brilliantly clear and promising perfect conditions for football. The kind of day where the ball would move quickly across firm ground, where visibility would be excellent for picking out passes, where there were no excuses for poor performance.
Pedestrians hurried along sidewalks bundled in winter coats—families heading to breakfast, early shoppers claiming the best morning deals, joggers maintaining their fitness routines despite the cold. Shopkeepers were rolling up metal shutters to begin their business day, the organized chaos of a city of six million people beginning another weekend playing out in miniature through the car's windows.
None of them knew or cared that a fifteen-year-old Japanese midfielder was about to make his professional debut for Real Madrid Castilla. Their lives would continue exactly as before, unchanged by whatever happened at the Estadio Alfredo Di Stéfano this afternoon. They had their own concerns, their own challenges, their own private victories and defeats that would never make the sports pages or trend on social media.
The thought was strangely liberating rather than diminishing. The weight of expectations that Kaito had been carrying—the ten-million-euro price tag, the hopes of Japanese fans, his mother's sacrifices, his father's memory—all of it mattered intensely to a small circle of people directly involved. But to the vast majority of humanity, today's match was completely irrelevant. And there was freedom in that realization, a reminder that failure wouldn't actually end the world even if it sometimes felt like it would.
Kaito's phone vibrated with notifications he'd silenced earlier coming through now that he'd reconnected to mobile data. He pulled it out and scrolled through the new messages:
**TWITTER - @RMadridInfo**
**REAL MADRID NEWS:** *Multiple sources reporting Kurosawa Kaito will start for Castilla vs Talavera today. Raúl González showing faith in the 15-year-old Japanese midfielder for his official debut. Bold selection. #RMCastilla #HalaMadrid*
The tweet had been posted eighteen minutes ago and already had twenty-three thousand likes and fourteen hundred retweets. The replies were predictably divided between excitement, skepticism, and tactical analysis from people who'd probably never played football at any serious level:
**@CastillaWatch:** *Excited to see what Kaito can do in competitive match. Training videos looked promising. Technical quality is obvious.*
**@MadridTactician:** *Too soon IMO. Should ease him in with substitute appearances first. Raúl taking unnecessary risk starting a 15yo in his debut.*
**@JapanFootballEN:** *HISTORIC! Kurosawa Kaito set to become youngest Japanese player to start for any Real Madrid team. Pride of Japan! 🇯🇵⚪*
**@NicoPazArgentina:** *Why bench Nico when he's been performing well??? This makes no sense! Nico Paz deserves better treatment!*
**@FootballScoutES:** *Watching this closely. Kaito has obvious talent but Primera Fed is physical. Santos will test him hard. Make or break debut.*
**@TalaveraSupporter:** *We're desperate for points. Castilla starting a 15yo? Perfect opportunity to steal a result. Vamos Talavera! 💙⚪*
Kaito closed the app without engaging with any of the commentary. External opinions were noise—well-intentioned or critical, informed or ignorant, it didn't matter. What mattered was performance on the pitch, the ninety minutes of football that would either justify Raúl's decision or make it look like an expensive mistake.
The car turned onto Avenida de Valdebebas, and the sprawling Real Madrid training complex came into view. Even after a week of arriving here daily, the sheer scale of the facility still impressed Kaito. Twelve immaculate pitches spread across the property, each one maintained to the same standard as many professional clubs' actual stadiums. Multiple buildings housed everything from medical facilities to tactical analysis rooms to the administrative offices where the machinery of running the world's most successful football club operated. Infrastructure that rivaled some professional clubs' entire operations, all dedicated to the singular purpose of identifying, developing, and perfecting football talent.
Security at the main gate waved them through without stopping, the guards recognizing both the vehicle and its regular passenger by now. Juan navigated the internal roads with practiced ease, following the route that led to the Castilla facilities rather than the first-team complex visible in the distance. The buildings were separated by several hundred meters and a world of achievement—the first team inhabited a space of legends and galácticos, while Castilla occupied the developmental territory where careers were either built or abandoned.
The Mercedes pulled up to the Castilla facilities at 8:47 AM, thirteen minutes early for the nine o'clock meeting Raúl had scheduled. Punctuality was expected, but excessive earliness suggested anxiety, so Kaito had learned to time his arrivals to be neither late nor desperately early.
"Mucha suerte hoy, Kaito," (Good luck today) Juan said as Kaito gathered his bag and prepared to exit the vehicle. "Vas a hacer que todos estemos orgullosos." (You're going to make us all proud.)
"Gracias, Juan. Por todo." (Thanks for everything.)
