Mid-Season
The winter transfer window in Europe was never just about football; it was a shark tank. For Real Betis, the waters were turning cold.
Devin stood by the training ground window at the Luis del Sol, his breath fogging the glass as he watched the luggage being loaded into a sleek black car. Prince Knight, the man who had been the architect of Devin's greatest goals, was gone. Juventus had come knocking with a mountain of Italian gold, and the lure of the "Old Lady" was too much to resist.
But the blow didn't stop there. In the very next training session, a sickening pop had echoed across the pitch. Max, the lightning-fast winger who usually stretched the opposing defense to give Devin space, had gone down clutching his knee. The diagnosis was a season-ender: a torn ACL.
In the span of forty-eight hours, Devin had lost his best friend on the pitch and his most reliable outlet on the flank.
As Devin exited the facility, a swarm of reporters descended. Microphones were shoved toward his face, the red recording lights blinking like predatory eyes.
"Devin! Over here!" a reporter from Marca shouted. "Now that your best teammates are gone—Knight to Turin and Max to the infirmary—how do you intend on carrying this team? Is the Betis season over?"
Devin stopped. He didn't look at the cameras; he looked through them. His voice was cool, devoid of the panic the press was fishing for. "The way I always have," he replied. "Players change, but the mission doesn't."
Another journalist leaned in. "There's a rumor, Devin, that you've been intentionally holding back your own goal-scoring output—limiting your genius—just so your teammates could shine. Is there any truth to that?"
Devin thought of the countless times he had squared the ball to Knight or Max when he could have scored himself. "Yes," he said, the honesty hitting the reporters like a physical weight. "I don't want conflict between my teammates and me. I'm a leader. If that meant reducing myself to making assists to keep the peace, I did it. But the leash is off now."
The war against Barcelona.
The atmosphere at the Camp Nou was a wall of sound. Real Betis walked onto the grass feeling like a skeleton crew. With Max out, Cucho Hernandez had been moved to the wing, and the striking duties fell to Jamie Rodriguez, a nervous-looking academy graduate.
The referee blew the whistle, and the nightmare began at the 02' mark.
Lamine Yamal, the crown jewel of Barcelona, was playing like a man possessed. He caught the ball on the right wing, his body a blur of feints. He faced off against Angel Reyes, Betis' veteran defender. Yamal didn't just dribble; he danced. With a rapid-fire sequence of step-overs, he left Reyes lunging at shadows.
Yamal executed a perfect trivela—a curling cross with the outside of his boot. Dani Olmo met the ball with a thunderous volley that screamed into the top corner. 1-0.
By the 17' minute, Devin realized he couldn't wait for the game to come to him. He dropped deep, demandingly shouting for the ball. He received a crisp pass and began to drive. Yamal and Fermin Lopez immediately converged on him. Devin didn't slow down; he performed a rainbow flick, sending the ball soaring over their heads.
He was intercepted by Kounde
The tackle only ignited him. At the 24' mark, Yamal hit the post for Barca. The rebound fell to Devin. He activated his "Gyro Travel" vision, spotting Cucho Hernandez sprinting down the flank. He launched a sixty-yard diagonal ball that landed on a dime. Cucho whipped the ball back into the box. Devin launched himself into the air—a bicycle kick. The contact was pure, sending the ball past the keeper before he could react. 1-1.
By the 67' minute, the tension was suffocating. Devin began to "time waste," rolling the ball under his studs, mimicking the iconic flair a young Cristiano Ronaldo once displayed at Manchester United. He faked a rabona cross that sent Kounde sliding, then cut sharply into the box. He flicked a pass to Jamie Rodriguez, who backheeled it to Isco.
Isco tapped the ball over the defender's head, finding Devin. Devin waited for the keeper to commit, then daintily chipped the ball into the net. 2-1.
Barcelona fought back. Yamal sent another trademark trivela toward Ferran Torres. Torres dived for the header, but Pau Lopez made a massive save. In the dying seconds, Amrabat came in clutch to kick a goal-bound shot out with a flying volley.
The final whistle blew. Real Betis 2, Barcelona 1.
The Weight of the Crown
The win propelled Betis to sixth in the table. Back in his apartment, Devin opened "X". His feed was a war zone of highlights.
@FootyNews: 36 goals in his first La Liga season? Devin is clearly going crazy with these stats.
@TheCatalan: He's the next Neymar-Ronaldo. He has the skills of the Brazilian and the finishing of the Portuguese.
The glow of the screen was interrupted by a FaceTime: Knight 🇮🇹.
"Wassup, bro," Prince said, wearing his new Juventus gear.
"I'm good. How's life in Italy?" Devin asked, stopping his morning jog for a water break.
"Bro," Knight sighed. "Yildiz is great, but I can't get over you giving me those scout passes. They hit every time regardless of where I ran. I want them back!"
Devin laughed. "Bro, that's telling you to work on your positioning. I'm not there to give you pinpoint passes anymore. You gotta stick with Yildiz."
Knight leaned in. "I heard AC Milan put in a bid for you."
"Yeah," Devin said. "They wanted to convert me to a CAM. I declined. I want to win the quadruple with Betis next season and lead England to the 2026 World Cup."
Prince whistled. "If you do that, the Ballon d'Or is yours."
Devin tightened his laces. "I want to be the youngest player to win it."
"It's possible," Prince said. "For you, it's possible."