Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

The hospital corridor was blindingly bright and dead quiet.

Farfán sat hunched over on a cheap plastic chair, resting his elbows on his knees. Across from him, Huntelaar leaned flat against the wall, staring fixedly at the scuffed floor tiles. Jones stood motionless by the far window, staring out into the dark for the entire hour they waited. Nobody said a word. The door to the examination room remained firmly shut while the club doctor stayed inside with Raúl.

Mateo sat at the very end of the row of chairs, thinking about the potion.

He had never used it. It had been sitting in his system inventory since the group stage, one of the earliest rewards: Body Recovery Potion. Slowly recovers all human injuries.

The description didn’t say host only.

He was still working through the implications of that when the examination room door opened.

The team doctor stepped into the hall, his slumped posture answering the question before he spoke.

”Complete fracture of the right ankle joint,” the doctor said quietly. ”The scar tissue from his old surgery made the break significantly worse. Recovery timeline...” He let out a heavy breath. ”For a kid in his twenties, maybe six months. For someone Raúl’s age...”

Magath cut in with a low, flat tone. ”Are you saying his season is finished?”

”Most likely, yes,” the doctor replied with a heavy sigh. ”He probably won’t touch a pitch again this season. And he’ll have to make a very serious decision about the next one.”

Farfán covered his face with both hands.

Huntelaar cursed under his breath, turning his back to the hall.

Jones just stared out the glass.

Raúl refused all visitors.

He shut out Magath, the medical staff, and every teammate who tried to reach him. He asked the hospital administrators to keep his room strictly private, drew the blinds shut, and chartered an early flight back to Gelsenkirchen at dawn. By mid-morning, he was locked inside his own house. The rest of the squad flew home on the team charter in total silence.

By afternoon, the German press ran wild with the news.

Every sports outlet painted the same grim picture: Raúl was finished for the season, leaving Schalke’s attack hollowed out right before the Champions League knockout stage. Without the Spanish legend leading the line, the consensus was that Unai Emery’s Valencia would easily contain a frontline that now relied entirely on Huntelaar and a seventeen-year-old playmaker.

Mateo sat reading the headlines at the kitchen table over breakfast. Across from him, Vardy was leaning against the counter, watching him closely.

”You’ve got that look about you, mate,” Vardy said.

”Just reading the news.”

”Nah, you’re planning something. You’ve got that exact squint.”

Mateo offered no reaction, finishing his mug and setting it in the sink before heading upstairs.

At nine o’clock, the front doorbell rang.

Farfán stood on the porch looking completely drained, still wearing yesterday’s training gear with heavy dark circles under his eyes. He stepped inside, dropped his jacket onto an armchair, and sank into the couch.

Mateo handed him a fresh cup of coffee.

”I managed to get him on the phone late last night,” Farfán said, staring blankly into the steam. ”He sounded completely broken, Mateo. He thinks this is it. He reckons his body is done and that there is no professional football left in that right leg.” Farfán paused, his voice cracking slightly. ”He wants to say goodbye properly. He asked if you and I could drop by his place next week before he flies back to Madrid.”

Mateo sat down in the armchair opposite him.

”And to make things worse, the Peruvian federation is calling me up,” Farfán continued, rubbing his temples. ”They want me in Lima for a friendly against Panama on Sunday. Squad prep for the Copa América. I have to catch a flight tomorrow.”

”They really couldn’t have picked a worse week to call you up.”

”I tried begging them to release me. Magath even called, but they refused. I don’t want to get on that plane. We have Valencia on Tuesday, Raúl is retiring, and I am being dragged across the ocean for a completely meaningless friendly.”

”You can’t skip an official national team call-up without getting banned.”

”I know,” Farfán groaned, running a hand over his face. ”That is the worst part. That’s why I’m going to meet him right now.”

Mateo let the room settle into silence for a few seconds.

”Give me two minutes,” Mateo said, standing up. ”I want to grab something.”

He walked up to his bedroom, shut the door, and pulled up his system menu.

He selected the Body Recovery Potion from his inventory and confirmed the withdrawal. A small, clear glass vial materialized directly into his palm, filled with an odorless liquid that looked identical to regular tap water.

Handing Raúl an unlabeled laboratory tube was out of the question. It would invite endless questions that had no logical answers.

He scanned his bedside shelf and picked up a small amber dropper bottle. His mother had left it behind after visiting in December, claiming the herbal blend was a traditional Brazilian treatment for muscle fatigue. The label was handwritten in her messy Portuguese, and the bottle was half-full of a dark amber liquid smelling faintly of sweet eucalyptus.

He uncapped both containers and carefully emptied the potion straight into the herbal extract.

The clear liquid blended seamlessly into the brown oil without altering its color or consistency. A soft chime rang in his mind, confirming the item transfer. He screwed the dropper lid back on tight, shook the mixture thoroughly, and checked it against the window light.

It looked completely authentic: a homemade herbal remedy from South America.

Mateo carried the bottle downstairs.

Farfán was still slumped on the sofa, staring at the floorboards. Mateo extended his hand and placed the amber bottle onto the coffee table.

Farfán picked it up, squinting at the Portuguese writing. ”What is this?”

”Herbal drops my mother brought over from Brazil,” Mateo said. ”Traditional family remedy for joint swelling and muscle tears. It might sound unusual, but it works wonders on inflammation.”

Farfán gave him a skeptical look. ”Herbal drops for a shattered ankle?”

”It speeds up natural healing,” Mateo said steadily, holding his gaze. ”Just tell him to try it. It is completely organic, so there is zero risk with doping tests.”

Farfán studied Mateo’s calm expression. He remembered how quickly Mateo had walked off brutal challenges from Ballack and Bender without a trace of bruising. Without pressing further, Farfán slipped the glass bottle into his coat pocket and stood up.

”Six drops directly under the tongue,” Mateo added. ”Morning and night. Tell him to follow the dose strictly.”

”Six drops, twice a day,” Farfán repeated. He gave Mateo a brief, firm embrace. ”Good luck in Valencia on Tuesday. I will try to watch the broadcast from Lima.”

”Make sure he actually takes it.”

”I will put it in his hands myself.”

Farfán stepped out into the morning chill.

Mateo watched the front door shut, turning around to find Vardy standing in the hallway with a knowing grin.

”Herbal drops from Brazil, eh?” Vardy asked.

”Ye— Yeah... It’s, uh, a family recipe,” Mateo said, clearing his throat.

”It’s fine, mate, just asking,” Vardy chuckled.

Mateo sat down on the sofa, listening as Vardy’s footsteps faded back toward the kitchen.

If the system potion worked as advertised, Raúl’s fractured joint would begin knitting itself back together within days. Explaining the miracle would be a problem for later.

For now, the trip to Spain was five days away.

You know what time it is! Drop those Power Stones to keep us climbing the ranks!

Read Advance Chapters Here:

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