Kaito stepped out of the car and into the cool morning air, his breath visible in small clouds as he walked toward the entrance. The building was modern but functional, distinctly smaller and less ornate than the first-team facilities whose gleaming architecture was visible in the distance like a promised land he hadn't yet earned access to. This was where careers were developed, where young players fought for the opportunity to eventually make that short journey across the complex and train with the players whose posters had decorated bedroom walls around the world.
The automatic doors slid open as he approached, and Kaito entered the familiar hallway that led to the locker room. The building was quiet at this hour—most players hadn't arrived yet, the nine o'clock meeting still thirteen minutes away. Only the distant sound of water running and muffled voices indicated that some of his more punctual teammates had already begun their preparations.
Kaito followed the familiar path to the locker room, his footsteps echoing slightly on the polished tile floors, his training bag feeling heavier than it should given its actual contents. The weight was psychological rather than physical—the accumulation of expectations and pressure and the significance of what today represented in his journey from Kawasaki to Madrid.
He pushed open the locker room door and stepped inside.
The space was already about a third full—early arrivals who either couldn't sleep due to match-day nerves or had their own pre-match rituals that required extra time. Players were scattered across the benches and in front of their assigned lockers in various states of preparation. Some were stretching tight muscles with the practiced efficiency of athletes who knew their bodies intimately. Others were already changed into training gear, ready for whatever light session Raúl had planned before they headed to the stadium. A few sat in quiet contemplation, headphones blocking out the world while they visualized the match ahead or simply tried to calm pre-match anxiety.
The conversation didn't exactly stop when Kaito entered, but it definitely quieted for a moment—several heads turning in his direction, expressions ranging from friendly acknowledgment to curious assessment to something that might have been competitive evaluation. He was the new variable in their carefully balanced equation, the fifteen-year-old Japanese import who'd displaced one of their own from the starting lineup and was about to find out whether he could actually handle professional football or whether the ten million euros Real Madrid had spent on him was going to look like an embarrassing mistake.
Kaito nodded a general greeting and moved toward his assigned locker space, trying to project confidence he didn't entirely feel.
"Kaito!" Asencio's voice cut through the ambient noise before Kaito had taken three steps into the room. "You seen the lineup yet?"
The captain was sitting in front of his locker with one ankle already wrapped in white medical tape, his expression friendly but focused in the way of someone who'd learned to balance being approachable with maintaining the authority his armband demanded. Marvel sat beside him—the Brazilian center-back who'd partnered with Asencio in Castilla's defense all season and who'd taken it upon himself to mentor Kaito during his first week in Spain.
"Not yet," Kaito replied, his stomach tightening with renewed anxiety despite Raúl's earlier message confirming he was starting. Seeing it posted officially on the tactical board would make it real in a way that a private text message somehow didn't. "Where is it?"
Asencio pointed toward the tactical board mounted on the far wall, where Raúl always posted the starting formation for match days. "Go look. Then we talk about what we need from you today."
The tone was friendly enough, but the underlying message was clear: you're starting, which means you have responsibilities beyond just not embarrassing yourself. The team was counting on him to perform specific tactical functions, and Asencio wanted to make sure he understood exactly what those functions were.
Kaito crossed the locker room with legs that suddenly felt unsteady, his heart rate increasing despite his best efforts to remain calm. Other players watched him walk toward the board—some with genuine curiosity, others with the competitive assessment of teammates who might find their own positions under threat if the new kid proved to be as good as the scouting reports suggested.
He reached the tactical board and read what Raúl had posted in his precise handwriting:
---
**REAL MADRID CASTILLA - STARTING XI**
**FORMATION: 4-3-3**
**GK:** Fran González
**DEF:** Álvaro Carrillo - Marvel - **Asencio (C)** - Diego Aguado
**MID:** Kurosawa Kaito - Chema Andrés - Antonio David
**FWD:** David Jiménez - Gonzalo García - Álvaro Martín
**SUBSTITUTES:** Lucas Cañizares (GK), Nico Paz, Pol Fortuny, Manu Hernando, Perea, Víctor Muñoz, Jesús Fortea
**COACH:** Raúl González
---
**MATCH DETAILS:**
**Competition:** Primera Federación - Group 1, Matchday 21
**Opponent:** CF Talavera de la Reina
**Venue:** Estadio Alfredo Di Stéfano
**Kickoff:** 15:00 CET
**Officials:** Referee - Carlos Muñoz Fernández; Assistant Referees - Jorge Santos, Miguel Ruiz; Fourth Official - Antonio García
---
Kaito read his name three times before his brain would fully accept what his eyes were seeing. There it was, written in Raúl's handwriting on official Real Madrid tactical documentation: Kurosawa Kaito in the starting midfield three, positioned as the left-sided number eight. The creative midfielder role that demanded vision and technical quality and the intelligence to know when to hold possession and when to release it forward.
