"Ana, lean in a little closer. Yes... exactly like that. Hey, Shane, you are a block of wood. Loosen up!"
"No, no, no... Shane, your eyes. Look at Ana. Dear God, you have a beautiful girl standing right in front of you, not a marble statue! Emotion! Give emotion!"
Aguilera rubbed her temples.
She quickly realized that Shane Carter possessed absolutely zero talent in front of a cara.
He was a good-looking kid.
But the microsecond a cara lens pointed at him, his facial expressions froze into a hostage-like grimace.
"Let's take a break."
Carter let out a massive sigh of relief.
As expected, life outside the white lines of the pitch was never simple.
The director kept demanding "emotional depth" in his eyes.
But the more she asked for it, the more lost he felt.
He was an eighteen-year-old football obsessive who had never been on a real date in his life. He had no idea what "romantic chemistry" looked like.
Eventually, Aguilera threw in the towel.
"Acting is just like football," Ana smiled, trying to comfort him. "You just need ti to adapt to the pace of the ga."
Aguilera watched the two teenagers. She noticed that the exact second the caras were turned off, Carter completely relaxed, and their natural banter returned.
The director tapped her chin thoughtfully.
"It seems we aren't going to get the shot today, kids. Co back in a week. Before then... I highly recomnd you two spend so ti getting to know each other."
"Getting to know each other?"
Carter and Ana turned to look at the director, then at each other.
Ana tilted her head. "Shane, are you busy this afternoon?"
"Uh, I have to go to a supporter group eting."
Ana's eyes lit up. "Take with you."
The Calderón Tavern.
Ana pulled a baseball cap down low over her eyes and hid her face behind massive, oversized sunglasses, sneaking in right behind Carter.
She was underage, aning the tavern legally shouldn't have let her through the door.
But arriving with Shane Carter bent the rules of reality in Madrid.
The Calderón Tavern sat directly in the shadow of the Vicente Calderón stadium. It was the absolute holy ground for Atlético Madrid's hardcore ultras.
"Hey! Hey, Shane!"
The mont Carter walked through the door, the tavern erupted in cheers.
They were already familiar with him. Many of the militants here were the sa fans waiting at the gates of the training facility every single day for autographs.
Carter scanned the room and recognized several of the heavy hitters.
These were the presidents and lieutenants of Atlético's most militant peñas and ultra factions.
Frente Atlético, Señales de Humo, Peña Los 50, La Agrupación...
These weren't casual tourists. These were the officially recognized, blood-and-bone supporter groups that orchestrated the terrifying, hostile atmospheres inside the stadium and traveled across Europe to back the team.
Seeing Carter arrive, the leaders of the major factions stood up, respectfully shaking his hand and pulling out a chair for him.
Once everyone was seated, Carter finally learned why they had summoned him.
"You guys want to write a personal chant... for ?"
Carter was genuinely stunned.
He was an eighteen-year-old kid who had played barely a dozen matches for the first team.
Earning a dedicated, stadium-wide chant was an honor exclusively reserved for absolute club legends.
"Of course, man. We want a war cry specifically for you when you step onto the pitch," said Samuel, one of the ultra leaders.
"We've already narrowed down a few lodies. We just need to write the lyrics."
Custom player chants are a cornerstone of European football culture.
Usually, the ultras take a simple, universally recognizable lody and adapt it.
In Spain, the most common foundation is España Cañí, the traditional, fast-paced bullfighter's march.
Beyond that, they had prepared several classic Flanco rhythms, a few old-school rock anthems, and the globally ubiquitous Olé, Olé, Olé.
Music is the soul of Latin and Iberian football culture.
Carter was actually thrilled, but he was completely tone-deaf. He couldn't tell a good lody from a car crash.
Currently, only their captain, Gabi, had a dedicated chant ringing around the Calderón.
To receive one this early in his career was a massive validation of his status.
"I honestly like the Bullfighter's March, but Olé, Olé, Olé is definitely easier to shout..."
On the pitch, Carter processed variables in milliseconds and executed decisions with absolute ruthlessness.
In normal life, he suffered from crippling decision paralysis.
There was a reason he exclusively wore identical club tracksuits every day. Picking out normal clothes required too much ntal energy.
"May I offer an opinion?"
A small, quiet voice piped up from behind Carter's massive shoulders.
The girl in the baseball cap and sunglasses tentatively raised her hand, before finally pulling off her disguise.
Samuel and the hardened ultra leaders stared in absolute shock.
"A-Ana?!"
"Ana na ca with Shane?!"
"Are they dating?!"
"Mother of God..."
The eyes of the hardcore militants instantly lit up with blatant, unrestrained gossip.
Carter saw the way they were looking at him. "This is Ana. She is my... my... colleague?"
Carter realized halfway through the sentence that he lacked the vocabulary to describe their relationship.
