The Prince's Sham Injury
Mo Chanhee swept back his sweat-soaked hair roughly while still in his uniform. His number 11 jersey lay torn and discarded on the floor. Blood beaded on the back of his hand from shards of a shattered mirror, but he paid it no mind.
Park Jeongu, the striker who used the locker next to his, approached cautiously. He was one of the few on the team somewhat close to Mo Chanhee.
"Chanhee, calm down a bit. The coach is just a stickler for principles, you know."
"Principles?"
Mo Chanhee whipped around to face Park Jeongu, his eyes bloodshot.
"You think his fucking principles are more important than my ankle? In the first half against Singapore, I created two golden chances! Who's gonna score goals for this team if not me? Those assholes are nothing without me!"
Mo Chanhee hurled the water bottle from his hand. His smartphone screen blared a breaking news alert from Baek Ho-dol's press conference.
"Don't you know how hard I ran? Don't you know how many goals I've scored? The stats prove it! But he's yapping about defensive contributions and dedication? Telling me to run like a dog? Tell that to Bong Hyeoksu or Ryu Rion."
Mo Chanhee vented his rage at Park Jeongu standing right in front of him. Park Jeongu could only bow his head. The whole team was exhausted by Mo Chanhee's selfish play, but no one dared voice complaints because of his explosive goal-scoring ability.
"The coach is insane. You think the team runs if he treats a star like this? Even Kim Myeonggyu from the association apologized to me. That old fucker dares to—"
Mo Chanhee viciously tore down the Taegukgi-patterned team emblem from the locker room wall.
"I'll show them how long they last without me. If I'm out of this call-up list, the team's straight-up fucked. I'm the king of this team. And no one touches the king!"
He snatched his phone with his bloody hand and stormed out of the locker room in his training gear. Mo Chanhee's face was filled with hatred for the coach and arrogant certainty that the team would collapse without him.
The next morning at Paju NFC training ground.
Baek Ho-dol sat on the training bench, staring down at the clipboard with the entry list. His expression looked noticeably relieved. I could already guess what that meant. In my eyes, Mo Chanhee was done here. It came from the breadth of character I'd sensed in Baek Ho-dol's interview—bigger than I'd expected. Superstar or whatever, he seemed like the type who'd stick to his guns even if the world ended. So no way he'd drag a toxic element poisoning the team atmosphere to the China match, public opinion be damned.
We were gathered, warming up,
and as Mo Chanhee jogged lightly to loosen up, he stole glances at Baek Ho-dol. That hypocritical, fake bastard. True to his street-smart instincts, he'd picked up on the weird vibe since yesterday. The looming crisis of being cut from the roster.
But a star player's pride couldn't tolerate getting axed—it'd be an unforgivable stain.
He'd try to spin it as quitting on his own terms before getting dumped. Just like in my past life. That prick always acted like the protagonist, prioritizing personal stats over team sport. Football doesn't work without defenders, goalkeepers, midfielders, forwards—nobody. So if you're gonna chase individual records, at least be like Lionel Messi, dribbling at god-tier level and turning games single-handedly. Otherwise, you can't ignore the sacrifices of teammates on the pitch that the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans know nothing about. How can a pro player—not even a bandwagon—have that mindset?
Mo Chanhee's eyes flashed. The moment he rounded the corner flag, he clutched the back of his right thigh and let out a scream.
"Aaaagh!"
I wiped sweat from my brow and looked down at the scene stone-faced.
What a load of bullshit.
I knew. That wasn't a real cry of pain. It was the classic rat move when training sucked or coach pressure got too intense and you wanted to bail.
He'd sensed the locker room mood was off and kicked off his act. Better to craft a narrative of tragic injury exit than the shame of being dropped. And the 50 million love their "star player" even when he's this fake. Fucking idiots.
"Chanhee!"
The medical trainers rushed over, but all I saw was Baek Ho-dol slowly rising from the bench. He pulled gum from his pocket, chewed it casually, and approached Mo Chanhee like a critic watching a third-rate play.
The head trainer tilted his head in confusion. Mo Chanhee rolled on the grass, face twisted in agony.
"Ah... hamstring... felt like it snapped... ughhh..."
"There's some muscle tension, but no tear visible. But the player’s complaining of severe pain..."
At those words, Mo Chanhee wailed even louder.
"The coach cranked training intensity to insane levels... this is what happens! Fuck! I gotta play the China match!"
Perfect drama queen. China match? Typical Korean—chasing kimchi soup dreams. What I've never gotten since my past life: why do national team players act like selection and starting spots are their birthright? Not just Mo Chanhee, but his cronies and most call-ups had that mindset. No wonder it all collapsed.
Baek Ho-dol smirked.
"Oh yeah? You wanna play but it hurts too much?"
"...As you can see."
"Perfect timing. I was gonna cut you anyway, and now you've given me the perfect excuse by lying down."
Mo Chanhee's brow twitched. Baek Ho-dol ignored the stares around him and delivered the verdict.
"No need for a diagnosis. Fake or real, I don't need sick soldiers on my team. Pack your shit and go. You're released from this camp."
"......"
His tragic hero act—like dying to play but body failing—didn't work on Baek Ho-dol.
"Get treated and run hard for your club."
"......"
Mo Chanhee started to retort but shut his mouth. Getting called out as faking here would be worse humiliation. In the end, he limped out of the training ground, supported by his manager. I clicked my tongue at his cowardly retreating figure.
A few hours later, the internet was a warzone. Breaking news of Mo Chanhee's injury-forced exclusion from the China squad fueled it, but Mo Chanhee poured gasoline on the fire.
Right after packing and leaving, he posted a black-and-white photo on his Instagram story: him lying in a hospital bed, staring lonely and forlorn at the ceiling.
Under the photo was a short, punchy caption.
This emo sales pitch lit the fuse for the 50 million bandwagon fans. Unbelievable. The guy who bolted first from training yapping about effort and betrayal.
The big day of the China match.
The stadium mixed red devils' cheers with jeers from Chinese away fans.
Baek Ho-dol brought a 4-2-3-1 with Park Jeongu up top, supported by me, Tak Go-gang, and Bong Hyeoksu. Different from the 442 twin-striker setup with wingers like Mo Chanhee against Singapore. Including me, Tak Go-gang and Bong Hyeoksu are attacking mids who play wing or AM for clubs. Korea's tactics had always been overshadowed by flashy Mo Chanhee, but really, me, Tak Go-gang, and Bong Hyeoksu were the national team style. Our three high-work-rate AMs cover recovery runs, holding mids conserve energy for interceptions, and if breached, defenders swarm. Recovery defense rotates among Tak Go-gang, Bong Hyeoksu, and me based on flow—we read the game so no wasted stamina. Tak drops central, I push up for distribution; Bong drops, Tak shifts to Bong's spot. Target men break lines for killers. I was hyped. How would Mo Chanhee's absence play out?