Asencio would wear the captain's armband—the (C) designation next to his name confirming his leadership role for today's match. Chema Andrés would anchor the midfield as the defensive midfielder, the position that required the most tactical discipline and positional awareness. Antonio David would mirror Kaito on the right side, providing the box-to-box energy that balanced Kaito's more creative instincts.
And Nico Paz was on the bench.
The Argentine midfielder who'd been starting in this exact position for months, who had more experience in Raúl's system than Kaito had playing in Spain period, who spoke fluent Spanish and had deeper relationships with the rest of the squad—relegated to substitute duty because Raúl had decided the fifteen-year-old Japanese kid who'd been in the country for one week was the better option today.
The competitive tension in that decision was impossible to ignore, and Kaito could feel it in the locker room even without turning around. Professional football was a zero-sum game in many ways. Someone had to sit on the bench, and today that someone was Nico. Which meant Kaito had to perform well enough to justify that decision, or face not just his own disappointment but the added weight of having displaced a teammate for nothing.
"First start!" Chema's voice came from behind him, and Kaito turned to find the Spanish defensive midfielder grinning with what appeared to be genuine pleasure rather than forced enthusiasm. "Raúl must really like what he see in training this week. Is big vote of confidence, hermano."
"Or big risk," another voice added—Antonio David, the right-sided number eight who'd be playing alongside Kaito in midfield, his tone carrying an edge of competitive challenge rather than outright hostility. "No pressure, Japanese, but if we lose and you play bad, everyone will say Raúl should have started Nico instead."
"Ignore him," Chema said immediately, shooting Antonio a look that suggested this wasn't the first time the other midfielder had needed to be told to dial back his intensity. "He is just nervous because now he has to work harder to create chances. Before he could rely on Nico to do all creative work from left side. Now he actually has to pass ball forward sometimes instead of just sideways."
"Fuck off," Antonio replied without heat, the casual profanity carrying no real malice. "I create plenty. I just don't show off with fancy passes that look good but don't actually help the team score."
"You create plenty of defensive work for our fullbacks when you lose ball trying to dribble past three defenders," Marvel chimed in from across the room, and several players laughed.
The banter was familiar—the kind of casual ribbing that happened in every locker room where players had developed enough comfort with each other to push boundaries without crossing into actual disrespect. Kaito appreciated that they were treating him normally rather than walking on eggshells because of his age or the attention his signing had generated. Normal meant he was being accepted, at least provisionally, as an actual member of the team rather than a curiosity to be protected.
He moved to his assigned locker—number 8 stenciled on the metal door above his nameplate: KUROSAWA. Someone from the equipment staff had already prepared his space for match day. His training gear hung inside: white t-shirt with the Real Madrid crest, black shorts, white socks, everything crisp and clean and carrying the faint chemical smell of industrial laundry that never quite disappeared no matter how many times the kit was worn and washed.
The match kit itself would come later, after the pre-match warm-up session. For now, training gear was sufficient for whatever light work Raúl had planned before they traveled to the stadium.
Kaito began changing methodically, removing his street clothes and pulling on the training kit. Around him, teammates were engaged in similar routines—some heading straight for the showers to rinse off the sleep and travel, others sitting on benches with legs elevated to promote blood flow and recovery, a few already changed and scrolling through phones to pass the time until the scheduled meeting.
The conversation resumed its normal rhythm as players arrived in ones and twos, the locker room gradually filling toward capacity:
"Did you see Barcelona lost yesterday? Two-one to fucking Getafe at home. Laporta must be having a heart attack..."
"My girlfriend is angry because I said I couldn't see her tonight after the match. Like, we have team curfew, what am I supposed to do? Sneak out and risk getting fined?"
"Anyone know if first team is training today? I want to watch Mbappé's shooting drills if possible. His technique on that left foot is absolutely disgusting..."
"Focus on our own match first, then you can fanboy over Mbappé. We have actual football to play in six hours..."
Professional athletes, young men in their late teens and early twenties, dealing with the same concerns and distractions that athletes everywhere dealt with regardless of the level they competed at. The setting was Real Madrid and the stakes were professional careers, but they were still fundamentally human—navigating relationships and rivalries and the particular pressures that came from trying to succeed in a field where the failure rate was astronomical and the margin for error was microscopic.
