Olmunt in Madrid (1)
Aigoo… I'm gonna die of exhaustion. What the hell is this?
Even in business class, my big frame leaves me stiff and sore. No matter how much I sleep, the flight drags on forever. I watched movie after movie, but there was no sign of landing.
Finally, somehow, I made it to Madrid airport.
Ugh. I'm dead tired. Gotta break into Europe soon so I don't have to go through this hassle anymore.
Seeing the unfamiliar Spanish on the Entrada sign really drives it home. I actually got called up to the national team.
It's definitely a tourist spot—crowds everywhere. According to the association's instructions, someone should be holding a sign with my name…
"Excuse me, coming through."
"Oh, sorry."
Too many people—hard to spot. I craned my neck this way and that and finally found the guy holding a paper with my name: Leo Olmunt.
"Are you from the Swedish Football Association…?"
"Hello, Mr. Olmunt. I'm Viktor Nilsson from the Swedish Football Association. Nice to meet you."
Viktor greeted me cheerfully, extending his hand for a shake. He seemed pretty outgoing, which was a relief for me. I'd been super nervous about my first real conversation in Swedish with a Swede.
I'd read Swedish articles, texted in it plenty. But no way to know if my pronunciation was right. Even mimicking Swedish movies or dramas, I couldn't judge it myself. No Swedes around to check, either.
"Viktor, my pronunciation isn't too weird, is it?"
"Hmm… Honestly? A little off. But you've been living in Korea a long time. Not many Swedes there, so it's understandable."
Luckily, he said it was just a bit awkward. Whew. Once again, I'm so damn grateful Viktor's my handler.
"This is the hotel. It's too late for anything today—no training. We'll head to the team camp for medical checks tomorrow, then dinner with the players and coaches. Good luck, Mr. Olmunt!"
"Thanks. I'll do my best. It's all thanks to you!"
After bidding farewell to the kind Swedish FA staffer Viktor, I underwent the medical tests.
They were straightforward, but there was one awkward hiccup.
"No way… this muscle mass?"
"The power output…"
"Mind if we do a doping test too?"
So the basics got simplified, and the doping test got thorough.
"Sorry for the suspicion. Physically speaking, you should be playing in the NBA, kid."
The bald Black medical staffer scratched his head as he said it.
"No worries. I get why you'd check."
Happened plenty back in Korea too. I'd been tested a ton.
Thus ended the short but intense medicals. Now, the moment we'd all been waiting for: dinner.
The dinner was in the hotel restaurant—probably rented out entirely. Big league stuff. Even in their dark ages, the European national team didn't skimp.
Captain Lindelöf from Man United, Kulusevski and Beri from Tottenham, Gyökeres from Arsenal, Elanga from Newcastle—stars everywhere.
Yet they're barely scraping into World Cup playoffs. Shows how brutal European qualifiers are. No wonder they call Asian qualifiers bush league.
Coach Porter greeted me with a smile when I arrived.
"Good to see you. Time for introductions?"
"Huh? What do you—"
Before I could finish, Coach Porter grinned and pushed me forward.
"Here's our newest addition, Leo Olmunt. He came all the way from Korea—treat him well, everyone."
He exchanged a knowing glance with captain Lindelöf.
Clap!
"New guy's here—time for the initiation rite!"
Lindelöf stood, clapped once, and shouted. Then:
"Sing!"
"Sing!"
"Sing!"
Bad vibes brewing. Did this back when I transferred to Cheonan Skies as Yoon Jongmun—first time singing one here. What to pick? Korean players usually belted out Gangnam Style. Should I?
"My little song pop~"
Hmm. For '26, gotta sing something fitting. Everyone knows this, right? Dancing too—hope it doesn't backfire.
My worries? Fleeting. Total overthink.
"Puhahaha!"
"Dude comes from Korea and sings that? Hilarious!"
Thanks to that, I joined dinner amid laughter. Even at the captain's table.
"C'mere, Leo Olmunt, right? Heard a lot about you. Didn't expect someone so fun-looking to be this goofy."
Lindelöf clutched his belly laughing, ignoring his food to chat.
"Never seen anyone dance like that matching their build."
