Football: Messi, I am your wallbreaker!

Chapter 20 The Real Madrid Superstar with a QR Code Face

At this moment, in the locker room of this Galactic Battleship Phase II.

A rare scene unfolded: a group of superstars all had their faces scanned by QR codes.

The reason was so unbelievable: it was because of a sudden friendly match.

Di Maria crumpled his soaking wet socks into a ball and slammed them into the trash can.

Casillas sat in front of the cabinet, silently untying his shoelaces.

The Spanish goalkeeper had little expression on his face, but his knuckles were white as he clenched his fists to untie his shoelaces.

Xabi Alonso unscrewed a bottle of water, took a sip, and then screwed the cap back on.

His movements were slow and steady. He turned his head and looked at Özil, who was sitting in the corner:

"Mesut, you got knocked down three times by Gabi in the first half. What are you doing? Are you a coward?"

Özil lowered his head and covered his face with a towel.

"That's because..." the German's voice came from under the towel, muffled.

"Their new guy always shows up in the line where I'm going to pass the ball. Every time I look up, he's there. My attention gets distracted, and Gabi leans in close."

"So you just dodged and kicked?"

Alonso's voice wasn't loud, but the entire locker room fell silent.

Özil ripped the towel off, his face flushed red:

"I didn't dodge!"

"You have."

The two stared at each other for a few seconds.

Özil looked away first.

Just then, a muffled "bang" suddenly came from the corner.

Everyone turned their heads.

Cristiano Ronaldo slammed the shin guards he had taken off into the closet, the metallic clang particularly jarring in the enclosed space.

He stood up, his chest heaving, and pointed to the tactical board hanging on the wall.

"Are these Atletico Madrid guys playing football or building a wall?"

Cristiano Ronaldo's voice was loud, filled with barely suppressed frustration.

"I'm followed everywhere I go, they don't even give me room to turn around!"

He walked a few steps to the tactics board, picked up a marker, and drew a thick horizontal line on it.

Cristiano Ronaldo turned around and surveyed the entire stadium.

"In the second half, I will never force my way into the penalty area again. As long as I get the ball in the 30-meter zone—"

He jabbed the line hard with the tip of his pen.

"I just kicked it and fired a powerful shot."

The locker room became even quieter.

"I refuse to believe we can't break that turtle shell!"

Cristiano Ronaldo tossed the marker into the groove, making a crisp "click" sound.

Sitting opposite him, Ramos loudly echoed, "That's right, smash them!" As he did so, Ramos turned around and opened his private locker.

He pulled out a small, round, silver aluminum can and unscrewed the lid.

I scooped out a large blob of clear hairspray with my index finger.

Ramos frantically smeared hair on his head in front of the half-length mirror in the locker room.

His fingers moved swiftly through his hair, trying to tame the disheveled strands from the headers in the first half. His movements were as practiced as acrobatic performance.

An extremely strong minty scent filled the air.

Cristiano Ronaldo sniffed and frowned.

He turned his head and stared at the jar in Ramos's hand:

"Sergio, what the hell are you putting on that? It smells so pungent!"

Ramos rubbed his head rapidly with both hands while turning his head with a smug look on his face:

"My new Italian handmade hairspray brand! Chris, I've been looking for it for two whole months. This stuff is waterproof and sweatproof. I had three head-to-head matches with Falcao in the first half, and my hair didn't get messed up at all! It held up for the entire half!"

Cristiano Ronaldo paused for a second after hearing that.

That's awesome?

With this thing, he felt that his heading ability could improve even further.

Because you don't have to worry about your hairstyle anymore.

Hearing this, Ronaldo felt a little better.

Then he strode over and held out his hand: "Give me some too."

The expressions of the other players in the locker room twitched.

Is this guy a child?

Thus, the two most expensive football stars in the world began to look in the same mirror.

Ramos scooped out a dollop of hairspray and applied it to the back of Ronaldo's head. Ronaldo then grabbed his own hair from his forehead and pulled it upwards forcefully.

"You just said you wanted to ejaculate directly?" Ramos asked while rubbing.

"Yes." Ronaldo stared at himself in the mirror, his eyes fierce. "Thirty meters, no stopping the ball, just swing it."

"Good idea." Ramos nodded. "But you need to move a little to the left. That Asian kid is used to blocking the right wing. If you start from the left, his angle to block will be much smaller."

Cristiano Ronaldo paused for a moment.

He looked at Ramos through the mirror: "You have a keen eye."

"Nonsense." Ramos rolled his eyes. "He beat me twice in the first half. How could I not be careful? That kid's acceleration is like a ghost."

The two continued fixing their hair in front of the mirror, cursing Atletico Madrid's impenetrable defense through gritted teeth.

Just then.

"Bang!"

The locker room door was pushed open forcefully.

The sound was so loud that everyone's shoulders trembled.

José Mourinho walked in, wearing his signature black trench coat and with a somber expression.

He didn't look at the hair gel brothers; his hawk-like gaze swept across the entire room.

The entire locker room fell into a deathly silence.

Even their breathing became softer.

Mourinho roughly yanked the tactical board over and pulled off the cap of the marker. The pen tip scraped across the board with a harsh, screeching sound.

"You guys played like a bunch of old men taking a stroll in the first half!"

Mourinho smacked the tactics board with the tip of his pen.

Listen up!

He turned around abruptly and drew a line on the tactics board.

"In the second half, the entire defensive line and overall formation, push forward by 30 centimeters!"

A few suppressed gasps echoed in the locker room.

30 cm.

For a football match, this number is ridiculously small.

But everyone knows what those 30 centimeters mean when they come from Mourinho's mouth.

This means pushing the defensive line from the midfield stranglehold area directly into the heart of the opponent's half.

It means to shove a sense of oppression down the throats of every Atlético Madrid player.

"Remember, it's 30 centimeters!"

Mourinho's voice was hoarse.

"I want you to shove that damned oppression down their throats!"

He turned his head sharply and stared at the midfielder.

"Stop passing the ball around in those pointless long-range shooting positions just outside the penalty area! Xavi—"

Mourinho kept an eye on Alonso.

"Once you get the ball, don't hesitate, go straight for the head of the defense! Throw it in hard! Pass the ball to Cristiano, and break down their deceptive parallel defense head-on!"

As Mourinho spoke, his gaze swept over the two people still applying hair gel in front of the mirror.

Cristiano Ronaldo was looking down, and Ramos was standing on tiptoe, both of them intently adjusting a few strands of hair on their foreheads.

Mourinho's temple throbbed.

He took a deep breath.

then.

"And the two of you—"

The sound wasn't loud, but it was as cold as ice.

"Stop touching that damn hair gel!"

Cristiano Ronaldo and Sergio Ramos both froze in their movements.

Ramos's hand was still hanging in mid-air, his index finger covered in a large blob of clear gel. Ronaldo remained looking down at the mirror, his hair standing on end from his own scraggly grip.

No one dared to utter a sound in the entire locker room.

Mourinho stared at them for a full three seconds before looking away.

"That's all the tactics." He tossed the marker into the groove. "Anyone who plays like they did in the first half in the second half..."

He didn't finish speaking.

But everyone understands.

Mourinho turned and walked out of the locker room, the hem of his trench coat swirling in a sharp arc.

The door slammed shut behind him with a dull thud.

Five more seconds passed.

They exchanged glances; there were still about five minutes left before the second half of the game started.

But as everyone knows, we definitely can't continue resting in the locker room.

So Casillas led the way in jumping around.

"Let's go warm up and win the second half!"

"good!"

……