Kaito laced his training boots—a slightly worn pair he reserved for warm-ups and practice sessions, saving his pristine match boots for actual competitive games—and stood, testing his weight distribution, feeling the flexibility of the synthetic upper material against his feet. The boots were broken in enough to be comfortable but not so worn that they'd lost their structural integrity. Perfect for the light session ahead.
"Kaito."
The voice was quiet, coming from behind him with a tone that suggested this was a private conversation rather than casual locker room banter. Kaito turned to find Nico Paz standing there, the Argentine midfielder's expression carefully controlled but impossible to fully mask the disappointment in his eyes.
This was the moment Kaito had been dreading since receiving Raúl's message confirming he was starting. The conversation with the player he'd directly displaced from the starting eleven, the teammate whose position he'd essentially taken despite having been at the club for only one week compared to Nico's years in the Real Madrid system.
"Good luck today," Nico said, extending his hand for a handshake that Kaito took, probably gripping a bit too firmly in his nervousness. "Show them why Raúl picked you to start over me."
The words could have been bitter or sarcastic, but Nico's delivery was straightforward—professional courtesy despite obvious personal disappointment. This was the kind of maturity that separated players who had long successful careers from those whose talent was undermined by poor mentality. Competition was inherent to professional football. Someone always had to sit on the bench. The appropriate response was to perform when given opportunities and support teammates when you weren't selected, rather than poisoning team chemistry with resentment.
"Thanks, Nico," Kaito replied, choosing his words carefully. "When you come on as substitute, we'll close the game together. Make it easier for everyone."
"That's the plan." Nico's smile was brief but genuine, the kind of expression that acknowledged shared purpose despite individual disappointment. "Just... don't make me regret being supportive, yeah? Play well enough that I can't complain about the decision. Make Raúl look smart for choosing you."
"I'll try."
"Trying isn't good enough. Actually do it." But Nico's tone had shifted from serious to slightly teasing, the competitive edge softening into something more collegial. "And if Santos tries to kick you—which he will—don't let him get in your head. That's what he wants. He's a limited player who uses physicality to compensate for lack of technical quality. You're better than him. Play like it."
Kaito nodded, filing away the advice. Nico had faced Santos twice already this season in previous matches against Talavera. His insight into the opponent's tendencies was valuable intelligence that might prove useful during the actual match.
Nico moved to his own locker to change into training gear, the brief interaction over but significant in what it represented. Professional courtesy. Mutual respect. The acknowledgment that they were teammates first, competitors second, and that the team's success mattered more than individual egos.
At 8:58 AM, with two minutes until the scheduled meeting time, Raúl González entered the locker room.
The coach's presence immediately commanded attention in a way that didn't require him to raise his voice or make dramatic gestures. Conversations trailed off as twenty-two players turned toward the man who controlled their playing time, their development, and ultimately their prospects of ever making it to the first team. Raúl was dressed in his standard training attire—black Real Madrid tracksuit with white accents, white polo shirt underneath, whistle on a lanyard around his neck, tactical tablet tucked under one arm.
He waited until complete silence had fallen before speaking, his eyes sweeping across the assembled squad with the practiced assessment of someone who'd spent decades reading people and situations.
"Good morning." His voice was calm, measured, carrying easily across the space without needing to shout. "You've all seen the lineup by now. If you're starting, prepare accordingly. If you're on the bench, be ready when called. Your opportunity will come—maybe in the first half if someone gets injured, maybe in the sixtieth minute when we need fresh legs, maybe not until stoppage time. But when it comes, you need to be ready to contribute immediately."
He paused, letting the words settle, making eye contact with several of the substitute players to emphasize that their roles mattered even if they weren't in the starting eleven.
"This is Talavera. They're fighting relegation, which makes them dangerous because they're desperate. Desperate teams fight harder than they should be capable of fighting. They commit more fouls. They take more risks. They play with the kind of intensity that comes from knowing their professional careers might end if they get relegated to Segunda Federación."
Raúl tapped his tactical tablet, and the screen mounted on the wall behind him lit up with CF Talavera's formation and key players highlighted.
"But desperation doesn't overcome quality. And we have quality they don't possess. Our technical level is higher. Our tactical discipline is superior. Our fitness is better. Our squad depth allows us to bring on quality substitutes who are better than their starters. If we play our football—patient possession, intelligent movement, clinical finishing when chances arrive—they cannot beat us. The only way we lose this match is if we beat ourselves through lack of focus or poor discipline."
The screen changed to show Talavera's defensive shape—a compact 4-4-2 block with both lines sitting deep and narrow.
"They will sit deep. They will concede possession. They will invite us to attack them, then look to hit us on the counter when we lose the ball in dangerous areas. This is predictable, which means it's manageable. Our job is to be patient, to move the ball quickly enough that their shape can't recover between passes, and to exploit the spaces they leave when they inevitably get stretched trying to defend for ninety minutes."