Friends?
They had t four hours ago. That felt like a stretch.
Strangers?
That was socially autistic.
Colleague. Yes, that made sense. They were shooting an ad together.
Ana wrinkled her nose, visibly dissatisfied with being downgraded to a "colleague."
But she didn't dwell on it. She looked at the ultra leaders.
"I overheard your discussion. But if it's going to be a personal chant, shouldn't it have a completely original lody?" she asked.
"None of us are composers," Samuel laughed, spreading his hands. "We just take famous songs and change the words."
"I am!" Ana raised her hand enthusiastically. "I am a composer. And I am a fully paid-up socio... so, please, let take this project. I can write a bespoke anthem for Shane. lody and lyrics."
Huh? That sounds like a massive favor, Carter thought to himself. We just t today. Let's just go with the Olé song.
"It's no problem at all, Shane," Ana said, patting his arm reassuringly. "I am a musical genius."
She stepped back, crossing her arms and studying him up and down, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "But I need to understand you first. Aha! This lines up perfectly with what Director Aguilera wanted!"
"Understand ?" Carter scratched the back of his head. "I can give you my match tapes. There's a lot of footage, though..."
"Who wants your ga tape?! I'm a musician, not a scout," Ana groaned. "I an I need to understand you. The person."
"I'm a central midfielder playing for Atlético Madrid. I am 184 centiters tall. I recently put on a kilo of muscle, so I weigh 86 kilos... what else do you need to know?"
Ana stared into his clear, entirely unironic eyes, overwheld by the sheer, unadulterated stupidity of a hyper-focused athlete.
She rubbed her temples.
"Okay, alright. I'm taking charge of this," Ana announced to the ultras. "I will pick him up from his training ground tomorrow. I'll interview him, map out the genre, and write the lyrics. Your next ho ga is in thirteen days. We will have it ready for the terraces by then!"
"Done!"
"Ana is an absolute star."
"We leave it in your capable hands, Ana!"
She wasn't called the "Daughter of Madrid" for nothing. In five minutes, she had the most dangerous n in the city eating out of the palm of her hand.
Carter leaned in and lowered his voice. "Wait, you're underage. How are you picking up tomorrow?"
"I drive a motorcycle," she whispered back.
Under Spanish law, you needed to be eighteen to get a driver's license.
But you could get an A1 motorcycle license at sixteen.
The next day.
Atlético Madrid resud full squad training after their day off.
As the afternoon session concluded, the squad realized sothing horrifying.
Shane Carter was not staying behind for his mandatory, psychotic extra training.
"Ergency! Ergency! The kid is skipping extra reps! He went straight to the showers!"
"Did you guys see what he was wearing when he arrived this morning? No tracksuit!"
"Yeah, I noticed! The kid was wearing actual fashion..."
"Heh... there is sothing highly suspicious going on here."
"If a boy suddenly starts caring about his aesthetic, I guarantee it... Carter has a date!"
"Our boy is growing up..."
Inside the locker room, the squad craned their necks, listening to the shower running. Carter was actually whistling a tune.
Anyone with ears could tell he was in an incredibly good mood.
Koke slapped his thigh. "It has to be a gorgeous girl. I'd bet my life on it."
Just as the locker room gossip reached a fever pitch, Carter walked out of the showers, vigorously drying his hair with a towel.
He stopped, realizing twenty grown n were staring at him in dead silence.
"Why are you guys still here?" Carter asked, confused.
Saúl Ñíguez ambushed him from behind, throwing an arm around his neck.
"Spit it out. Where are you going?"
Carter looked surprised. "Wait, how did you guys find out about the chant?"
"The... chant?"
Saúl blinked, completely derailed.
"Yeah, the major ultra groups are composing a dedicated stadium chant for ," Carter smiled smugly.
"Oh, you bastard..." Saúl groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "You're getting a personal anthem?!"
The locker room instantly flooded with jealousy.
"Wait, hold on, hold on," Koke said, stroking his chin like a detective. "Even if you're getting a chant, that doesn't explain why you skipped extra practice."
"So, you are going on a date, aren't you?!"
"I an... kind of?" Carter scratched his head. "See you tomorrow, boys."
He grabbed his duffel bag and walked out the door.
The locker room exchanged bewildered looks.
Suddenly, soone shouted from the hallway.
The entire squad rushed to the window, pressing their faces against the glass to look down at the player parking lot.
"Is that..."
Koke froze.
He reached out and pinched Saúl's arm as hard as he could.
"OW!" Saúl scread.
"Okay, so I'm not hallucinating," Koke muttered, his face pale.
"Carter's date... is Ana na."
The squad looked at each other in stunned silence.
Then, Koke grabbed his head with both hands.
"AHHHHH! THAT LUCKY BASTARD!"
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