Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

The hospital was twenty minutes from the BayArena.

Mateo lay quietly in the back of the ambulance, his left ankle wrapped in a heavy ice pack while the team physician sat beside him with a deeply troubled expression. Based on his initial assessment, including the brutal force of the impact, the immediate swelling, and the fact that Mateo had refused to get up, the doctor's grim prognosis was a torn ligament at best.

Mateo kept his eyes shut, remaining silent. The ice felt great against his skin. His ankle throbbed, but it was purely the dull, surface-level pain of a deep bruise rather than the sickening, structural agony of torn tissue. He knew the difference because the system had made it clear. With Injury Resistance 100%, only surface damage would ever take the hit. The impact might leave a painful bruise, but zero harm would ever reach his underlying bones, tendons, or tissue.

He just could not explain that to the medical staff.

The CT scan took forty agonizing minutes. The radiologist actually ran the scan a second time because the first batch of images made zero sense based on the physical evidence. The second batch did not clarify things either.

"There is nothing here," the radiologist said, squinting at the monitors with a look that suggested the equipment had malfunctioned.

The team doctor leaned over his shoulder, staring intently at the scan. He looked down at Mateo's ankle, which was visibly discolored and swollen, and then looked back at the screen showing completely pristine ligaments, tendons, and bone.

"Run it again," the doctor ordered.

"I have already run it twice."

"Then the scanner is out of calibration—"

"The machine is working perfectly. I calibrated it myself this morning," the radiologist countered, tapping the screen. "There is heavy bruising consistent with a severe impact. There is swelling from blunt-force trauma. But there is absolutely nothing structurally wrong with this joint. No tears, no fractures, not even a minor sprain."

The team doctor turned slowly to look at Mateo. Mateo met his gaze, channeling the exact expression of mild, innocent confusion he had been rehearsing in his head for the past half hour.

"It still really hurts," Mateo offered softly. Which was actually true.

The doctor excused himself without another word and stepped into the hallway to call Magath.

Magath stormed into the hospital an hour and fifteen minutes after the final whistle, still wearing his matchday suit. His face still wore the fierce, cold fury of the press conference he had just delivered, where he spent seven minutes tearing into the refereeing standards and the culture of dangerous tackling in the Bundesliga.

The team doctor intercepted him in the corridor.

"There is nothing wrong with him," the doctor reported quietly.

Magath stopped in his tracks, staring at him. "I watched a full-grown man drive his studs through the boy's ankle."

"I know," the doctor replied, rubbing his temples. "The bruising is severe. The swelling is very real. But the scans show zero structural damage."

A long, heavy silence stretched between them. Magath turned his head, looking through the glass window into the examination room where Mateo was sitting upright on the table. His ankle was neatly bandaged, and he was casually scrolling through his phone with the cool composure of someone who was not, by any stretch of human imagination, seriously injured.

Magath walked into the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

"Hey, kid. Are you okay? How bad is it really?" he asked.

Mateo looked up from his phone. "It hurts, but I can walk on it."

"Okay, good. The doctor said there is nothing torn."

"Yeah, he told me."

Another pause filled the quiet hospital room. Magath sat down heavily in the visitor's chair, rubbing his face with both hands. "So, you are not actually that injured, are you?"

"I mean, it is heavily bruised," Mateo replied. "But no, nothing is torn and nothing is broken."

Magath processed this in complete silence for about five seconds. Then, with the sharp pragmatism of a man who had managed professional football for over two decades, a thought struck him. "You know the winter break starts tomorrow, right? Three weeks without a single fixture."

"Yes, boss. I know."

"If the media thinks you are seriously injured..."

"...then nobody prepares for me in the first match back," Mateo finished with a slight smirk. "They will spend three weeks building their game plan around a Schalke side without me. And when I show up fully fit, they will realize they prepared for the wrong team."

Magath stared at him for a long, stunned moment. The lingering fury from his press conference vanished entirely, replaced by a look bordering on genuine admiration, though he would have denied it to his grave.

"Wait a second. Did you plan this whole show?" Magath asked.