Raúl's eyes found Kaito specifically, holding his gaze for a moment before continuing.
"Defense: dominate Moreno aerially. Don't let him establish rhythm or confidence. He's their only consistent goal threat, and if you shut him down, they have to create something from nothing. Midfield: control possession, make them chase until their legs go heavy in the second half. When you win the ball, transition quickly—they're slow to reorganize defensively. Attack: when we create chances, be ruthless. No mercy. No settling for 'almost scored.' Put the ball in the net."
The screen changed again, now showing individual matchups and tactical assignments.
"And remember—" Raúl's voice became harder, more intense, the tone shifting from instructive to demanding "—this is Real Madrid. We don't accept draws at home. We don't celebrate moral victories or 'good performances' in defeat. We win. That's what this club does at every level from the youngest youth teams to the first team competing for Champions League trophies. That's who we are. That's what wearing this crest means."
He gestured to the Real Madrid emblem on his own tracksuit, the gold thread catching the locker room's fluorescent lighting.
"So you go out there in—" he checked his watch "—five hours and fifty-eight minutes, and you prove you deserve to wear this shirt. You prove that Raúl González's faith in you wasn't misplaced. You prove that Real Madrid's investment in developing you was worth it. ¡HALA MADRID!"
"¡HALA MADRID!" The response shook the walls, twenty-two voices united in the club's traditional battle cry.
The energy in the room had transformed completely from the casual pre-meeting atmosphere. This was the psychological shift from preparation to competition, from individual concerns to collective purpose. They weren't twenty-two separate players anymore—they were a team with shared objectives and mutual dependencies, and for the next six hours everything would be oriented toward the singular goal of winning the match.
Raúl checked his watch one final time.
"We have light activation session in fifteen minutes on Pitch Seven. Just technical work—passing patterns, tactical review, set piece rehearsal. Nothing that depletes energy reserves. Then lunch at eleven-thirty, team meal with proper nutrition. Bus departs for Di Stéfano at twelve-fifteen. Be on time for everything. Punctuality is discipline, and discipline wins matches. Questions?"
No questions. The schedule was clear, the expectations were established.
"Good. Get your gear on and meet me on Pitch Seven in fifteen minutes. Dismissed."
Raúl left as efficiently as he'd entered, and the locker room erupted back into activity—players finishing their preparations, grabbing water bottles, taping final joints and muscle groups that needed extra support, the pre-training ritual reaching its conclusion.
Kaito checked that he had everything he needed for the light session: training boots properly laced, shin guards secured even though they probably weren't necessary for technical work, water bottle filled with the electrolyte solution Dr. Ramírez had prescribed. His match-day checklist was running on mental autopilot now, muscle memory built from years of preparation even if the setting was different.
At 9:13 AM, the squad made its way out of the locker room and toward the training pitches.
The morning air was crisp and clear, the January sun climbing higher but not yet generating significant warmth. The walk from the Castilla facilities to Pitch Seven took approximately three minutes, following a paved path that wound between several of the complex's twelve training fields. Youth teams from various age groups were already working on adjacent pitches—U-19s running tactical drills under their coach's sharp instructions, U-17s doing fitness work that involved enough sprinting to make several players look like they might vomit, even younger kids playing small-sided games with the unselfconscious joy that came before competition became serious business and careers were on the line.
This was the pyramid of Real Madrid's development system made visible—dozens of talented young players at every age group, all of them hoping to eventually make the journey from these training pitches to the first team facilities visible in the distance. Most would fail. The mathematics of professional football were brutal in their efficiency: hundreds entered the system, dozens made it to Castilla, a handful ever played for the first team, and only the truly exceptional became the kind of galácticos whose names and numbers sold millions of jerseys worldwide.
But everyone started here, on pitches like these, doing the same repetitive drills and tactical work that Kaito was about to engage in.
Pitch Seven was one of the smaller training areas, perfectly maintained but more utilitarian than the showcase pitches where the first team worked. The grass was short and firm, ideal for technical work where ball control and precision mattered more than physical attributes. Raúl was already waiting at the center circle when the squad arrived, his assistant coaches setting up cones and mannequins for whatever drills had been planned.
The team gathered around him in a loose semicircle, and Raúl consulted his tactical tablet before speaking.
"We start with dynamic warm-up. Two laps around the pitch at moderate pace—this is activation, not fitness training. Then static stretching for major muscle groups. After that, passing patterns in groups of six—triangles and squares, emphasis on first touch and weight of pass. Then we walk through our defensive shape against their four-four-two formation. Finally, set piece rehearsal for both attacking and defending corners. Total time: forty-five minutes. Questions?"
