Starting as a Defensive Midfielder at Real Madrid

”Boss, if I told you I really just couldn’t hold it in, would you believe me?”

”Oh, really? You ’accidentally’ went to Stamford Bridge to watch a match and just happened to get mad when Chelsea lost? That’s some accident, huh.”

”Damn it! If I’d known Chelsea would concede three after leading by one, I would’ve bought an Arsenal ticket instead!”

”Excuse me?”

”Ah—no, I meant I wouldn’t have gone at all and gotten caught on camera!”

”Cut the crap. Just remember your return date. If you’ve had your fill of England, come back early. Don’t make any statements about this—let Jorge and the club handle it.”

”Got it, boss.”

As he heard Mourinho hang up the phone, Leon finally breathed a sigh of relief.

When Darren Bent scored Aston Villa’s third goal late in the match, Leon had genuinely lost his temper.

Supporting a team is like forming a habit—over time, it becomes second nature.

Even though Leon was now a professional footballer trained in Madrid’s academy, he still had deep-rooted feelings for Chelsea.

Nacho and Carvajal knew this well.

Back when they were in the youth teams, Leon was a die-hard Real Madrid supporter like the rest, but his other love was Mourinho’s Chelsea.

At this point, Leon was basically a triple fan—Madrid, Milan, and Chelsea. His loyalties were complicated, but his affection was sincere.

And because that affection was so genuine, Leon sometimes forgot how much his actions now mattered in the public eye.

Winning the Golden Boy award had elevated his profile. He knew he should be more composed in public, avoid misunderstandings.

But that moment—he just couldn’t help it.

Any fan would lose it if their favorite team blew a lead and got smacked by three goals. Leon didn’t even swear—that was restraint.

Still, that frustrated slap on the seat was enough to make him the talk of England.

When Mourinho called, Leon had already braced himself for a scolding.

Instead, the boss just teased him a bit. No harsh words. Leon was genuinely surprised.

”Ricardo, is that really it? I don’t have to do anything next?”

Scratching his head, Leon asked his assistant uncertainly.

Ricardo, fresh from a call with Mendes, smiled and gave a reassuring thumbs-up.

”If we were actually negotiating with Chelsea, we’d need emergency PR. But we’re not. So this is nothing. Jorge has already explained everything to the higher-ups at Madrid. As long as we have their trust, we’re fine. All that gossip? It just boosts your profile.”

Leon nodded in understanding.

If both Mourinho and Mendes said it wasn’t a problem, then it wasn’t.

As for the media buzz? He didn’t care much.

His original plan was just to bury The Sun’s tabloid piece with a more newsworthy story.

But in the end, it kind of backfired.

”Damn that tabloid! Let’s get out of here. If I don’t need to respond, I’m done with London. It’s been raining four out of five days, the fog’s thick, and their best cuisine is... French food? I should’ve just gone to Paris.”

Grumbling, Leon ranted about London. Ricardo nodded in full agreement.

Last night, they’d gone looking for a break from French food and found a so-called Spanish restaurant near their hotel.

It turned out to be a bizarre fusion with English flavor.

Seafood paella with fried fish chunks. Need we say more?

For anyone not fond of Italian or French cuisine, life in the UK could be gastronomically traumatic.

With no reason to stay, they left immediately. Ricardo booked the next available flight. Leon packed, threw on a cap and sunglasses, and they were gone.

A direct flight from London to Madrid takes less than three hours.

By lunchtime, they were grumbling in a London hotel. By dinner, they were feasting in a Madrid restaurant.

As expected, Leon was quickly recognized by local Madrid fans.

It didn’t cause a Ronaldo-level uproar, but Leon’s popularity was now firmly in the team’s upper tier.

He performed well—and, well, he was handsome.

After signing autographs and posing for photos with a dozen passionate fans, Leon put on his disguise and slipped out with Ricardo.

Those fan-posted photos quickly went viral online.

Back in England, rumors still swirled. But in Madrid, fans calmed down—Leon was home, and that was enough.

On the morning of January 2nd, Leon reported to Valdebebas a few hours early.

Mourinho’s deadline was 3 PM.

Once medical check-ups were done, the squad would have a light, non-contact training session to shake off the holiday rust.

But Leon, already done with his physical, went straight to Pintus for a high-intensity session.

The break had been long enough. Gym workouts were just maintenance. If he wanted to get back into match form fast, he needed Pintus.

By lunchtime, most of the squad had returned for their medicals and meals.

What they saw was Leon, already in training gear, sweating buckets while eating like a machine.

”Told you! I said Little Lion would be the first one back. None of you can match his work ethic,” Marcelo shouted as he walked into the cafeteria.

Leon grinned and waved at his teammates.

The cafeteria, empty for over two weeks, quickly buzzed back to life.

In the coaching staff dining room, Mourinho reviewed the team’s weight reports and nodded with satisfaction.

Marcelo, Benzema, and the others hadn’t let themselves go.

Or if they had, they’d at least kept up their workouts.

No one needed extra conditioning to drop weight. Mourinho could begin serious prep work immediately.

That afternoon’s training was cheerful and energetic—nothing like the sluggish sessions of last year’s winter return.

There’s no denying it—the outcome of matches has a massive impact on player morale and overall team atmosphere.

When you keep winning, and winning convincingly, even the toughest training sessions feel worth it. Nobody complains, and nobody slacks off.

