The moment I signed my contract with Málaga CF's reserve team, it hit me—this was real. The trial was behind me, but the hard part was just beginning. I was no longer a guest or a hopeful. I was part of the squad. But that didn't mean I'd earned anything yet. I was still unknown. A gamble Pellegrini took based on potential, not experience.
And potential didn't mean much if I couldn't back it up.
The next two weeks were some of the hardest of my life.
Training at Málaga was on another level. The tempo, the detail, the expectations—it wasn't just about showing flashes of talent. Every drill had purpose. Every movement off the ball mattered. Every mistake stood out.
We worked on high pressing, positional rotations, quick one-touch combinations. There was no time to think. You had to read the game before the ball even got to you.
From the first session, I treated it like a fight for survival. I knew what I was up against. These were players my age, but they'd been in the system for years. They knew the rhythm. Their touches were sharp, their positioning automatic. I had the tools—Kroos' control, Nedvěd's drive—but I still had to adapt to the system, the structure, the speed of the game here.
I couldn't afford to be casual. I watched everything—how they moved, how they spoke, when they accelerated and when they held their ground. I absorbed it all.
Outside of team training, I pushed myself even harder. I woke up before sunrise to work on my fitness. Short sprints. Agility ladders. Technical drills. Repetition after repetition until my legs felt like concrete. After official sessions ended, I stayed back. Sometimes I watched footage of the first team, focusing on Isco—his positioning, how he received the ball, when he slowed the game down and when he sped it up.
Every night, my muscles burned. My back ached. But I welcomed it. It meant I was growing.
And Pellegrini noticed.
He didn't say much, but he watched closely. Sometimes he stopped me mid-drill, adjusted my positioning, corrected a pass, gave a quiet word on spacing. He was always precise, never wasting a sentence. But the message was clear—he wasn't just watching me to see if I kept up. He was watching to see if I could lead.
Then, two weeks in, after another long, exhausting session, he called me over.
"Adriano," he said, his eyes focused as always. "You've been working hard."
I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. "I want to prove I belong, coach."
He gave the smallest of smirks. "Then you'll get your chance."
I felt my chest tighten.
"I'm including you in the squad for our pre-season friendlies."
I didn't speak for a second. Just nodded, trying to stay composed even as adrenaline surged through me.
"You won't start," he continued. "You still need to adjust to the pace of senior football. But if the moment comes, be ready."
"I'll be ready, coach."
Our first pre-season match was against RCD Mallorca, a seasoned La Liga side known for their compact shape and disciplined pressing. The game was set at La Rosaleda, and even though it was a friendly, the atmosphere felt like something more. The stands were nearly full, Málaga fans eager to catch a glimpse of the team's form ahead of the new season—and maybe to see if the rumors about Isco's departure were true.
I sat on the bench, fully kitted, heart racing. I wasn't expecting to play, and Pellegrini hadn't said anything to suggest I would. Isco started, of course. He was still the face of the team, and the fans let everyone know it. Every touch he took drew cheers. He moved gracefully, as always—quick feet, sharp turns, brilliant ball control.
But as the first half played out, cracks in the midfield structure started to show. Mallorca weren't flashy, but they were smart. Their press was well-organized, aggressive without being reckless. They swarmed our midfield every time we tried to build out from the back. Isco, for all his talent, drifted high up the pitch looking to create, but in doing so, he often left a gaping hole behind him.
Camacho, our defensive midfielder, was stranded. He was forced to cover too much ground—chasing passing lanes, closing gaps, tracking late runners. He did what he could, but it wasn't enough.
In the 32nd minute, Mallorca struck. It started with a turnover near the halfway line—our right-back misjudged a pass under pressure. Mallorca pounced, transitioning with speed. Three quick passes later, their left winger broke down the flank, squared it into the box, and their striker finished with a calm tap-in. 1-0. The crowd groaned, and you could feel the tension rise.
Málaga tried to respond, but our attacks felt disconnected. Isco managed a few neat dribbles and one curling shot from the edge of the box, but their keeper handled it cleanly. Mallorca were comfortable sitting in their shape and picking moments to counter.
During halftime, Pellegrini kept his instructions short. He made a couple of substitutions, trying to add more energy, but I stayed on the bench. I watched, studying the tempo, the spaces, the way Mallorca forced us into tight areas and then swarmed.
In the second half, we pushed harder. Around the 58th minute, Joaquín managed to level the score. It came from a good spell of possession—one of the few we had all match. Our left winger cut inside, played a sharp one-two at the edge of the box, and slipped it through to Joaquín, who finished low across the keeper. 1-1. The stadium came alive again.
But the momentum didn't last.
Mallorca absorbed the pressure, waited for their chance, and punished us again. In the 78th minute, their central midfielder picked up a loose ball just outside our area. No one stepped up. He took a touch, then fired a long-range shot. It wasn't blistering, but it was precise—curled just beyond the keeper's reach, clipping the inside of the post. 2-1.
We tried to press forward in the final minutes, but there was no rhythm. Too many forced passes, too little movement. When the whistle blew, the scoreboard confirmed what everyone felt—we'd been outplayed.