No questions. The plan was straightforward.
"Vamos. Let's work."
The squad broke into motion, settling into an easy jogging pace around the perimeter of the pitch. Kaito fell into step near the middle of the pack, his body grateful for the familiar rhythm of running, his mind continuing the process of mental preparation that would extend all the way to the three o'clock kickoff.
The pace was comfortable—fast enough to raise heart rates and activate cardiovascular systems, but not so intense that it would deplete the glycogen stores they'd need for the actual match. This was about waking the body up, reminding muscles of the movements they'd be asked to perform later, establishing the neural pathways between brain and limbs that would need to operate at high speed during competition.
Chema jogged beside him, the Spanish midfielder's breathing steady and controlled despite the fact that he was carrying probably fifteen more kilograms of muscle than Kaito.
"You nervous?" Chema asked in his accented English, keeping his voice low enough that only Kaito could hear.
"Yes," Kaito admitted. There was no point in lying to a teammate, especially one who'd been supportive since Kaito's arrival.
"Good. Means you care. But remember—is still football. Ball is round, goal is goal, your job is receive and pass and create. Same as in Japan, same as in training all week. Don't make it bigger than it is just because is Real Madrid and is official match."
"Everyone keeps telling me that."
"Because is true. Your brain wants to make it special because of the club and the stadium and the scouts watching and the ten million euros everyone can't stop talking about. But your body doesn't care about these things. Body just plays football. So you trust your body, ignore your brain when it tries to panic, and do what you already know how to do."
Simple wisdom, delivered without pretension or complexity. Kaito nodded, filing it away with all the other advice he'd received over the past week. Trust the training. Trust your teammates. Trust yourself. Easier said than implemented when your heart was trying to escape through your ribcage and your stomach felt like it had been colonized by a family of very aggressive butterflies.
They completed two laps and moved into the static stretching sequence Raúl's assistant coach led them through. Hamstrings first—sitting on the ground with legs extended, reaching forward to grab toes or ankles depending on flexibility, feeling the pull through the back of the thighs. Hold for thirty seconds, don't bounce, breathe steadily. Quadriceps next, standing on one leg while pulling the other foot toward the glutes, the stretch running down the front of the thigh. Hip flexors, groin, calves—each major muscle group receiving attention, ensuring optimal range of motion for the explosive movements football demanded.
Kaito's hamstrings were still tight from yesterday's training session, but the stretching helped, blood flow increasing to the muscle tissue, flexibility improving with each controlled elongation. Dr. Ramírez had explained during his first week that professional athletes needed to maintain their bodies with the same attention mechanics gave to high-performance engines. Neglect the maintenance and performance would suffer, small problems would compound into major injuries, careers would end prematurely.
After stretching came the technical work.
Raúl organized them into groups of six, setting up triangle and square formations with cones marking positions approximately five to ten meters apart. The drill was conceptually simple: receive the ball, control it with your first touch, pass to the next player, then move to occupy the position the ball had just come from. But the emphasis was on technical excellence rather than just completing the pattern—perfect first touch that killed the ball's momentum and set up the next action, precise weight on the pass that arrived at the teammate's feet with exactly the right pace, crisp movement between positions that maintained the rhythm.
Kaito's group included Chema, Antonio David, Marvel, and two other players whose names he was still learning—a winger and a fullback, both of whom had been friendly enough but hadn't gone out of their way to make him feel particularly welcome. Professional courtesy rather than actual friendship, which was fine. He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to play football.
They settled into the rhythm quickly, the ball moving crisply between them:
Chema to Kaito—Kaito's first touch with the inside of his right foot cushioned the pass perfectly, his body already pivoting to face the next target before the ball had fully settled. Pass to Antonio with his left foot, the ball traveling five meters with exactly the right weight. Movement to Antonio's vacated position.
Antonio to Marvel—the Brazilian's first touch took him slightly wide to create a better angle for his next pass. Play the ball to the winger. Movement.
The winger to the fullback, fullback back to Chema, and the cycle continued.
Five minutes of the same pattern, the ball rarely touching the ground for more than a split second between touches. This was the foundation of possession football—technical excellence multiplied across eleven players creating a system where the ball moved faster than any opponent could chase it. Individual quality enabling collective superiority.
"Good!" Raúl's voice called out from where he was circulating between the groups, offering corrections and encouragement. "Weight of pass! Don't make your teammate work harder because you gave it too soft or too hard! The ball should arrive at their feet ready to be played immediately!"