As Mourinho watched the latest training session come to a smooth close, the smile on his face grew wider and wider. He praised the entire team generously.

Over the next two days of official training, Madrid’s coaching staff gradually ramped up the intensity.

By the afternoon of January 4, with most of the squad looking sharp and ready, Mourinho gave an approving nod. At the end of the session, he announced the starting lineup for the Copa del Rey clash against Málaga.

Fifth round of the Copa del Rey—Real Madrid vs. Málaga, eighth in La Liga.

This was never going to be an easy fixture, especially with another tactical showdown against Pellegrini. Mourinho had prepared thoroughly.

At 9 PM on January 5, the first leg of the fifth-round tie kicked off at the Santiago Bernabéu.

After half a month without a home match, the Madridistas filled the stadium to the brim once again.

And right from the start, Mourinho surprised the crowd with an aggressive, high-pressing offensive approach.

Málaga had no choice but to sit back and defend deep.

They really had no alternative. After sixteen rounds of league play, they had already conceded twenty-six goals—the worst among the top eight and fifth-worst in the league overall.

With that kind of defensive record, there was no way they could afford to go toe-to-toe with a Madrid side that had netted fifty-eight goals in the same span.

Pellegrini set up a 4-5-1 formation to stabilize midfield control and perhaps fight for some possession.

But it didn’t work. Against Madrid’s relentless tempo, that midfield line crumbled fast.

A fully rested Ronaldo and Di María immediately began hammering away at both of Málaga’s fullbacks.

They constantly went one-on-one, forcing their markers to call for backup—just as Khedira charged into the half-space near the edge of the penalty area.

And this time, Khedira—who had been warned by Mourinho not to shoot recklessly—dutifully opted to pass.

Benzema, holding position in the box, played the role of a perfect pivot.

After receiving from Khedira and shrugging off a defender, he laid the ball off for Ronaldo and Di María to shoot.

Ronaldo, with a license to shoot at will in this setup, was in his element.

Within fifteen minutes, he’d already fired off three dangerous shots.

The first went just wide, but the next two were on target, forcing sharp saves from Málaga’s keeper, Willy Caballero.

Meanwhile, Alonso pushed up to the halfway line, orchestrating attacks deep in Málaga’s half.

Leon remained in his usual role as the defensive anchor, guarding against counterattacks.

In the 18th minute, Toulalan broke through and dispossessed Di María. Cazorla dropped back to pick it up and sent a swift through ball forward.

Isco, positioned near the center circle, took it and burst into Madrid’s half.

Alonso was a beat slow in cutting across, and Isco slipped through. Leon reacted immediately, stepping up to force him toward the wing.

Just as they were about to clash, Isco executed a slick nutmeg—slotting the ball right between Leon’s legs and attempting a burst past him.

But Leon had anticipated it. He spun around and cut off the lane, boxing Isco out completely and pinning him behind.

Alonso arrived just in time, took the ball, and distributed wide to Marcelo, signaling him to push forward.

”Nice dribbling,” Leon chuckled, giving Isco a playful pat. ”But your move was a little slow. Also, don’t cling to the ball so much next time.”

All Isco could do was roll his eyes in defeat.

He wanted to talk back, but how could he? He’d just been stonewalled by the guy who shut down Messi.

Málaga’s one decent counterattack had been shut down.

And on the defensive end, they couldn’t hold out much longer either.

In the 28th minute, Ronaldo smashed home a thunderbolt from distance—finally breaking through the deadlock.

With the lead secured, Madrid took control of the game’s tempo.

To be honest, once Málaga were forced to push forward, the outcome was sealed.

The final score: 3-0.

Madrid gave them no chances, but after Ronaldo bagged a third in the 66th minute, they took their foot off the gas to spare Málaga’s dignity.

Three days later, on January 8, Madrid traveled to the Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán to face Sevilla.

Post-winter break schedules in La Liga were always a little tight, but Madrid’s core players had rested well. A bit of fixture congestion was no problem.

With the full-strength squad back, Madrid went toe-to-toe with Sevilla in an all-out attack fest.

And Mourinho proved once again—he could play attacking football just fine.

7-2!

Madrid absolutely crushed the Andalusians on their home turf.

At 3-0, Madrid had been ready to slow down—just like they did against Málaga.

Conserve energy, spare the opponent’s dignity—a win-win.

But Sevilla didn’t accept that. They scored early in the second half to make it 3-1.

Madrid, feeling challenged, had no choice but to escalate.

Mourinho, watching Sevilla’s goal, simply shook his head and sat back down.

He didn’t call off the dogs—and the team racked up four more goals.

At the post-match press conference, a reporter congratulated him on the win.

Mourinho smirked.

”Seventeen wins in a row feels pretty good, especially since it breaks Barcelona’s record.”

”Of course, we can’t say we’re absolutely safe yet. Barça are still chasing us hard. They’ve won the league three years in a row—that’s no small feat.”

”That’s why we can’t let up. We have to keep this ’sense of insecurity’ alive.”

”To stop them from catching up, we have to keep winning. Maybe that’s one of the main reasons we’ve hit seventeen straight.”

The room fell silent.

Wait a minute. So you’re telling us Real Madrid won seventeen in a row because they were afraid of being caught?

The journalists stared at each other in disbelief.

And just like that, Mourinho confirmed his status as the GOAT of quotable coaches.

One of one. Absolutely unrivaled.

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