Saving Mr. Player

Prologue

The bright white stadium lights hit the entire stadium of Santiago Bernabéu in the heart of Madrid. A large crowd cheered as loud as they could, roaring and applauding. Half of the stadium covered in red and black, while half covered in white and blue. A large crowd cheering at the north corner of the bleachers, waving flags of black and red gradient colors, with a side pictured roaring lion pasted in the middle and flames burning through the lion’s skin. Supporting one of the clubs playing the final match for the Champion’s Cup. The entire city of Madrid had their eyes focused on the ground, cameras flew everywhere, drones airing the running players, tossing the ball with their feet, running along the length of the large stadium.

The commentators sitting in the high-end booth, watching through the monitors, holding the mics close to their mouth, they defined each and every moment, from the point where the ball was to the point how everyone felt.

At the south corner of the bleachers, was the VIP podium, where suited men sat on their leathered couches, having a perfect view of the ground below. Whereas a huge crowd seated at the back had their eyes glued to the projector screen, that showed images of players, flashed one by one, as sweat dripped off their head, they zig zagged their way among each other. Two teams were playing the match.

The Royal Madrid, more famously known as TRT, Madrid’s beloved soccer team and the other was the Italian club, Milan Rangers.

Everyone’s eyes were glued to the ground, shifting to the score board every once in a while, each investor wishing to increase one on behalf of their team.

TRM 2 – MR 2.

The large digital score board stuck on the same reading for the past fifteen minutes, ever since Royal Madrid’s hero scored his second goal in the game and it was the last two minutes to the game.

“There are only two minutes left to the game!” one of the two commentators spoke.

While the other male jumped his wagon with joke, “this is a very critical moment, Milan has reached in the finals for the first time… thanks to their top player, Sergio Ramon…”

The cameras shifted towards a tall guy, with tanned skin and sweated body in the blue jersey, his shirt read ‘Ramon– 4’. His black hair were buzzcut to his sculptured jaw, while his black brown eyes, stood stoked with surprise, looking around the field, for someone to pass him the ball.

“He scored nine goals during the tournament, which is the second best to fifteen goals by Alessandro Ricci…” The commentator continued.

Just as one of the players, named Adrian in the red jersey, playing for the Royal Madrid, swiping his jet black hair off his forehead, hit the ball with his skinny leg, covered with black socks, and passed it on to the tall suave player, standing in the right corner middle of the field.

Two players in the blue team; Milan Rangers, covered him on both sides. He was a Centre forward of the team, one of the best soccer players in the world. Having scored the highest number of goals in every tournament ranging from world cups, to international leagues to local clubs. The highest paid soccer player, having win three Ballon d’Or, consecutively. The captain of The Royal Madrid and captain of the National Spanish Football team, the infamous king of soccer, the suave player star, Alessandro Ricci, best known as ‘Ricci – 6’.

He held the ball under his spiked shoe, covered with dirt, his breath steady compared to every other player on the field. Four hands swindling around him, blocking his way to the goal post, which seemed far away at the moment, but his eyes stood sharp, looking right at the goal keeper in green clothes, even he was nervous now that Alessandro had the ball.

Sensing that his real target was in fear, Alessandro smirked, a small smile striking over his handsome pink lips, sweat bead forming on his tanned skin, while a small stubble rested around his chiseled jawline. His sharp blue ocean eyes, squinted like slits, sharpened and separated by a straight Greek nose. Giving one look at the two Centre Backs around him, he pushed his way in the middle and rolled the ball by his feet towards the goal post. His wet jet-black hair waved along his movements as he made a run pushing the ball.

People supporting TRM, waved with joy and screamed, having all their hopes clanged onto Alessandro.

The coaches standing in the same line on the ground, past the boundaries screamed at their teams, yelling and chanting to put forth their previously discussed strategies. The coach of TRM wore a simple grey sweat shirt, while he sweated for his life, just as exhausted with pumping adrenaline in his body as he roamed around the benches were his team was fixed to sit. He was a white skinned, bald man, with dark thick eyebrows, give to his Danish features and old age. He would occasionally look at his opponent coach who was a man of formal attire but seemed unreasonably calm compared to TRM’s coach.

