Chapter 597: New Dimension [GT ]

Chapter 597: New Dimension [GT Chapter]

The night lights cut down through the pale air of Paterna, the air crisp and dry, still carrying the chill of January even as boots scuffed against turf and breath came out in plumes.

Training had ended a couple of hours ago but Baraja had made the team stay and recover but that wasn’t the main reason they had stayed.

“Learning” or as he had termed it was why they had stayed.

They were watching.

All of them.

A portable screen had been wheeled onto the grass beside the benches.

The squad—Valencia’s first team—sat or stood around it, some arms crossed, others leaned forward, locked in focus.

The scene on the screen?

The Emirates. Arsenal. Champions League night.

And Izan Miura, once their own, now leaping high into the North London air—

A thunderous header into the back of the net.

Silence fell across the small crowd at Paterna.

Coach Rubén Baraja didn’t move at first.

He stood with his hands behind his back, then slowly exhaled, lowering his head as if someone had just confirmed a fear he never voiced.

His lips parted.

“Even that now, huh…”

It was a whisper.

Not disappointment.

Not regret.

Just quiet awe.

Assistant coach Miguel Ángel Angulo—called Moreno by all who knew him—stepped closer.

“He never used to jump like that,” he muttered but Baraja didn’t answer.

He just murmured something into Moreno’s ear.

Something low and unreadable.

“That kid is just something else. I’m now starting to understand how the other teams felt when they were facing him,” Captain, Jose Gaya said as Izan wheeled away in celebration.

“Well, we might have to put 4 on him,” Sosa, now a regular starter said with a chuckle before turning to Pietro.

“Will you be inclined to mark Izan the whole game,” Sosa asked, the former nodding vigorously before slowing down and then shaking his head.

“At first, it’d be fun because of all the trash I could say and the insufferable jokes I could make but when the match started to get serious, I would be the one on the suffering end.”

Pietro’s words caused Sosa and Mark to break into laughter while Gaya just shook his head, wondering how a player such as Pietro could come out of the academy.

“They need to seriously focus on the IQ aspect things” the captain uttered while shifting his attention back to the screen.

.

Behind him, players shuffled on their feet.

Except for one.

Lorenzo Piatelli.

The Argentine sat leaned forward on a bench, elbows on knees, chin tipped up toward the screen as if measuring it—like he was replaying the goal in his mind already, studying the angles, the space, the execution.

Then came the grin.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment to finally arrive.

He spoke softly, not to anyone really, but it floated just loud enough to be heard.

“Can’t wait to prove you wrong.”

His eyes were still locked on Baraja.

Pietro, sitting beside him with his hood up, turned sideways.

“Huh?”

Piatelli blinked like he’d been snapped out of something.

He turned, smiled—one of those quick, neutral grins that didn’t quite reach the eyes—and shook his head.

“Nothing.”

Pietro raised an eyebrow, then turned back to the screen as the match restarted.

Dinamo kicked off.

Arsenal pressed again.

Izan was back in position—calm, balanced, already eyeing his next movement.

But back in Valencia, Lorenzo Piatelli wasn’t watching him like a fan.

He was watching like a mirror.

A reflection he was tired of being compared to.

And somewhere—deep in his bones—something old stirred.

Because what they knew but refused to acknowledge… was that long before this Champions League night—long before Izan Miura lit the world—Lorenzo Piatelli had stood in the exact same spot.

And he remembered.

[Previously]

The sun in Paterna that afternoon had a bite to it—brilliant, but a bit hotter than usual.

Shadows stretched long over the training pitch as cones were scattered and mannequins lined up like statues from a war long over.

A bag of balls thudded open, one rolling out toward the arc of the box.

Lorenzo Piatelli was already in motion.

He adjusted his socks, brushed his curls away from his eyes, and lined up another free kick.

The posture was good—shoulders square, eyes fixed.

He looked sharp.

But looks weren’t goals.

The ball sailed just over the bar.

Not wild.

Not awful but it just wasn’t good enough.

“You’re leaning too early,” came a voice behind him.

“You’re throwing off your follow-through.”

Lorenzo turned.