After five minutes, Raúl had them switch to a different pattern—now playing one-twos rather than simple passes around the shape. This required more movement and better timing: Player A passes to Player B, then immediately moves to a new position. Player B returns the ball first-time to where Player A is now located. Player A receives and passes to Player C. The complexity increased but the principles remained the same: perfect first touch, precise passing, intelligent movement.
Kaito felt his body settling into the familiar rhythms of technical work, the nervous energy that had been threatening to overwhelm him earlier being channeled into productive movement. This was football stripped to its essentials—touch, pass, move. The fundamentals his father had drilled into him from age six, repeated ten thousand times until they operated below the level of conscious thought.
*"Technical excellence is freedom,"* Takeshi had told him during one of their early-morning training sessions in Kawasaki, back when Kaito had been frustrated by the endless repetition of basic skills. *"When your first touch is automatic, when you don't have to think about how to pass the ball, your mind is free to see the game, to make decisions faster than opponents can react. That's where football becomes art instead of just athletics."*
After passing patterns came tactical work. Raúl used mannequins to represent CF Talavera's 4-4-2 formation, positioning them in the compact defensive shape Castilla expected to face.
"This is their setup," the coach explained, pointing at the mannequin arrangement. "Two forwards pressing our center-backs when we have the ball in our defensive third, four midfielders sitting narrow and deep, back four staying compact and organized. They want to force us wide, then win the ball in wide areas where they can counter-attack quickly into space we've left by committing numbers forward."
He directed Castilla's players to take their match positions—defense, midfield, attack—and walked them through the solution step by step:
"We build from Fran in goal. Defense splits wide, Chema drops between the center-backs to create a three-man first line. This gives us numerical superiority against their two forwards—three versus two means one of our center-backs is always free to receive the ball under minimal pressure."
The squad walked through the pattern slowly, Fran rolling the ball to Marvel at center-back, Chema dropping deep to receive a simple pass, the fullbacks pushing wide to create width.
"Kaito, Antonio—" Raúl gestured to the two number eights. "You position yourselves in the half-spaces, between their midfield line and their defensive line. Not too high or you're offside. Not too deep or you're congesting the space where Chema needs to operate. Right in that gap where you can receive from Chema or the center-backs and immediately threaten their defense."
Kaito adjusted his position, moving higher up the pitch into the space between Talavera's midfield mannequins and their defensive mannequins. The half-space—the vertical channel between the center of the pitch and the touchline, roughly where the edge of the penalty area met the width of the field. This was where creative midfielders operated, where they could receive the ball facing forward and immediately threaten with passes or dribbling.
"When the ball comes to you in the half-space, you have options—" Raúl continued, using Kaito as the demonstration. "Option one: play forward to the striker checking toward you. Option two: play wide to the winger. Option three: switch the ball across to Antonio on the far side if you see space opening up there. Option four: turn and dribble forward if the defender steps up to press you and leaves space in behind."
They walked through each option multiple times, Raúl stopping them frequently to adjust positioning and timing:
"Kaito, you're receiving with your back to goal. That's wrong. Adjust your body position before the ball arrives so you can receive on the half-turn, already facing forward. Save yourself a touch and a second of time."
"Antonio, when Kaito has the ball on the left, you need to make a late run toward the penalty area. Don't start too early or their defenders will track you easily. Wait until Kaito draws their attention, then move into the space he creates."
"Forwards, your movement creates space for others! If Gonzalo checks toward the ball, someone needs to run in behind to occupy the space he vacated! If you all come short, you're just congesting the midfield!"
The patterns began to click after twenty minutes of repetition, muscle memory reinforcing tactical understanding. This was why professional teams spent hours on training grounds doing work that looked boring to casual observers—so that in matches, when pressure was high and thinking time was minimal, the correct movements happened automatically rather than requiring conscious decision-making that wasted precious seconds.
After tactical work came set piece rehearsal.
Raúl had them practice both attacking and defending corners, recognizing that Talavera had scored seven goals from set pieces this season and would likely focus on them as a primary opportunity to threaten Castilla's goal.
For attacking corners, they worked on various routines—near post flick-ons, far post deliveries, short corners to create different angles. Kaito's height and slight build meant he wasn't going to win many aerial duels in the penalty area, so his role on corners was primarily to position himself on the edge of the box for cutbacks or clearances that fell short, ready to either shoot or recycle possession.
For defending corners, the emphasis was on organization and communication. Marvel and Asencio would attack the ball at the near and far posts respectively. The fullbacks would mark Talavera's most dangerous aerial threats. Chema would patrol the edge of the box to cut off short options. And Kaito, again due to his size, would position himself on the penalty spot ready to either drop deep and help defend or sprint forward on the counter-attack if Castilla cleared the ball.