"Not in advance," Mateo admitted. "I just made the decision while I was lying face-down on the grass."

Magath let out a sudden bark of laughter. "In that short amount of time? You figured all of that out on the pitch?" He laughed out loud, shaking his head.

"It seemed like the obvious thing to do," Mateo grinned.

Magath stood up, still chuckling. "Alright then, let's keep the performance going. You stay in the wheelchair for the camera crew outside. I will handle the press. Dr. Haber gets the real scan results and nobody else." He paused at the door, turning back with a more serious look. "Rest anyway. Even if your body does not need three full weeks, take the time off. Your physical durability is running on something I do not fully understand, and I would rather have you back at a hundred percent than testing whatever limits you have not found yet."

"Yes, coach."

Magath stepped out into the hallway. As he passed the team physician in the corridor, he said without breaking stride, "Doctor, Mateo has a severe ligament strain that'll take a four-week recovery timeline, right?"

The doctor opened his mouth to object. "Wait, the scans show—"

"That is our official statement," Magath cut him off, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he walked away.

An hour later, a soft knock echoed at the door.

Lars Bender stood in the doorway holding a slightly crushed bouquet of flowers. He looked as though he had not slept in days, which was impressive given that the final whistle had blown barely two hours ago. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw was set tight, and he was dressed in street clothes rather than his club tracksuit, having changed at the BayArena and driven straight over.

"I am sorry," Bender said quietly.

No excuses. No pathetic explanations about the heat of the moment or the frustration of being outplayed. Just those three words.

Mateo looked at the flowers, then met Bender's eyes. "Come on in, Lars."

Bender sat down in the visitor's chair Magath had vacated. He placed the flowers on the bedside table with the awkward, hesitant care of a guy who had never bought flowers in his life and had no idea where they belonged.

"I am really sorry," Bender said, staring down at the floorboards. "I completely lost my temper. There is zero excuse for it. I tackled you from behind because I let anger and frustration get the better of me. That is not the kind of player I want to be."

Mateo let the heavy silence settle over the room for a moment.

"It is fine, Lars. I have been tackled hard before," Mateo said gently. "And I will get tackled hard again. The foul is behind us. The red card is your problem now, not mine."

"I know. I am not here to complain about the card or the suspension."

"How long did you get?"

"Three matches."

Mateo nodded slowly, letting out a long breath. "It is alright. Use the time well. Train hard, reset, and come back better. You do not need to carry guilt around over this." He paused, offering a faint smile. "Besides, it was a fantastic match. Your side played brilliant football in the first half."

Bender looked up, visibly startled by the change in tone. "You are being far too generous."

"I am just being accurate," Mateo corrected. "That trap was genuinely brutal to break down. I just happened to find an answer in time. If I had not figured it out when I did, we would have lost."

Bender absorbed the compliment. Some of the tight tension finally drained from his shoulders.

"Get well soon, Mateo," he said, rising from the chair.

"I'm being accurate. The birdcage was genuinely difficult to solve. I just happened to find an answer." A beat. "If I hadn't, we'd have lost."

"I definitely will," Mateo replied. And he meant it in a way Bender would never truly understand.

Bender slipped out of the room. The crooked bouquet of flowers remained on the bedside table, the very first gift Mateo had ever received from an opponent.

Outside the window, the December night had settled over the city. The winter break had officially begun. Three full weeks of real, uninterrupted rest stretched ahead of him, a unexpected gift born from a tactical masterclass.

Carvajal: Mateo! What happened?! I just saw the news reports. How bad is it? Call me as soon as you can!

Mateo quickly typed back: Not as bad as it looks on TV. I will explain everything when I see you. Don't worry.

He set the phone back down, leaned his head against the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling, letting himself enjoy total stillness for the very first time in four months. Deep down, he could feel the quiet hum of his body operating at full strength, completely untouched by the tackle and ready for whatever came next.

The winter break was finally here. Three full weeks of pure, uninterrupted rest stretched ahead of him.

He closed his eyes and, for the first time since arriving in Germany, did not bother setting an alarm.

You know the drill: Hand over those Power Stones to keep the momentum rolling!

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