Miguel Hernandez sat in the seat closest to the coach’s bench in the stands, watching as his own son was called up to warm up. After a few minutes of warming up, he would definitely be substituted in.

That damn fool finally knows his place.

He thought smugly.

The Real Madrid club director twisted his big, fat body, squeezing the fans on either side without the slightest awareness, not even bothering to apologize. He simply held his head high, looking proudly at his son—the one who shared the same name as the “King of Football,” Maradona—Diego Rivera.

As for the four angry glares beside him, he was completely oblivious.

He was full of anticipation for his son’s first match with the Junior B team.

It was true that his son had gotten in through his connections, but he was confident in his son’s ability and potential. He was convinced that his son was a once-in-a-century genius!

He began to imagine his son going on the field and wreaking havoc, helping Real Madrid’s under-13 Junior B team win the match, and then a legend would begin from this unremarkable game... Just like Butragueño, becoming the new leader and representative of Real Madrid in the future!

But the smug smile on the director’s face gradually faded.

Because he noticed that his son was still warming up on the sidelines—warming up for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes... The first half was almost over, and his son was still endlessly warming up, warming up, warming up... Meanwhile, Real Madrid finally broke the deadlock with a long shot from player number fourteen, taking the lead, and then quickly scored again... The deadlock was gone, and Real Madrid was up by two goals! What good would it do for his son to go on now?

Damn it!

He’d been played by that damn bastard!

The Real Madrid director finally realized what had happened.

Chapter 2: You Need to Lose Weight, You Fat Pig!

When Real Madrid club director Miguel Hernandez realized he’d been played by that bastard, he stormed to the very front of the stands, grabbed the railing, and shouted at the back of the man who had crouched down again below.

“Are you constipated or what?! How long are you going to squat there?! Careful you don’t shit your pants! Damn idiot! Put my son in! Put Diego Rivera in! Do you hear me?! Do—you—hear—me—?! Damn it! Are you deaf? Stop pretending to be a turtle with your head in your shell! If you’re a man, stand up! You’ve got the guts to keep my son off the field, but not the guts to face my anger? Come on! Come face me head-on! I swear I’ll beat the crap out of you, you moron! When you’re lying on the ground, don’t come begging me for mercy!”

He didn’t care at all that Real Madrid’s Junior B team already had a two-goal lead and didn’t need his “genius” Diego Rivera to break the deadlock.

Hearing this duck-like squawking, William Clark felt the veins on his forehead bulge, and even bit the grass stem in his mouth in half.

Annoyed, he spat out the remaining bit in his mouth, then plucked another blade of grass from the turf and stuck it between his teeth.

Then he decided to completely ignore the duck-like squawking behind him.

So everyone could hear a loud, energetic fat man pointing at the Real Madrid Junior B team’s coach and cursing non-stop, spitting out all kinds of Spanish curses, each one nastier than the last.

For a moment, he became the center of attention, with everyone turning to look at him—he even stole the spotlight from the match itself. Even the young players on the field couldn’t help but stop and glance over, not understanding what was happening.

William Clark saw this and frowned. He had no choice but to stand up from the ground, and, enduring the fat duck’s shouting, loudly ordered his young players to focus and not get distracted by what was happening off the field. A two-goal lead was by no means a safe score.

At the same time, he was even more annoyed at the fat duck behind him who was disrupting the match.

He clenched his fists.

Don’t you dare push your luck with me, bastard!

※※※

Until the end of the first half, the director Miguel Hernandez’s son Diego Rivera was never put on the field by that damn coach. Instead, he ran back and forth on the sidelines for thirty minutes straight. When the substitutes started heading to the locker room, Diego Rivera lagged behind the group, and as he passed a crate of bottled water, the disgruntled Diego Rivera gave it a hard kick.

With a dull thud, he didn’t break the crate, just made a muffled sound.

But he did succeed in drawing everyone’s attention, including the Junior B team’s head coach, William Clark.

Noticing William Clark staring at him, this kid—who was just as self-important as his father—lifted his head and glared back through his nostrils.

With his dad backing him up, he really wasn’t afraid of a mere Junior B team head coach. Who was his dad? His dad was a club director!