By 10:02 AM, the session was complete.
"That's enough activation," Raúl announced, his assistant coaches already collecting the cones and mannequins. "You're awake, you've touched the ball, you've rehearsed the tactical patterns. Now we rest, eat, hydrate, and prepare mentally. Team meal at eleven-thirty in the dining hall. Bus departs for Di Stéfano at twelve-fifteen sharp. Be on time. Questions?"
No questions.
"Dismissed. Good work this morning."
The squad dispersed back toward the locker room, conversation resuming now that the focused work was complete. Some players were already discussing the match, analyzing Talavera's weaknesses, expressing confidence about the result. Others were quieter, internalized, processing their own preparations in whatever way worked for them individually.
Kaito walked beside Chema, his body warm from the light work, his mind still churning through tactical information and scenarios and the approaching reality of his professional debut.
"You did good in the patterns," Chema said as they reached the building entrance. "Your first touch is really clean. Very Japanese—precise, consistent, always under control. Spanish players, we sometimes get lazy with technique, rely on physicality. But you never take heavy touch. Always perfect."
"Thank you. My father drilled that into me when I was young. 'The first touch determines everything that follows. Perfect it.'"
"Your father was right. In professional football, you don't get time for second touch to fix bad first touch. Defenders close you down too fast."
They entered the locker room, which was significantly more crowded now than it had been an hour earlier—all twenty-two players present, some already showering to rinse off the sweat from the activation session, others changing back into casual clothes for the rest period before the team meal.
Kaito grabbed his towel and headed for the showers.
The facilities were the same as he'd used all week—twelve individual stalls with adequate water pressure and temperature control, tiled floors that stayed reasonably clean despite the traffic, enough space that you didn't feel claustrophobic but not so much that it felt wasteful. He selected an empty stall and adjusted the temperature to warm rather than hot—enough to relax muscles without inducing the drowsiness that came from excessive heat this close to a match.
The water cascaded over him, washing away sweat and the last residual stiffness from sleep, and Kaito allowed himself five minutes of mental quiet. Just standing under the spray, focusing on the physical sensation of water against skin, consciously relaxing muscle groups that had tensed up from accumulated nervous energy.
His father's voice echoed in memory again: *"Before important matches, find five minutes of quiet. Let your mind rest before you ask it to work for ninety minutes under pressure."*
Kaito had been following that advice since he was twelve years old, and it had never failed him. Five minutes of emptiness, of not thinking about tactics or opponents or expectations, of just existing in the present moment. Then he could return to preparation refreshed rather than exhausted before the match had even begun.
When the five minutes were up, he finished washing efficiently and returned to his locker to change.
By 10:27 AM he was dressed in casual Real Madrid athletic wear—the black joggers and white hoodie that had become his standard off-pitch uniform—and checking his phone for any important messages he'd missed during the training session.
**WHATSAPP - MOM**
**Mom (09:53):** *The girls wanted me to send you this. They made you a good luck banner that they're going to hold up while watching the match tonight. 📱📸*
The attached image showed Mei and Mio in their school uniforms, holding a hand-drawn banner that read in slightly wobbly English: **"KAITO 頑張って! MAKE JAPAN PROUD! ⚽🇯🇵"** Both girls were grinning at the camera, Mio's smile slightly manic with excitement, Mei's more controlled but no less genuine.
The image hit Kaito in the chest with unexpected force. His sisters had made that during their lunch break at school, had probably gotten in mild trouble for spending time on artwork instead of eating properly, had done it purely to support their brother who was ten thousand kilometers away chasing a dream that had taken him away from them.
**Kaito:** *Tell them thank you. I love it. I'll do my best to make them proud. Love you all.*
The time showed 10:31 AM. Fifty-nine minutes until the team meal. Four hours and twenty-nine minutes until kickoff.
Kaito set his phone aside and lay back on the bench in front of his locker with his legs elevated, promoting blood flow to his lower extremities and helping with recovery from the morning's light session. Around him, teammates were engaged in their own pre-match rituals—some reviewing tactical notes on tablets, others listening to music through headphones, a few engaged in quiet conversations about nothing particularly important.
The locker room had settled into the particular calm that preceded competition, the eye of the storm before the adrenaline and intensity and controlled violence of professional football.
And Kurosawa Kaito lay there on the bench, breathing steadily, controlling his heart rate, preparing his mind and body for the most important ninety minutes of his life so far.
Four hours and twenty-eight minutes until kickoff.
The countdown continued.
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