Madrid, July 2011. The afternoon heat pressed against the closed windows of Liam Torres's apartment like an unwelcome visitor. Liam sat in a faded armchair, eyes locked on the television screen where twenty-two men chased a ball across the pristine green pitch. He'd watched football his entire life—across two lives, really—but these days, the matches felt different. Like watching old friends at a party he hadn't been invited to.
"Tactical disaster," he muttered, reaching for his notepad. "Playing a high line against that forward line is suicide."
Three years ago, he would have presented this observation in Liverpool's tactical room, with Rafa Benítez nodding in that calculating way of his. Three years ago, his analysis mattered.
Liam's phone buzzed on the coffee table. Another email. He knew what it contained before opening it.
*Dear Mr. Torres,*
*Thank you for your interest in the Assistant Coach position at Valencia CF. After careful consideration, we have decided to pursue other candidates whose experience better aligns with our current needs.*
*We wish you success in your future endeavors.*
Liam deleted the email and tossed the phone aside. That made eighteen rejections since Rafa had left him behind. Eighteen reminders that in the cutthroat world of professional football, he was expendable.
'Another rejection. Maybe I should print them out and make wallpaper—The Hall of Mediocrity.'
His cramped Madrid apartment told the story of his fall from grace. Tactical books stacked in corners. Match analysis printouts covering the dining table. A Liverpool training jacket hanging by the door like a museum piece. The place smelled of instant coffee and frozen meals—the diet of a man who had stopped caring.
The television announcer's voice rose with excitement as Barcelona executed a perfect counterattack. "And there it is! The perfect transition we've come to expect from Guardiola's men!"
Liam leaned forward, studying the sequence with professional detachment. This was Pep's Barcelona at the height of their powers—a team that had changed football forever. He should have been there, in a technical area somewhere, implementing his own vision. Instead, he was just another spectator.
His laptop chimed with a notification. Another job posting. Technical Director at a Segunda División club. The requirements: previous director experience.
"How am I supposed to get experience when no one will hire me?" he asked the empty room.
When Rafa had taken the Liverpool coaching staff to Inter Milan in 2010, Liam had been left behind. "Budget constraints," they'd said. What they meant was: not essential. After years of meticulously breaking down opponent tactics, creating detailed reports that Rafa had praised as "the most comprehensive in the Premier League," Liam had been discarded like yesterday's match program.
He'd been too specialized in Rafa's system, too identified with the Spaniard's methodical approach. As Rafa's star had fallen, so had Liam's.
The phone rang. Liam glanced at the screen: Miguel Álvarez. His former colleague from the Liverpool days, now working with some youth academy in Barcelona.
"Miguel," Liam answered, injecting false cheerfulness into his voice.
"Liam! How's Madrid's most overqualified unemployed analyst?"
Liam forced a laugh. "Still overqualified, still unemployed."
"Listen, I'm calling because I heard something. Sporting Gijón is looking for a new tactical analyst. Not officially advertising yet. The sporting director is an old friend of Rafa's."
Hope flickered briefly before Liam's rational mind smothered it. "They won't want me, Miguel. No one does."
"This self-pity doesn't suit you, my friend. The Liam Torres I knew could break down an opponent's weakness in twenty minutes of video study."
"That Liam Torres had Benítez's name to open doors."
Miguel sighed. "I'll send you the contact information anyway. Do what you want with it."
After they hung up, Liam stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. When had he become this person? This bitter, defeated version of himself?
He walked to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection. Thirty-one years old. Dark circles under his eyes. The beginning of a beard he couldn't be bothered to shave.
In his previous life—before whatever cosmic joke had placed him in this world—he'd been just a football fan with a knack for tactics. Now he was a failed analyst with nowhere to go.
"What was the point?" he whispered to his reflection. "Why bring me here just to watch from the sidelines?"
The universe offered no answer. It never did.
That night, Liam dreamed of football pitches that stretched into infinity, of tactical boards where the magnets moved of their own accord, choreographing perfect plays he could never implement. He woke at 3 AM, drenched in sweat, with the sense that something was about to change.
He dismissed the feeling. Nothing ever changed anymore.
The next morning, Liam forced himself through his routine. Coffee. Shower. Job applications. Match analysis—not because anyone would read it, but because it was the only thing that still made sense.
El Clásico was scheduled for that evening: Real Madrid versus Barcelona. The pinnacle of football rivalry. He'd watched dozens of these matches, analyzed the tactical battles between the world's best players and coaches. Tonight would be no different. Just another reminder of the football world spinning on without him.
As Liam settled into his armchair and turned on the television, he had no way of knowing that in a few hours, everything would change. That the cosmic joke would finally reveal its punchline.
And that football—the beautiful game he'd loved across two lifetimes—would never be the same again.