The Gallery Owner Returns

Based on Cha Kangmin's advice and his own past experience, Kim Hanbin sat down and wrote another post for the Suwon Blue Sky gallery.

Convinced he had perfectly grasped the culture of the Suwon gallery, Hanbin pressed the submit button with a satisfied grin.

Then he turned to Cha Kangmin and bragged.

"Hyung, I posted it! I think I really nailed it this time?"

"Oh, for real? Let's see it."

Cha Kangmin took the phone that was handed to him mid-conversation and read Hanbin's post.

"PWAHAHAHA! Hey! You're unreal!"

Cha Kangmin clutched the steering wheel and laughed for a good long while. Hanbin could only blink in confusion.

"What's wrong, hyung? Did I mess something up?"

"No, no! It's just... it's just too perfect! Hey, do you even know what normal people would never do?"

Cha Kangmin laughed until tears welled up in his eyes.

Only then did Hanbin relax and start checking the reactions to his post.

"Huh? Hyung, the comments are flooding in in real time?"

The fans' reaction was explosive. Hanbin's brash tone and overflowing confidence had somehow made them like him even more.

There were critical comments too, of course, but the overwhelming majority seemed to love his post.

Kim Hanbin scrolled through the comments in a daze.

'So this... actually works?'

Watching him, Cha Kangmin let out a hearty laugh.

"See? What did I tell you? Community people love this stuff! Kukuku!"

While they chatted, the car pulled up in front of an upscale Korean beef galbi restaurant, their destination.

As they stepped inside, the owner greeted them warmly.

"Well, if it isn't Gangmin! Welcome! Great match today! Oh! Player Kim Hanbin! Wow, a pleasure to finally meet you! That first goal and that free kick were absolutely phenomenal!"

Unable to contain his excitement, the owner grabbed Hanbin's hand and shook it vigorously. Just as Cha Kangmin had said, he was clearly a devoted Suwon fan.

"Haha, sir, we came to eat properly today. Give us your best cuts, please."

"Of course! Days like today call for the absolute finest!"

The owner led them to a private room tucked into the back hallway. Before long, premium beef that looked expensive even at a glance was laid out across the table.

Kim Hanbin attacked the food with his chopsticks in a frenzy. Maybe it was because his family's finances had gone downhill and he hadn't so much as glanced at beef, let alone premium hanwoo, in years — the meat practically melted in his mouth.

After stuffing themselves full, they asked for the check, but the owner waved them off.

"Oh no, no, Mr. Gangmin — how could I possibly take your money on a day like this? Tonight's on the house! And, Hanbin, if it's not too much trouble... could I maybe get an autograph...?"

The owner shyly held out a sheet of paper and a pen.

"Oh? An autograph...? Um... I don't actually have one yet..."

As Kim Hanbin stammered in embarrassment, Cha Kangmin jumped in.

"Hey! What kind of pro footballer doesn't have a signature? This is your chance — make one right now! Sir, you're in luck today! This kid is going to be huge someday, and this'll be his historic first autograph! It's gonna be worth a fortune down the road!"

The owner beamed from ear to ear.

"Heh, come on, Mr. Gangmin! Do I look like I'm short on money? I would NEVER sell this! Hahaha!"

And so Kim Hanbin found himself suddenly forced to invent a signature on the spot. After a moment's thought, he picked up the pen.

That was when Cha Kangmin offered his advice.

"Hey, Hanbin. Don't make ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠your signature too complicated. When you start doing fan signing events, you'll have to sign for hundreds of people, and you'll wreck your wrist. I know a junior who made his first signature super elaborate and flashy, gave up after exactly a hundred, and switched to something simple. But don't make it some lazy chicken-scratch either, okay? Somewhere in the middle. Got it?"

"Yes, sir..."

Kim Hanbin weighed Cha Kangmin's painfully practical advice and thought it over. Then he came up with a signature that spared his wrist while still ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠looking like he'd put in actual effort.

He carefully signed the A4 sheet the owner had prepared, and beneath it added a short message: "Always be happy ^^"

'I just... gave someone my autograph.'

Kim Hanbin stared down at what he'd written. He was now a professional footballer who signed things for other people.

'I really am a pro now.'

The owner accepted the autograph, thanking him over and over.

As for the bill, Cha Kangmin forced his way through it anyway — "Come on, sir! You've got to let us pay!" — and they headed out.

The two climbed back into the car and made for the clubhouse.

The next morning, full team training began in earnest.

Thanks to yesterday's mind-boggling performance and his unprecedented internet post, Hanbin was already the hottest topic inside the team.

The players stole glances at him and whispered among themselves, but there was a strange unspoken agreement — nobody brought up the internet post directly or tried to act overly familiar.

Morning training focused on corner kicks, preparing for set-piece situations.

Coaches took turns delivering crosses from both corners while attackers and defenders battled for headers.

Kim Hanbin joined the attackers' group for the drill, but before long, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a problem surfaced.

His heading. Every time a sharp cross came in, he mistimed it, headed the ball off to some random spot, or failed to leave the ground at all — left standing there watching the ball sail over the other players' heads.

Cha Kangmin had watched long enough. He walked over and asked.

"Hey, Kim Hanbin. You've got the height and the build — why the hell can't you head a ball?"

Hanbin answered with an awkward, sheepish expression.

"Ah... well... I've never really had the chance to practice heading properly..."

It was the truth.

Back on that football pitch where time stood still, heading had been utterly impossible to practice during his 100 million shots.

Heading required someone to loft the ball for you, or a ball already hanging in the air — unless he'd grown a second body, there was simply no way to do it alone.

He'd tried kicking the ball off a wall and heading the rebound, like he'd done when practicing volleys, but it bounced far too low and at terrible angles. After hundreds of failures, he'd concluded 'this is impossible' and given up.