It was Coach Oryazabal, the same youth coach who’d once moulded him through the Alboraya ranks and later stood witness to another prodigy’s rise—one Izan Miura.

Oryazabal wore that old grey pullover with the Valencia crest, sleeves pushed to his elbows, as he’d rather be in the dirt than watching from the shadows.

“I thought you weren’t a set-piece coach,” Piatelli said, catching his breath, still facing the goal.

“I’m not,” Oryazabal replied casually.

“But I’ve seen enough to know when one’s worth the run-up.”

Lorenzo turned to him, squinting slightly.

“Izan, isn’t it?”

Oryazabal smiled, almost too quickly.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t need to.”

They stood in silence for a beat, just the wind threading through the empty seats and distant shouts from another pitch across the training grounds.

Oryazabal took a step closer, arms crossed now.

“You know what made him scary? It wasn’t just the technique. It was that he didn’t try to make the ball obey. He understood it.”

The last part made Piatelli frown but Oryazabal clarified.

“It was like he was hitching a ride on a car that already had a destination. All he had to do was wave to board the car. It was like he knew the difference between a wall that would jump and one that wouldn’t. Like he could feel the breeze and adjust his angle without thinking.”

“I’ve tried all the things,” Piatelli muttered.

“The knuckle. The curl. Even the Ronaldo stance. It hits cleanly but I don’t think it would beat the keeper.”

“That’s because you’re mimicking, not understanding,” Oryazabal replied softly.

Lorenzo frowned.

He didn’t argue.

Just placed the ball again.

This time, he let go of the flourish.

No overthinking. Just rhythm. Step, strike, follow.

The ball curled harder and came lower quicker than before.

It clipped the inside of the far post and pinged out wide—closer than before.

Oryazabal nodded, then turned toward him again.

“That’s not the best but much better,” he said.

“You’re not there yet. This is not an improvement but a mere formality towards making setpieces your game.”

Piatelli exhaled, sweat beading on his brow now despite the cold.

“Tell me something,” he asked, not hiding the edge in his voice.

“Between me and Izan—who’s better?”

The old coach didn’t react at first.

Just tilted his head, as if turning the question over in his mind.

“I think deep down, you already know the answer but I’ll tell you what you want and what I think, okay?”

Lorenzo nodded.

Oryazabal didn’t hesitate.

“You’re clean on the dribble. Great in close quarters. Your hips are tighter, and your low centre of gravity makes you harder to knock off balance.”

A flicker of hope, maybe even pride, touched Lorenzo’s face.

“But,” Oryazabal continued, “He does all that better than you. A whole lot better. Now to his strengths,” Oryazabal paused causing Piatelli to frown.

“You’re not good on set pieces. You don’t have his work rate off the ball. And you don’t defend—not like he does. He can lead when needed and he also plays like 5 positions if required and excels. Baraja had a problem tuning him to one position so he just let him play in a position based on the match requirements”

Lorenzo’s gaze faltered, the air around his lungs tightening.

“And the last thing,” Oryazabal added, looking him dead in the eye now.

“Unpredictability.”

Piatelli blinked.

“That’s the difference,” the coach said.

“You can prepare for Lorenzo Piatelli. You can even shut him down for a while. But Izan? You can have the game in your hand, and in the space of a heartbeat—he’ll tear it from you.”

“Sometimes,” Oryazabal said, voice dropping a notch, “you’ll think you’re the one in control. And then…” he snapped his fingers, “everything breaks.”

He turned and started walking away, the crunch of gravel underfoot.

Lorenzo stood there, shoulders tense, fists loose by his side.

The ball lay still at the edge of the box.

Waiting.

“Finish before you get a heatstroke. We wouldn’t want to see you out before you even get to face your biggest challenge yet,” Oryazabal called out from the front.

“Izan or Atletico Madrid,” Piatelli voiced loudly but Oryazabal didn’t respond and just walked away.

Piatelli, smiling wrly turned and shot the ball into the back of the net before walking off.

A/N: 2ND GT Chapter. Damn, i can think straight. Have fun reading and I’ll definetly see you with the last of the day but I might have to do the first of the day a bit later tomorrow.

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