“Well, Ricci has the ball now and there seems more hope for Madrid…” The commentator spoke with excitement jumping up his veins.

The rich bees in the VIP section, supporting TRM, fisted in joy, while those belonging to Ranger’s Milan, had a scowl perfected on their head, knowing that their team was now troubled all given to the world’s best player.

While Alessandro rolled forward, he looked ahead of him and saw every member of the blue team, circling around him like vultures. He looked around for his team members, all of them covered with center backs and sweepers. He moved forward and saw two other strikers running at him.

“There is no doubt why Ricci is the highest paid footballer at the moment…” The bald commentator spoke.

“Well, you are right! He is about to hit his sixteenth goal! Will this be the defining and an iconic moment in the history? Where Ricci scores his sixteenth goal and Madrid would win The Champions Cup, third time in the row, also Ricci being the man of the series for the second time!”

His game was good due to his calculative skills and given to that, he already estimated that it would be difficult for him to move any further to the goal post, which was only a few feet away. He saw his team member standing alone, having no one centering him.

He was a skinny kid, only nineteen years old, playing his first game in the club. His previous performances earned him quite accolade but the blue team still considered him amateur enough and left him open. So, Alessandro, took this opportunity and marched forward with his ball, but instead of going towards the goal post, he ran towards the direction of the boy, Davič – 15, a full back. A short-heightened Croatian, skinny but a perfect fit to make a fast run towards the goal post. He saw Alessandro running towards him and understood his captain’s command.

He moved forward and so did Alessandro and at that moment, Alessandro passed the ball on to him and followed the direction of the ball, that hit Davič’s feet and looked up at him, only to see a sharp object flash right through his eyes, hit Davič’s left temple while blood splattered out from his right side. Within the span of seconds, the young boy, hit the ground and fell on his face.

The scumbling players who were running like crazy, paused; bedazzled. They couldn’t believe what they had just witnessed. No one made any sound for a while, everyone stood stunned to their place. The entire stadium fell with noise of a gasp, followed by complete silence. The commentators went quite within a second.

“Seems like something is wrong with Davič…” The commentator spoke in a low monotonous tone, slightly getting off his seat to look out the mirrored cabin and get a view of the unconscious player, who was surrounded by other players.

In the VIP section, only a few people got off their seats, creasing their black and grey coats and walked near the glassed wall.

Alessandro’s eyes wide open like ice struck his body, cold sweat dripping down his forehead. He had just saw something dark but his brain was in too much shock to believe his own eyes. A state of numbness took over his entire body. His brain playing flashbacks of his team member that joined his team, the very first day when he stood in front of Alessandro and poured to him, how he was his inspiration. How he worked hard out of poverty just like Alessandro, to be right where he was.

Paramedics made a run towards the field, some fielders moved holding their hair, seeing the blood pooling around Davič’s head. While some fielders, ran off from the sight, back to the benches. Both of the goalkeepers ran towards the scene and held back their breaths.

Alessandro stood still, watching the paramedics moved Davič’s body and the gun shot visible right over his skin. The players gasped, knowing what had just happened right in front of their eyes.

A loud scream hurdled from somewhere in the crowd, where another gunshot boomed and security ran towards the field, covering the players, while the crowd began running, rushing and panicking, with loud screams coming from every corner.

Many of the security guards moved the players, back into the dressing rooms, protecting them as their priority. While Alessandro stood still, a guard pushing him back inside, while he applied force to stay back, to stand with his team member. Wishing whatever was happening right in front of his eyes was just a bad nightmare and it will all go away. He screamed and yelled at the guard to let him go, just so he would stay with Davič, who he was expecting to open his eyes right away and resume the game, score his first goal and win everyone’s trust and respect.

All the screams in the background blurred, Alessandro’s vision going blind just focusing on the bright lights that illuminated the young dead man.

It was the boy’s first game. He was like his little brother and now he laid still. The paramedic looked at his condition and already knew what was coming. He held his fingers over the boy’s neck, checking for pulse, wishing for a miracle. While everyone was pushed back into the dressing rooms, Alessandro still stood back and looked at the bald paramedic. Who simple shock his head and stated coldly;

“I’m sorry. He is shot at blank point… he is dead!”

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