"Hmm... really? No chance to practice, huh?"

Cha Kangmin tilted his head for a moment, then nodded.

"Well, it happens. Then this is your chance to actually train it properly. Anyway, forget all that for now. Just jump, once, right here. Let's see how high you get."

"Sorry, a standing vertical jump?"

Following Cha Kangmin's instruction, Hanbin leaped straight up from where he stood with everything he had.

His thick thigh muscles exploded with power, launching him nearly a full second of hang time into the air.

Even the players watching from around the pitch stood gaping at the height of it.

"Whoa! Hey! What ARE you?! If you can jump like that and you don't head the ball, that's a crime, you punk! You jump higher than my man Ronaldo!"

Cha Kangmin's face was a picture of disbelief. Hanbin landed casually and asked.

"Oh, really? Is it high?"

"Is it HIGH? Hey. With a jump like that you could just play with the defenders' heads! So why can't you head the ball?!"

Cha Kangmin shouted in sheer frustration. Hanbin scratched his head.

"It's just... I'm confident in the jump itself, but I don't really know the timing or the technique for hitting the ball squarely with my head while I'm airborne..."

"Timing? Hmm... fair enough, I suppose that does take practice too."

Cha Kangmin thought for a moment, then clapped Hanbin on the shoulder.

"Alright! Starting today, this hyung is giving you private heading lessons! I'm not letting talent like yours go to waste! Just trust your hyung and follow me. I'll turn you into a heading machine!"

"Wait, seriously?"

It was a golden opportunity for Hanbin. The chance to learn heading directly from Cha Kangmin, a national team center-back famous for his headed goals.

Cha Kangmin flashed a wide grin and pushed Hanbin toward the pitch.

"That's the spirit, punk! First things first — get under a cross! I'll check your form from the side!"

And so Hanbin's special heading training began under Cha Kangmin's tutelage.

One of the coaches kept pumping crosses in from the flank while Cha Kangmin stayed glued to Hanbin's side, walking him through jump timing, heading posture, even exactly which part of the head to strike with.

At first Hanbin's heading was beyond awkward, but thanks to Cha Kangmin's one-on-one coaching and Hanbin's freakish athletic instincts, it began to improve, little by little.

He still missed wildly more often than not, but at least he was getting comfortable with leaving the ground and actually meeting the ball with his head.

The relentless heading practice carried on for nearly an hour without a break.

The coach who'd been pumping in crosses was visibly flagging, and Cha Kangmin — who'd been jumping alongside Hanbin in the air duels the whole time — was drenched head to toe in sweat.

"Haaah... Hanbin... let's... let's wrap it up already..."

Finally the coach, who'd been crossing ball after ball, clutched his ankle and formally surrendered.

"Enough! Stop already! I'm dying over here!"

Cha Kangmin gasped for breath and raised both hands, exhaustion written all over his face.

Manager Kim Seongcheol, who had been observing the entire training session from the start, walked over slowly.

"Hanbin. Think you've got more practice in you?"

At the manager's question, Hanbin answered without a moment's hesitation, as fresh as if he'd just started.

"Yes, Manager! I can still go for much longer!"

Cha Kangmin and the coach looked like they were about to pass out at his answer.

Manager Kim gave them a light chuckle, then turned to another coach standing nearby.

"Coach Choi, would you bring out that new thing we got in?"

"You mean that machine? Understood, Manager."

Coach Choi nodded and headed straight for the clubhouse storage room.

Before long, he returned wheeling a cart loaded with an enormous, heavy-looking machine.

It resembled a baseball batting machine, but its ball chute had been sized for footballs.

The players crowded around the unfamiliar contraption, eyes brimming with curiosity.

"Whoa! Manager, what is that?"

"Is that the thing that launches footballs at you?"

Manager Kim puffed up with pride.

"This? She's a very expensive lady — a cross and shooting machine imported directly from Europe. Apparently it can fire balls at all sorts of different speeds, so you can train solo with it."

He walked over to Hanbin and showed him how to operate the machine.

"With this, you can practice heading as much as you want on your own, right? Take good care of it."

"Wow... thank you so much, Manager!"

Kim Hanbin's eyes sparkled.

Once afternoon training wrapped up, the players filtered back to the locker room to shower or rest.

But Hanbin stayed behind, tinkering with the brand-new training machine.

"Manager, would it be all right if I... stayed and practiced a bit more on my own?"

"Mm... go ahead. But think of your body — don't push past your limits."

Manager Kim mulled it over briefly, then gave his permission.

Once all the other players and coaching staff had gone, Hanbin was left alone on the empty training ground.

As he'd just learned, he loaded the machine with a pile of footballs and set it to fire them at various angles and heights.

Then he lost himself completely in heading practice, time be damned.

After training like that for who knows how long, a strange sense of wrongness crept over him.

'Huh... it should be getting close to sunset by now... why is it still so bright...?'

He wondered if he'd simply lost his sense of time from focusing too hard.

He ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠found the phone he'd left on the ground in a corner while practicing and lit up the screen.

And Hanbin's eyes went wide.

The time displayed on the phone: 5:30 PM.

And next to the carrier logo in the top-right corner of the screen — the familiar X mark.

"Th... this son of a—! No way! No! NO!"

Kim Hanbin screamed like a madman and whipped his head around, scanning his surroundings.

Silence. Nothing could be heard. A training ground this close to downtown, right next to the clubhouse — it made no sense.

And then, naturally, Hanbin's gaze drifted to the scoreboard at the edge of the training ground — the one they'd used for the practice match just days ago.

Instead of the clock that always hung there, different numbers were displayed.

"FUUUUU—!!!!!"