I'm Going to Kill That Bastard

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**Chapter 12: I'm Going to Kill That Bastard**

As if influenced by Quaresma's thoughts, Rocha positioned himself next to Quaresma in the lineup, his head held high, exuding a sense of superiority in his gaze.

"So, are you still licking your wounds after getting kicked out of Barcelona?" Rocha taunted, his words dripping with disdain. "If I were you, I'd never show my face on the pitch again!"

"Today, I'll make sure you're utterly embarrassed. Hope you don't cry too hard from the shame," Rocha continued, a smirk playing on his lips.

Quaresma remained composed, his expression unreadable. "But you seem to be doing a pretty good job of embarrassing yourself already," he retorted coolly.

"Heh," Rocha chuckled as he returned to the lineup, his smile suggesting he was pleased with himself.

"Well, I was just thinking if he'd try to provoke me, and he did. Just like that," Quaresma muttered to himself, shaking his head slightly. "Didn't even have to say anything. This guy really asked for it."

However, Quaresma now found himself in a scenario straight out of a pulp fiction novel—a tale where the hero and heroine are together, and the villain whispers in the hero's ear, warning him to know his place and stay away from the heroine. In these stories, low-IQ villains often meet a terrible fate, either brought to ruin or intimidated by the hero's hidden strength. Either way, they end up lunch for the hero.

Of course, reality wasn't quite like fiction. Rocha might not realize he was the villain being set up to face the hero. Maybe he wasn't abnormal at all.

Truth be told, Rocha wasn't exactly a star player. Quaresma didn't recall him from his previous life, not even in the Portuguese national team. He was probably a fringe player, trying to make his mark.

"You think you can embarrass me?" Quaresma thought to himself, watching Rocha's smug expression. "In football, it's usually the other way around—those who try to embarrass others end up with tears themselves."

The referee's whistle blew, and the Portuguese Super Cup officially commenced.

Porto kicked off the match. Fabiano passed the ball to Del Lay, who quickly returned it to the backline. Upfront, Porto's players surged into Benfica's half.

Del Neri had abandoned conservatism entirely. This was his statement of intent. He regretted opting for offensive football so early in his tenure at Porto, but he had to persevere through it.

Valent, the left-back, launched a long pass from the backline, crossing midfield and threatening Benfica's defense directly.

But the ball was intercepted by Pereira, Benfica's right-back, who outmuscled Diego, the Brazilian winger, and regained possession.

Benfica, too, didn't hold back. They countered swiftly, pressing into Porto's territory.

On paper, Porto had the edge over Benfica, but in practice, their new technical approach hadn't yet gelled. The players weren't performing at their full potential, allowing Benfica to gain the upper hand.

Del Neri had instructed Quaresma not to track back defensively, relying on his speed for offensive transitions.

But the problem was Quaresma hadn't touched the ball yet.

Rocha kept a close eye on Quaresma, barely getting involved in the attack. At one point, he sneered at Quaresma.

"I don't know why the coach has me shadowing you. But hey, I'll take it easy," Rocha goaded, a hint of smugness in his voice.

Quaresma glanced at Rocha as if he were an idiot. That was probably just Rocha's way—trash talk was part of his game.

He provoked opponents with his words. If it worked, he'd reap the rewards, whether it was through their poor performance or an overreaction.

But while some players had the IQ of peanuts, most weren't that dense. If Rocha really were that much of an idiot, how had he managed to secure a starting spot at Benfica?

Quaresma didn't take Rocha seriously. After all, Rocha wasn't worth the effort. Quaresma had faced off against Ronaldinho, Kaka, future Ronaldo, and Messi.

Someone shouted from the stands, urging Quaresma to stay calm and crush his opponent.

"I hope you'll still be smiling after this," Quaresma smirked, his smile laced with undisguised contempt.

Rocha was taken aback, staring at Quaresma in disbelief. He didn't expect Quaresma to brush off his provocation so casually.

He'd done his research before the game. Quaresma wasn't known for his temper. Should he push further?

But Quaresma seemed strangely calm now, almost as if everything was boring to him. Was he psyching himself up before kickoff?

Odd.

"I heard you're a Gypsy. Your old man walked out on you early. I wonder, how'd your mom manage to raise you?" Rocha's tone turned darker, goaded by Quaresma's calm demeanor. The smirk on his face grew cruel.

Quaresma's expression darkened instantly, his face a thundercloud.

He clenched his fists, tendons standing out on the back of his hands. His expression turned feral, like a beast about to pounce.

In that moment, Rocha felt he wasn't facing a man anymore. He was facing a demon, ready to devour him.

Damn.

He'd crossed Quaresma's line.

Quaresma's parents were Gypsies. In Europe, Gypsies had a poor reputation. Once, forced to eke out a living, men of this wandering people resorted to thievery, while Gypsy women sold their bodies for food and shelter.

Rocha's words insinuated that Quaresma's mother was a prostitute.

Quaresma's father had indeed abandoned his mother and several siblings early on. His mother had raised them in the slums through sheer grit and determination. Quaresma wouldn't let anyone insult his mother.

Without a doubt, if no one restrained Quaresma, he'd have punched Rocha square in the face. It was only Fabiano, standing nearby, who managed to hold Quaresma back.

"Let me go! I'm going to smash that bastard!" Quaresma struggled against Fabiano's grip, his voice a guttural roar.

The altercation threatened to disrupt the game. Teammates rushed in, pushing and shoving, while Rocha was quickly shielded by his own teammates.

The referee intervened, calling both Quaresma and Rocha over. He cared little for their personal dispute—such matters were fodder for the media. All he wanted was for the game to proceed smoothly.

Rocha nodded, his regret evident. Quaresma's sudden outburst had scared him.

Quaresma remained silent, fixing Rocha with a cold, unfeeling stare.

Then suddenly, he smiled—a smile tinged with cruelty.

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