The announcement went live at exactly 9:00 a.m.
And within seven minutes, chaos began.
CLUB DEPORTIVO MIRAFLORES APPOINT MALIK AMARI AS FIRST TEAM MANAGER
The club statement was simple.
Short. Professional. Carefully optimistic.
Club Deportivo Miraflores are delighted to announce the appointment of Malik Amari as First Team Manager on a two-year deal.
At just 22 years old, Amari becomes one of the youngest managers in professional European football.
The club believes his tactical innovation, leadership qualities and modern football philosophy align with the long-term direction of CD Miraflores.
Malik Amari will immediately assume responsibility for first-team affairs.
By 9:12 a.m., local football media had already turned the appointment into a circus.
"Miraflores Gamble on Football Prodigy"
"Social Media Coach Gets Professional Job"
"22-Year-Old to Lead Relegation Battle"
"Innovation or Desperation?"
"Has Miraflores Lost Their Minds?"
Malik sat alone in his temporary apartment scrolling through the headlines silently.
Coffee untouched beside him.
The television mounted near the wall blasted sports coverage already discussing him.
"…absolutely ridiculous appointment"
"this is not academy football"
"the dressing room will eat him alive"
"good tactician maybe, but management? Impossible"
"publicity decision from a desperate board"
A former player on television laughed openly.
"He's younger than some of the squad!"
Another pundit shook his head.
"This league destroys experienced coaches. Now imagine a kid walking into that environment."
Malik muted the TV.
Then kept reading.
That was the dangerous part.
Not criticism.
He expected criticism.
It was the comments underneath.
He'll be sacked by Christmas.
TikTok manager.
This is why small clubs die.
No serious player respects a 22-year-old coach.
Players probably older than his father.
Relegation confirmed.
Then he saw something else.
A leaked player group chat screenshot.
Probably fake.
Hopefully fake.
"No way we're being coached by a child 💀"
"This club is finished."
"Brother probably uses Football Manager tactics."
Malik stared at that one slightly longer.
Then smiled faintly.
Football Manager.
If only they knew how many nights he'd actually spent studying football through databases, tactical simulations, historical systems and match engines while others slept.
Football wasn't magic.
Patterns existed everywhere.
People just ignored them until someone won.
His phone vibrated.
Elena Ruiz.
"Ready for the tour?"
The rain had stopped by the time Malik arrived at Estadio Municipal de Miraflores.
The stadium looked older in daylight.
More honest.
Workers moved around slowly near the entrances while a few fans stood outside staring openly at him as he stepped out of the car.
One man whispered something to his friend.
Both laughed.
Malik ignored it.
Elena waited near the entrance in a long dark coat.
"You're famous already," she said dryly.
"Mostly for the wrong reasons."
"That's still football."
She handed him a keycard.
"Come. I'll show you what you've inherited."
The stadium interior carried the exhausted soul of a club trying not to disappear.
The hallways were narrow. Paint cracked near corners. The lighting flickered occasionally.
They passed the gym first.
Malik stopped immediately.
Old equipment. Limited recovery machines. Two broken treadmills pushed against the wall.
He frowned slightly.
Elena noticed.
"I warned you."
"This is worse than the report."
"We had to choose between repairing equipment or paying scouting salaries last summer."
That explained a lot.
They continued toward the training pitches.
The main field looked acceptable.
The secondary one looked like a battlefield.
Uneven grass. Mud patches. Poor drainage.
Malik crouched slightly, touching the surface.
Soft. Heavy.
Rain would slow ball circulation terribly here.
Useful to know.
"You're analyzing the grass," Elena said.
"You can tell a lot about a team from their pitch."
That earned him a curious glance.
They eventually reached the academy building.
Smaller than expected.
But alive.
Young players trained outside despite the cold, their voices echoing across the grounds.
Malik watched carefully.
One winger immediately caught his eye.
Explosive acceleration. Awful decision-making. Interesting profile.
Potential.
Elena noticed where he was looking.
"You scout constantly?"
"It's difficult to stop."
"Hm."
They walked again.
Finally stopping outside a pair of heavy doors.
The first-team dressing room.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
Even before entering.
Noise inside. Music. Laughter. Arguments.
A professional dressing room.
Where careers lived and died.
Elena looked at him carefully.
"Nervous?"
Malik answered honestly.
"Yes."
That surprised her.
Then he added:
"But not scared."
She opened the doors.
The room fell silent.
Slowly.
One by one.
Players turned.
Some curious. Some amused. Some openly unimpressed.
And suddenly Malik understood what the media meant.
He really did look younger than almost all of them.
A veteran center-back near the lockers actually blinked twice.
The captain folded his arms immediately.
One player whispered something in Spanish that made another laugh quietly.
Elena stepped forward.
"Gentlemen," she announced calmly, "this is your new manager."
Silence.
Heavy silence.
Then finally, one player muttered:
"…Madre de Dios."
A few chuckles spread across the room.
Malik heard all of it.
Every bit.
Good.
Better honest reactions than fake respect.
He slowly stepped forward into the center of the room.
Studying faces. Personalities. Body language.
Footballers always revealed themselves quickly.
The veterans sat back cautiously. The younger players looked curious. A few already looked defensive.
And one player near the far corner?
Didn't even bother looking at him.
Interesting.
Malik finally spoke.
Calmly.
"No dramatic speech."
That immediately got their attention.
"I know what people are saying outside."
His eyes moved around the room.
"You think I'm too young."
No denial.
Good.
"You think this club is gambling."
Several expressions shifted subtly.
"And some of you probably think you'll outlast me here."
Now the room became fully attentive.
Because that was true.
Managers came and went. Players survived.
Malik nodded slowly.
"Fair enough."
Then he pointed toward the training pitch outside.
"But understand something clearly."
His voice sharpened slightly for the first time.
"I did not come here to survive."
Silence.
"I came here to build a team nobody wants to play against."
That landed differently.
Not inspirational.
Not emotional.
Competitive.
Footballer language.
He looked directly at the captain.
"But for that to happen, all the nonsense ends now."
No smile.
"No cliques. No jogging during pressing drills. No hiding during matches. No blaming tactics because you're tired."
Several players shifted slightly.
Good.
Malik continued calmly.
"If you work honestly, I'll protect you completely."
Then:
"If you don't…"
He let the sentence hang.
Cold.
Controlled.
"Training starts tomorrow at six a.m."
Immediate reactions.
Someone cursed quietly.
Another player laughed in disbelief.
The captain finally spoke.
"Six?"
Malik nodded once.
"Yes."
Then he glanced around the room one last time.
"We're going to become the fittest team in this league."
And for the first time since entering the dressing room…
A few players stopped seeing a boy.
And started seeing a problem.