Chapter 175: No Brain and Unhappy

Didier Drogba willingly accepted José's arrangement, which made José quite pleased. The coaching staff had reported back that Drogba's finishing had improved significantly—at least in terms of fundamentals. He was beginning to develop an instinct for shooting, and while his shot placement wasn't particularly precise, his sheer power made his attempts dangerous enough.

What Drogba needed now was game experience—the kind that was entirely different from his past role. He had to learn to play as a goal-scoring forward rather than a static target man.

Such experience could only come from regular game time. However, Mallorca's first team couldn't afford to waste matches on his development. Under these circumstances, sending him to the B team to play in the Segunda División (Spanish second tier) was a great solution. There were more matches in the Segunda, and the schedule was tight. Before the winter break, Drogba could get at least six or seven official games under his belt—enough to regain his rhythm.

José knew that Drogba had a temper. Later in his career at Marseille, he even got into a dispute with a teammate over a parking lot incident. It wasn't until he joined Chelsea that he learned to restrain himself. At this stage, however, he was still a hotheaded young man. He respected José only because José had pinpointed the areas he needed to work on while balancing discipline with encouragement.

But José wasn't worried that Drogba would cause trouble in the B team due to a lack of authority figures. Mallorca B had always had a good atmosphere, and Drogba wasn't the type to act superior just because he was a first-team player temporarily demoted to the reserves. As long as he didn't carry that kind of attitude, things would be fine.

Moreover, most players in the B team were mild-mannered—even Daniel Güiza had a calm temperament. As for Samuel Eto'o, while he was fiery, his personality was more about rising to challenges rather than bullying weaker players.

So, after making the arrangement, José felt comfortable letting Drogba join the B team's training, expecting to see a better version of him after the winter break. Even if he couldn't become a starter, he could still be a valuable wildcard off the bench.

However, José overlooked one crucial detail—Mallorca B wasn't just a team full of quiet, obedient players. At least one person there was just as headstrong and defiant as Drogba. And because of that, an incident was bound to happen.

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Drogba felt a little down when he reported to the B team. Even though he understood the logic, moving from the first team to the reserves still felt like an exile.

He tried to console himself. Right now, his mood was like that of Song Jiang being banished in Water Margin—he had to endure and bide his time.

Still, he showed up early for training the next day. The first team trained for five hours daily: light recovery training from 10 to 11 a.m., then tactical drills and full-team sessions from 2 to 6 p.m. Spaniards were late risers, and their matches were often scheduled for the evening. Back when Maradona played in Spain, he thrived because he never woke up before noon.

The B team's schedule was slightly different but just as rigorous: training from 8:30 to 11:30 a.m. and another session from 2 to 4 p.m. This setup allowed Drogba to train with the reserves in the morning and still attend first-team sessions in the afternoon. While professional players didn't need excessive training hours, José knew that Drogba's physical condition was top-tier—this workload wouldn't be a problem for him.

Determined to make a strong impression, Drogba arrived at the training ground at 7:30 a.m.—a full hour before the scheduled session. The place was empty. Neither the first team nor the B team players had arrived yet.

"If I'm in the B team, I'll be the first in everything. Even if it's just arriving early for training, I have to be first."

That was Drogba's mindset. He wasn't trying to compete with anyone else; he was just setting his own standard.

After joining Mallorca, he realized how much time he had wasted in his youth. Before the age of 17, he had been too playful. It wasn't until he decided to pursue football professionally that he truly dedicated himself. While he was talented, his late start meant he lagged behind his peers. To catch up, he had to train even harder.

At 23, Drogba felt like he didn't have much time left to waste.

But to his surprise, he wasn't the first to arrive at training.

After entering the B team's locker room, he didn't notice anything unusual. He went straight to his assigned locker to change—José had already shown him around the previous day.

Once dressed, he jogged onto the training field, expecting to be alone for at least half an hour before anyone else arrived. But when he reached the pitch, he saw someone already training.

It was a tall player with fair but slightly tanned skin, black hair, and light blue eyes—clearly a mixed-race player.

The player was sprinting through a shuttle run, an exercise to improve explosiveness.

He seemed just as surprised to see Drogba. After stopping, he glanced at the newcomer and spoke first.

"Who are you? This is the B team's training ground."

"I'm Didier Drogba. Starting today, I'll be training and playing with the B team," Drogba replied confidently. "Who are you?"

"I'm Damián Matías, a B team player and the future best center-back in the world." Matías grinned, his tone full of arrogance.

Drogba blinked, taken aback by how full of himself this guy was.

"You got here after me. That means you should call me 'big bro' from now on," Matías said with a chuckle. "I don't know how old you are, but in the B team, whoever arrives last is the younger one. Finally, I have someone younger than me here."

Drogba glared at him. This guy was even taller than him by a little, but Drogba wasn't about to back down.

"Watch your words, kid. I'm a first-team player. I'm just here to get match practice. After the winter break, I'm going back up. If you're smart, you should be calling me 'big bro'—maybe I'll put in a good word for you in the first team."

Matías raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely surprised. He scratched his chin and shook his head.

"I don't believe you. I've watched plenty of first-team games, but I've never seen you play. Don't try to fool me."

Drogba wanted to strangle him. "Why would I lie? You don't even know all the first-team players? What kind of Mallorca player are you?"

"I've only been here nine months. I don't have time to remember that many names," Matías shrugged. "But if you're from the first team, you must be pretty good. Are you a forward or a defender?"

He didn't even consider that Drogba might be a midfielder—someone with his build just didn't fit the profile.

"I'm a forward," Drogba huffed. "And of course, I'm good. So good that you can't even comprehend it. I've scored against Real Madrid."

"So what? I came from Real Madrid's youth team," Matías said dismissively. "Since you're a forward, try getting past me. If you can't, maybe I should take your first-team spot."

Drogba scoffed. "What a joke. Even if I agreed to your bet, you think the coach would promote you just because you stopped me once?"

Matías scratched his head. "Yeah, maybe not… But we should still bet on something. Otherwise, what's the point of winning?"

Drogba was fuming—this guy acted like he had already won.

And just like that, an early morning duel between No Brain (Matías) and Unhappy (Drogba) kicked off on the B team's training ground.