Kulusevski too. Captain and vice-captain digging it—score.
Worth the embarrassment. If it'd killed the mood, I'd have jumped out a window.
"Thanks. Wanted to make a strong first impression."
"Good call. Strong impression. Do it in training too—Coach Porter might play you."
Lindelöf grinned cheekily.
"Mood's been crap lately. You livened up dinner. Thanks."
"Yeah, no kidding."
The vibe stayed warm and lively. Then:
"Yo, Olmunt. Long time no see?"
Someone called out. Who, though? Blond guy with a sour vibe. Familiar, but fuzzy.
"Don't remember? You've bulked up huge. Feels like yesterday you got wrecked and shipped to Korea."
"Karl? What the fuck is this?"
"What? Just greeting an old teammate. Wonder if a guy fumbling in some backwater second division deserves a national team spot."
Ah. Right—Karl Nilsson. Old youth team rival with original Olmunt. How'd he know about the fumbles, though? Not pissed since it wasn't really me, but weird.
Föräldralös.
Orphan, huh. Mouthy habit. He cupped his mouth, whispered close so only I heard, then sauntered off. Explains the blank family memories. Rough life.
"Don't sweat it. He's always like that. Play your game, no matter what they say. Shut 'em up against Ukraine."
Captain material for sure—Lindelöf backed me kindly. But "shut 'em up"?
"Them? More haters?"
"Uh… not on the team. Players, at least."
What? Coaches? FA? Other countries? Did Olmunt trash Ukraine or something?
My mind spiraled, face darkening. Kulusevski waved it off, baffled.
"Whoa, whoa! What're you thinking? You really don't know?"
"Know what?"
"N-never mind. You'll find out when the time comes. Eat."
What the hell? Spill it. No one would.
Food was killer. Spanish flair, for sure. Stuffed, I headed to my room. Then:
"Leo! Or Olmunt?"
"Whatever you want."
Viktor Gyökeres—Arsenal's star striker. Form's up and down, lacks goals against big teams, but solidifying lately. Star billing fits. Bias toward your own, right?
"Olmunt it is. Starting strikers for the next game—might as well introduce ourselves."
"I'm starting?"
"Duh. Elanga's a winger, Kulusevski's midfield, Isak's injured. Who else?"
"Appreciate the vote."
Gyökeres seems to like me. Fine by me if my strike partner does.
"People don't get it. Swedish league and yours? Same level. Minus a few teams."
Ooh, for real? Wanna clock Karl now.
"Karl's in Bundesliga 2, defender. Figured you were out of the Swedish loop."
"Haha, yeah. Been abroad forever."
Defender, huh. Still:
"I think you're good. Europe-good. Pass to me—you're the assist king."
That's the spirit. Grinned and shook his hand.
"I'll thread 'em every time you run. Miss one, and I'll take your spot."
Gyökeres laughed.
"Won't happen. Let's plan celebrations."
Passing to a big-club starter. But back home, feeding Paulo might feel off after this…
"Oh, you're Olmunt? Coach said look after you. Nice to meet ya."
My national team roomie: Elanga. Newcastle, but in awful form. Classic counter guy? Poor build-up judgment. National team's different, though. Big clubper.
"Yeah, you too."
Next day, followed Elanga to training. Madrid's mild sun—perfect.
Problem: stares hotter than the sun. Karl and his crew.
Karl muttering—nothing nice.
"Ignore those clowns. Warm up. Jeez."
Elanga's pro-Olmunt too. Cool, not a Newcastle fan anyway. No reason to hate a friendly face.
And then:
"Alright, warm-ups done. Before main training, quick 1v1 duels."
Perfect way to smash Karl.
"Pair up, everyone."
Coach's words barely out, I yelled:
"Karl! Karl Gustafsson! Pair with me!"
Karl froze, then:
"Scared I'll wreck a backwater fumbler?"
His eyes flashed at my bait, stormed up.
"Think it's still youth days? Score a few in the sticks, get assists, and you're hot shit? Name's Karl Nilsson, dipshit."
"We'll see who's the dipshit. Right?"
All that vague tension? Gone. Clear target now: strip this prick naked in training and send him home crying.