The contract Vardy signed was modest by Bundesliga standards. Two years, with a salary roughly eight times what Halifax Town had been paying him. Carvajal handled the paperwork. Mateo sat in on the meeting because Vardy had specifically asked him to be there, something Carvajal found unusual and Magath found entirely expected.
"You realize," Carvajal said afterward, walking Vardy toward the training pitch, "most players do not bring a teammate to their contract signing, right?"
"Ah, it is fine. He is the main reason I am here," Vardy said, adjusting his collar. "So it just felt right."
Vardy headed off to find his locker. Carvajal turned and looked at Mateo.
"He is going to need time," Carvajal said. "His touch, his positional discipline. This is not the Conference North."
"I know. But his pace is genuine and his finishing is real. Give him six months."
"Six months is a long time, Mateo. Especially for a club fighting for the league title."
"I know. He will not be in the first team for six months. He will be in the reserve squad, learning and sharpening himself. But by the time he is ready, we will need him."
Carvajal studied Mateo for a long moment. The unwavering certainty in the boy's voice was almost unsettling. Still, he simply nodded and went to file the remaining paperwork.
Bujerab watched Vardy walk past him after the signing was finished.
He did not know who Vardy was. He did not recognize the name, nor did he understand why an unknown English player was signing for a club pushing for the Bundesliga title. What he did understand was the harsh arithmetic of his own situation. Three months ago, he had been the starting attacking midfielder. Then came the injury. Then the reserve bib. Then the slow, agonizing realization that Mateo had filled his spot so completely that the squad had simply stopped noticing his absence.
And now this. An English kid was celebrating a fresh contract while Bujerab ran fitness drills with reserve players who could barely look him in the eye.
He had been professional about it all. He trained hard every single session, said all the right things to Hughes and Magath, and kept his frustration buried deep inside his chest. Showing his anger would only confirm what everyone was already thinking: that he was no longer good enough, that the position was lost forever, and that the club had moved on without him.
The hardest part was not just being replaced. It was being replaced so thoroughly that nobody even looked uncomfortable around him anymore. When he walked into the canteen, conversations did not pause. When he stepped off the training pitch, nobody called out his name. He had turned into background noise in a building where he was once in the starting eleven.
He finished his meal silently and walked back out onto the B-team pitch.
On Friday, Magath called Mateo into his office.
"January fifteenth," Magath said, not looking up from his laptop screen. "Hannover at home. I am putting your name on the matchday squad list."
"The official injury timeline said four weeks, which lands on January fourteenth," Mateo noted.
"Which means the fifteenth is day one of your recovery being complete. I will announce today that you are taking a late fitness test. The media will run headlines questioning whether you are ready. Nobody will actually expect you to step onto the pitch." Magath finally looked up, a sharp glint in his eye. "Which is exactly when you play."
"Do you know who is managing Hannover right now?" Magath asked.
"I don't know, who is it?" Mateo asked.
"Mirko Slomka," Magath said.
Mateo let the name sit in the air. Slomka had managed Schalke from 2006 to 2008. He knew the inner workings of the club, the culture of the dressing room, and the exact way information traveled between the coaching staff and the players. He had personally coached Jones, Per Kluge, and Farfán during their early years here. He understood Schalke's tactical identity inside and out.
"So he is not just an opposing manager," Mateo said. "He is someone who built a foundation for this team."
"Precisely. Which means he knows our weaknesses just as well as our strengths." Magath leaned back in his leather chair. "He will have spent weeks preparing for a Schalke side without you. But he will also have a backup plan ready in case you return, because Slomka does not gamble. He will have a man-marking assignment set for you within five minutes of seeing your name on the team sheet."
"That works in our favor," Mateo replied smoothly. "It means he will be playing reactively instead of proactively."
Magath raised an eyebrow slightly. He had been managing professional football longer than Mateo had been alive, yet it still caught him off guard when a seventeen-year-old said things that belonged in a coaching seminar.
Magath tapped his index finger against the wooden desk. "His Hannover side finished fourth last season. They press high up the pitch, they are physically aggressive, and they have Steve Cherundolo at right-back, who has been playing in the Bundesliga since 1999. Didier Ya Konan has fourteen goals already this season. This is not going to be a soft match."
"I understand, coach."
"Good. Light sessions today and tomorrow. I want you sharp and explosive, not exhausted."
Mateo stood up to leave. As his hand reached the door handle, he turned back around.
"Jones and Farfán know the real story about the injury. Does anyone else know?"
"Raúl knows, but he hasn't said anything." Magath paused, looking at him intently. "Nobody else?"
"No, coach," Mateo said.
"Alright. It stays strictly between us until you step out onto the grass for warm-ups."
On his way out of the building, Mateo walked past the first-team gym. Through the large glass pane, he saw Farfán working on the cable machine with his earphones in.
Farfán spotted Mateo, pulled one earphone down to his neck, and silently mouthed a single word through the glass: Tomorrow?
Mateo held up a single index finger. One more day.
Farfán grinned, popped the earphone back into his ear, and went right back to his exercise set. No long explanation was needed. Four months of tearing up defenses together had built a silent understanding between them that required zero words.
Saturday morning. The day before the match.
Mateo trained alone in his garage for three hours before the sun was fully up. Speed drills across the frosty garden grass. Ball control work against the cold concrete wall until every touch was razor-sharp. Free kicks aimed at a makeshift target he had constructed from two wooden garden chairs and a length of tight rope.
His Speed was steadily climbing. Beyond the 80 threshold, every single point demanded thirty grueling hours of focused work, and he had put in those hours every day throughout the break. The System displayed 81 now, with visible progress building toward 82 on the bar. The progress was gradual, but the breakthrough past the ceiling that had limited him all autumn was real, and he could feel it in his explosive burst.
His first three steps off the mark were measurably quicker than they had been in December. It was subtle enough that an ordinary spectator would not bat an eye, but significant enough that any defender relying on his pre-injury match film would find himself a half-step behind when Mateo made his move.
He showered, ate a quick breakfast, and checked his phone. A text notification from Jermaine Jones popped up on the screen.
Ready for tomorrow?
Mateo typed back: Yep. Been ready for three weeks.
Jones replied almost instantly: Coach Slomka is going to lose his mind when he sees you step onto the pitch.
Mateo: He will not lose his mind. He will adjust. That is what makes him a top manager.
Jones: Come on man, you are no fun when you are being tactical.
Mateo smiled quietly to himself, set the phone down on the table, and walked back out into the chilly air toward the garage.
The rope strung between the two garden chairs had sagged about three centimeters since his morning drills. He adjusted the knot, placed the ball on the grass, and took his measured steps back for the run-up.
He locked in the technique: the signature David Beckham body lean, the sharp whip off the instep, and the clean side-spin. The ball curled gracefully through the air and struck the top corner of the rope target with a crisp snap. It was a makeshift setup, far from a regulation goal, but it served its purpose perfectly.
Tomorrow, there would be real goalposts, real nets, and a professional goalkeeper, all set before fifty thousand fans who believed he could barely walk few weeks ago.
You know what time it is! Drop those Power Stones to keep us climbing the ranks!
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