Mallorca weren't better man-for-man, but they were more balanced. More prepared.
I sat quietly as the crowd filtered out, still wearing my kit, boots laced, shin guards on. I didn't play a single minute, but I learned more from that match than most training sessions.
And I knew my chance would come.
In the locker room, Pellegrini was visibly frustrated. Málaga needed stability in midfield, someone who could dictate the tempo and connect the defense with the attack seamlessly.
That was when he turned to me.
"Adriano," he said.
I straightened, heart pounding.
"You'll get your chance in the next game. Against Athletic Bilbao."
The words felt surreal.
"Seriously?" I asked, barely able to contain my excitement.
"You won't start," he clarified. "But you'll play."
I gritted my teeth and nodded with determination. "I won't let you down, coach."
The match against Athletic Bilbao was set to be a true test. Bilbao's reputation for physicality, aggressive pressing, and constant running was well known. Their style was built on raw energy and powerful aerial duels, a stark contrast to Málaga's emphasis on technical, controlled football. I knew that if I stepped onto the pitch, the challenge would be immense.
From the first whistle, Bilbao pressed relentlessly. Their midfielders closed down passing lanes almost immediately, leaving our players with little time on the ball. Isco, who had started the game, struggled to find space. Isolated in his advanced position, he couldn't dictate the rhythm we normally relied on. Meanwhile, our defense was under constant pressure. Two brilliant saves from our goalkeeper, Willy Caballero, kept the score level as Bilbao nearly scored on two separate occasions in the early stages.
By halftime, the score was still 0-0, but the frustration was palpable. It wasn't just about the clean sheet—it was clear we were losing the midfield battle. The pressing was unyielding, and our technical play was being smothered. In the locker room, tension mixed with determination as our coach, Pellegrini, gathered his thoughts. And then he called out to me.
"Adriano," he said.
The call sent a jolt through me. I jumped from my seat, trying to steady my racing heart. "You're going in," Pellegrini announced. His voice was firm, leaving no room for debate.
I could barely nod, my pulse hammering in my chest. This was my debut with the first team—a moment I had dreamed of, now a reality. Pellegrini continued, "You're replacing Iturra. Sit deeper, control the tempo. I want you to dictate play from midfield."
Determination surged within me as I made my way toward the pitch. The roar of the crowd filled my ears, blending with the hum of anticipation that vibrated through the stadium. Every step felt slow, deliberate—a moment to breathe in the atmosphere and focus on the task ahead. To them, Bilbao's players saw me as nothing more than a reserve, but I intended to prove they were mistaken.
The referee's whistle snapped me into the present. The ball rolled toward me, and with my first professional touch, I felt everything change. I controlled the ball smoothly with my right foot, letting it roll as I lifted my head. In that instant, I saw the entire pitch: the movement of the players, the gaps in their formation, and the angles from which Bilbao pressed. The pace of the game, the pulse of our team, and the energy of the crowd surged through me like an electric current. This was more than just a debut—it was my chance to influence the game.
As Bilbao's midfielders closed in, I realized they were underestimating me. I shifted my weight, letting the ball glide toward my left foot to bait the first opposing midfielder. When he lunged aggressively to intercept, I quickly reversed direction, flicking the ball with the inside of my boot past him. He stumbled for a split second, surprised by the move.
Almost immediately, a second Bilbao midfielder reacted quickly to cover the space. I drew on every ounce of determination, channeling a controlled aggression. I shielded the ball with my body, absorbing the challenge before shifting it onto my right foot. With precise timing, I slotted out a pass forward into the space before the press could close in. The ball reached our winger, Joaquín, just in time. His eyes widened as he took in the unexpected change of pace—and the crowd reacted with a collective gasp at the sudden shift in momentum.
The match had been defined by Bilbao's dominance in the midfield, but that moment marked the beginning of a change. Their coach barked instructions, urging his team to press harder. They were used to suffocating our midfield, but now they had to deal with a new element—me.
When the ball came back to me, I hardly had time to register the positions of my teammates. I moved instinctively, taking one touch to control it before launching a long, diagonal pass across the field. The ball curved in the air with precise accuracy, landing neatly at the feet of our left-back. He surged forward into the space created, and the stadium's hum rose to a buzz of excitement. Even the commentators took a moment before erupting into praise. "That's an incredible pass from the young midfielder!" one of them exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine admiration.
The left-back cut inside quickly and sent in a cross, but our striker misjudged his jump, and the ball sailed harmlessly over the bar. Even so, the overall shift was clear: Bilbao's initial pressure was beginning to wane.
Despite Athletic Bilbao's relentless pressing, the scoreline remained 0-0, as they continued to press hard with their fast, aggressive style. But they hadn't anticipated the composure I was bringing into the game. The ball came to me again from a simple pass by Camacho, our defensive midfielder. With that touch, the world seemed to slow down. I had a clear view of every player's position, every pressing angle, and every gap in the opposition's structure.
At that moment, two Bilbao midfielders raced toward me, their cleats digging into the turf as they sought to close my space. I knew exactly what I had to do. With a subtle feint that suggested I was about to pass sideways, I shifted my weight—tricking the first midfielder into lunging prematurely. At the last moment, I rolled the ball behind my standing leg and pivoted smoothly, leaving him behind.
