The Offer

The match against Manchester City ended 2–0 — a lighter win than anyone had expected.

Maybe the relative youth of their core squad had been their undoing. Either way, a win was a win. And it had come on the back of my brace.

"Good game."

I walked over to Darwin Diaz as he wiped the sweat from his face and held out my hand first.

"Hah… now that it's over, you seem almost normal. Mid-match you were a complete lunatic. Doing Aguero's celebration at the Etihad, then Ronaldo's…" He clasped my hand firmly. "Anyway, you were incredible. Fancy coming to Man City?"

"Man City's great. But would they even want me?"

"They probably would. Look over there."

Darwin pointed toward De Bruyne, deep in conversation with someone just beyond the touchline.

"…Want to swap shirts?"

"Sure. I'd be happy to."

Darwin Diaz and I exchanged jerseys, then headed back to the lodging for a short rest.

"…Coach. I need to talk to you."

"What is it! If it's our Ian talking, I'll listen to anything!"

Maybe it was because I'd been performing so well, but the coach — infamous for being a one-man show — treated me like an absolute angel. He'd granted a few unreasonable requests and looked after my comfort more than once. Whenever the attention from others got overwhelming, he was the one who stepped in first and pulled me free.

Come to think of it… it's about time…

Back in Korea, the West Ham match would be airing any moment now. I pulled out my phone and opened ByeolStar first to check.

Twenty-five thousand followers, sitting right there in plain sight. I'd been stunned the first time I saw it. The only photos I'd ever posted were the ones with Eunhye noona — and after that I barely even logged in. Yet the follower count kept exploding. Even now, every refresh added dozens more.

…A lot of celebrities are following me, too.

ByeolStar put a blue verification badge next to famous accounts so you could tell the real ones from the impersonators. They also floated near the top of the follower list, which made it easy to check their names. Even excluding mutual follows, roughly twenty celebrities were following me — including a few from the same girl group as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Eunhye noona.

I debated whether to follow them back, then decided to ask Eunhye noona later and just mutual-followed the football-related accounts for now.

"Huh…?"

I rubbed my eyes at the notification floating in front of me.

Exactly who I thought it was. Kim Minjae — the iron pillar of both South Korea and Napoli. I hit follow back immediately and opened the DM window.

Thankfully, he hadn't sent a message. I closed the app — just looking at Instagram-style feeds made my head hurt — and opened a football community instead.

Yeah. This was it. That spicy heat. Felt like coming home.

The Ronaldo celebration against Atlético Madrid had clearly blown up as a major talking point — and it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was burning even hotter in the Real Madrid communities where the Madridistas hung out.

The fact that posts like these weren't getting piled on with hate was a genuinely good sign. It meant the fans were acknowledging my ability. Five goals and three assists against a string of Europe's elite clubs — of course they were going to like what they saw.

I scrolled through a few more threads, then switched off my phone and headed for the coach's room.

Knock, knock.

"Come in."

After a couple of knocks, his voice came through. I said a polite "excuse me" and stepped inside.

"Aigoo! Our Ian!"

"Haha…"

The same coach the media called a one-man dictator — the Korean Mourinho — was always warm with me. Considering how lukewarm he was with the other kids, maybe it really was just because I was playing well.

Anyway. Time to drop the idle thoughts. I'd come here for something important.

"Coach. I'm not playing in the next match."

"…What? Why?"

He looked startled for a second, then smoothed his expression and regarded me seriously.

"You know what's coming after the next match ends."

"…Ahh. So you're going to prepare for that?"

He grinned at me.

The next fixture was against Everton's U-20 side, based in Liverpool. Relatively lower-profile as name brands went, but still a foundational English club through and through. Facing them would have been good experience — except I already knew. Everton's youth setup in this era didn't have a single player worth watching.

So I'd thought: why not prepare for the broadcast's final match instead?

The fixtures the production team had arranged ended here. But the last match that would actually air was the one between the Korean team and the Japanese team.

"Alright. I was going to rest you for fitness management anyway."

He nodded and gave me permission to sit out the final game. While the rest of the squad headed to Liverpool to face Everton, I went down to London early, found a place to stay, and waited.

The result: a 3–0 thrashing. They'd proven they could win without me. And while they were running themselves ragged on the pitch, I handled something important of my own.

"Hello. I'm Paul Nicholson, a scout for Chelsea."

"First, this is the offer we're putting forward. A two-year contract, three hundred and fifty pounds a week, with a three-hundred-pound bonus option."

Three hundred and fifty pounds was roughly six hundred thousand won — about 2.4 million a month. Without a new deal later, it was a very modest figure. The three-hundred-pound add-on would kick in if we won a title, I assumed. But a monthly salary of three or four million won simply didn't interest me much.

For reference, Arsenal — whom I'd met earlier — had offered a three-year deal at six hundred pounds a week. Nearly double.

"…I know my own value. I'd need at least five hundred pounds a week."

"Hmm… that might be a bit difficult."

"Considering European and South American prospects routinely pull fourteen, fifteen hundred pounds, I think five hundred is on the cheap side, don't you?"

"Haha… you're throwing me off. Most prospects try to negotiate the contract length."

Paul Nicholson scratched his head.

"Alright, how about this. I'll push for it and get you five hundred pounds a week somehow. In exchange, your first season would need to be a loan rather than the youth league."

Ideally I'd go straight into the senior first team, but the club would struggle to invest heavily in someone so young with such an uncertain success rate. Arsenal, who'd already put serious money on the table, was the exception.

Either way, inter-club deals were something they'd handle among themselves once my contract was locked in. Not my place to meddle.

"Understood for now. I'll have my agent follow up separately."

I wrapped up the brief meeting with Paul Nicholson at the restaurant and stepped outside.

"My head's spinning…"

While sitting out the Everton match, I'd been sorting through every offer that had come my way and talking them over. The English clubs I'd met in person; the La Liga sides and other leagues, I'd reviewed terms over video calls.

The highest figures and best options had come from Arsenal. Ironic, given they were the rivals of Chelsea — the club I supported — but I'd heard them out all the same. Next best were Manchester City and Chelsea. The fine print differed a little, but the key salary numbers were similar enough that I grouped them together.

Offers from other leagues at a comparable level hadn't been particularly interesting. Borussia Dortmund, Olympique de Marseille, AS Roma, and others had put proposals on the table, but—

If I'm going to debut, I want it to be in the EPL.

I could always move to another league later, after playing here.

Going through the list my father had sent, one team caught my eye.