On the evening of January 29th, José lay in his hotel room. The day before a match, players usually can't go home. They stay in hotels or the club's player dormitories, but Mallorca didn't have a dormitory. Every time, they stayed in hotels, and José had once grumbled about it. To him, building a good dormitory would be much better than staying in hotels. Sure, the initial cost would be higher, but it would help build the team's collective spirit. But now, José didn't care. If the club spent more money, it might actually make it easier for him to buy the club in the future.
He stretched his right hand, and the shimmering "modification device" appeared in his palm once again. However, just like before, it only shimmered with no information or instructions.
"Maybe I should just scare someone with this thing in the middle of the night," José muttered to himself. He was nearly at the point of giving up on this so-called "modification device." Over the past five years, he had tried countless times but never figured out how to use it. He thought that once he became head coach, it would start working, but that hope had already faded.
"Forget it. I've got the experience of being reborn, and now I'm a legitimate coach. There's no way I can't get good results with this team. That Xiao Ming guy was just an outsider, and he only got lucky because he reincarnated earlier. He knows how to make money, sure, but I'm a genuine reincarnated football fan, now a real coach. Why should I fear not making it in La Liga? If Xiao Ming can do it, I, José, will do it better because I know the game better…"
With that thought, José clenched his fist and made the "modification device" disappear into his palm.
He glanced at his watch. It was only eight o'clock in the evening, still early. The match was the next afternoon, and generally, the team would head to the stadium around noon. Players wouldn't go to bed too early; if they did, they'd wake up too soon and feel sleepy in the afternoon, which would affect their performance on the pitch.
José decided to leave his room and take a walk to check on the players' moods. Numancia's small town of Soria, located in northern Spain, was far from a bustling metropolis. It was more of a "town," with a population of less than 40,000. The main industry here was tourism, with many ancient buildings, but the players weren't interested in that, so José wasn't planning on checking their rooms.
The entire third floor of the hotel had been reserved for the Mallorca team, and José's room was at the far end of the hallway. Coaches and players shared rooms, but as the head coach, José had a room to himself. He walked down the hall, stopping at each room to chat for a bit—this was one of José's ways to relax.
Nadal and another assistant coach were watching TV, Stankovic and Ibagasa's rooms were empty, and both Soler's rooms were also empty. When José reached N'Gonga and Nadal's room, he found it quite lively—Nadal, N'Gonga, both Solers, and Olézola were all playing poker.
When José saw what they were playing, a cold sweat broke out. Each of them had two cards in hand, and there were five cards on the table. Each player had a pile of chips in front of them—Texas Hold'em.
Having spent two years in the U.S., José knew how mentally taxing this game could be. Compared to traditional poker, Texas Hold'em required much more skill and judgment. He used to enjoy playing in Las Vegas before he got into coaching, but after starting his coaching courses, he had quit—it was just too much of a brain workout.
Now José understood why the veterans were playing. Young players just didn't have the patience for it.
Seeing the veterans enjoying themselves, José didn't disturb them. After chatting for a while and seeing they were in good spirits, he moved on to the next room.
Although the veterans were calm while playing cards, when José approached the next room, he heard loud noise coming from within.
The sound of heavy metal rock blasted from the room as Tristan and Eto'o were yelling at each other, "Listen! This is the real sound of music! Compared to this, rap is nothing!"
Eto'o was covering his ears, looking exasperated.
"Hey, Diego, turn it down a bit," José said, closing the door behind him to trap the noise inside. The room had good soundproofing, but even standing outside the door, José could hear the music blaring.
As Tristan sheepishly turned down the volume, José shook his head. "Why blast it so loud? Keep it down, that's what music's about."
"Boss, you're only a year older than me, but I feel like you're twenty years older than me right now. Young people should be listening to energetic music!" Tristan said, pouting.
"You see Samuel? He's five years younger than you, and even he can't stand your music," José pointed at Eto'o, who had just removed his hands from his ears. "People who prefer a quieter atmosphere can't handle the volume."
"You guys just lack passion," Tristan shrugged.
"That's because you've overdone it," José laughed. He turned to Eto'o. "How's it been sharing a room with this noisy guy? Getting used to it?"
"It's fine, except when he plays music…" Eto'o replied, and Tristan chuckled in the background.
"As long as you're okay with it… Samuel, you won't be starting tomorrow, but I hope you're not upset. You've only been training with the team for three days," José said to Eto'o.
Eto'o nodded. "I understand, Coach. No problem."
"But don't think you won't get to play. If Diego and the others aren't performing well, I'll put you in. We need goals, and you'll get your chance. Keep an eye on your teammates and study their playstyles, because I might call on you at any time. Got it?"
Eto'o nodded again, simply responding with, "Got it."
Mallorca was a mid-table team. Their stadium could only hold around 20,000 people, which was quite small compared to teams like Barcelona or Real Madrid, whose stadiums could hold almost 100,000. But compared to Numancia's stadium, which held just 3,000, Mallorca's was huge.
Numancia, despite being a newly-promoted team, had done well this season. After their last victory, they climbed to 15th place, momentarily escaping the relegation zone. For their supporters, this was a reason to cheer.
But facing a Mallorca team that had just beaten third-placed Rayo Vallecano 3-0, Numancia was more cautious. They were a newly-promoted team and weren't taking any chances, especially against a strong team like Mallorca.
The match started off slow. Both teams' defenses were solid. Despite Tristan's sharp attacking play, it wasn't easy to break through Numancia's defense. Mallorca had the upper hand, with their attacking combination of N'Gonga distributing the ball, Stankovic and Ibagasa delivering crosses from the wings, and Tristan battling in the air.
Despite their limited attacking options, Mallorca managed to score first. Stankovic made a surprise run into the box instead of crossing, and after a scramble, he passed the ball to Tristan, who powered it into the net with his body.
"Great goal!" José stood up from the coach's bench, clapping and shouting. Tristan was becoming more impressive. He wasn't just a target man; he could score in different ways. Now, Tristan was Mallorca's very own Vieri!