The second midfielder wasn't as easily fooled. He stepped forward, trying to block the angle, but I had already planned my next move. With a quick flick of my left foot, I lofted a well-measured ball over his head, splitting the midfield line. The pass was a calculated risk, and it paid off. Joaquín, our winger, sprinted into the space, controlled the pass with a sure touch, and whipped in a cross. Our striker, Juanmi, timed his run perfectly and met the ball with a powerful header. Though the header sailed just over the bar, it was a clear signal: Málaga's rhythm was changing.
As the match progressed, it became increasingly apparent that Bilbao was now reacting to my presence. Their pressing intensified, but the harder they pressed, the more I exploited the spaces they left behind. Minutes later, while near the center circle, I noticed Joaquín making a sharp diagonal run between Bilbao's right-back and center-back. Seizing the opportunity, I stepped forward and delivered a curving 40-yard pass that sliced cleanly through their defense. The ball spun through the air, seemingly guided by intention, and Joaquín latched onto it immediately. Without breaking stride, he drilled a low cross into the box, and Juanmi slid in to finish the move. The ball hit the back of the net—1-0 for Málaga. The stadium erupted in response. The bench rose to their feet, clapping and cheering. Joaquín pointed directly at me, acknowledging the pass that had redefined the game.
From the sidelines, I could see Pellegrini watching intently, his arms crossed and eyes never leaving me. His silent nod carried volumes. It was proof that my performance was being recognized.
Despite falling behind in the first half, Bilbao was beginning to unravel. They pushed more players forward, leaving gaps in their midfield structure. In the 74th minute, I found myself just outside the penalty area. I received the ball and faked a shot, forcing a defender to commit with a lunge. In that brief moment, I slipped a delicate pass through the legs of another defender, putting Juanmi in a one-on-one situation with the goalkeeper. Although his shot was blocked at the last second, it signaled that our momentum was firmly shifting in our favor.
Then, in the 77th minute, I spotted our left-back, Antunes, making an underlapping run into a gap in Bilbao's defense. I played a disguised pass that caught their backline off guard. Antunes squared the ball, but the follow-up shot from Joaquín rattled off the post. The crowd's frustration was evident, but our momentum only grew stronger as Bilbao struggled to realign their defense.
In the 81st minute, an opportunity presented itself again. We regained possession deep in our half, and I immediately took off into the open space, signaling for the ball. The moment it arrived, I spun quickly around a defender and launched a precise, cross-field pass to our right-winger. The entire Bilbao defense shifted toward the ball, inadvertently leaving Juanmi isolated in a one-on-one scenario. This time, Juanmi capitalized. He skillfully rounded the goalkeeper and slotted the ball into the net—2-0 for Málaga. That assist marked my second contribution to the game, and the crowd's cheers grew louder, their chants beginning to echo my name.
With the match nearing its end, Bilbao pushed forward desperately, throwing everything they had at us in a last attempt to turn the tide. In the 89th minute, we reclaimed the ball, and I sprinted into space, clearly signaling that I was ready for one more decisive move. Camacho found me quickly, and suddenly I was facing only one defender. The crowd on their feet as I surged forward, the tension almost tangible in the air.
The defender hesitated, uncertain whether I would look for a pass or try to create another chance. I took that split-second to fake a pass to the wing, then quickly cut to the right, finding a gap at the edge of the box. I pulled back my leg and unleashed a powerful strike. The ball soared through the air, curving sharply before dipping at the final moment. The goalkeeper stretched out desperately, but it was too late—the net rippled as the ball hit home.
The stadium erupted in an explosion of sound. "Gooooaaalllll!!" echoed around the stands as Málaga took a commanding 3-0 lead. In that moment, I stood there for a second, almost in disbelief. My debut had not only been marked by steady play and precise passes, but I had also contributed a goal that sealed the victory.
Teammates rushed toward me, clapping me on the back and ruffling my hair in celebration. The stands were alive with chants of "Adriano! Adriano!" even as the final whistle blew. On the sidelines, Pellegrini's smirk, paired with his sharp, approving eyes, said more than words ever could. The result was clear: Málaga 3-0 Athletic Bilbao.
This match, with every precise touch, every calculated pass, and each moment of decisive action, was my entry into professional football. My debut had proven that I wasn't just another reserve player—but someone who could influence the game at the highest level.
I walked off the pitch, heart still pounding. The fans were still cheering, some even bowing as I passed.
Pellegrini met me at the tunnel.
"You said you want to be the one replacing Isco," he remarked.
I chuckled, still catching my breath. "I changed my mind. I want to show I can be greater than Isco."
He nodded. "So did I."
I blinked. "What do you mean Coach?"
"You're not just in the first-team reserve anymore." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "You're in contention for the main squad, and soon the starting eleven as long as you keep this performance."
The words hit me like a shockwave.
From a trialist nobody to a key player in Málaga's future first team—in just one match.
As I walked into the locker room, I knew.
This was my chance to show the world, that Adriano Riveiro is someone they should never underestimate.