New Wine in New Wineskins
“New wine goes in new wineskins. Hey, Kim Jinu. That Xiao? Shao-whatever? I'm gonna fucking kill you.”
“Bro, it was just the plan! Sure, it was a home run, but...”
Jinu was panting hard but grinning ear to ear.
That's when someone slung an arm around my shoulder and butted in.
“Hey guys!”
It was our captain Aspas, using short English because Jinu was there. He'd only played the first half, but his sweat-drenched face wore the happiest smile in the world. Korean summers were brutally hot, after all.
“Best game ever today. And the fans were calling me Sam-hyung? Ssam-hyung? That's good, right?”
“Very good. Means you're healthy as hell.”
“I knew it! Ssam is love!”
Aspas lit up and waved at the broadcast cameras.
“Alright, one more time?”
He mimed wrapping meat in lettuce with both hands. I gave Jinu a quick heads-up since he had no clue. We lined up in front of the circling cameras, laughing as we all struck the pose—wrapping ssam and thumbs-up together.
The stands erupted in cheers and roaring laughter again: “Wooooah!”
Fan service complete, we shook hands to wrap up the match.
I spotted Jang Kangcheol standing there blankly.
I walked over and offered my hand.
“Good work out there, Kangcheol.”
“Ah, thanks.”
He gripped it with a stoic face—his hand felt like a fucking rock.
Jinu cheekily chimed in next to him.
“Kangcheol bro, you should've joined the ssam ceremony. Let's go wrap some up at the afterparty.”
Jang Kangcheol tilted his head.
His response blew all our expectations out of the water.
“Why eat ssam?”
“...Huh?”
“You can just eat the meat.”
“......”
We stared at each other in stunned silence.
He dropped that bomb and coolly turned toward the locker room.
Jinu muttered like it was par for the course.
“Bro, Kangcheol... he gets like that sometimes.”
“Yeah, just... kinda unique guy.”
Couldn't pin him down from his back alone. One thing was clear: his character was as freakish as his play on the pitch today.
In the lounge, I wiped sweat while greeting the incoming K League All-Stars. Plenty of familiar faces.
Ha Dohyeon, Lee Junyoung.
Teammates from national team days. Junyoung especially was the winger who'd subbed in for Mo Chanhee last time.
We naturally clustered up. Junyoung chugged a sports drink and spoke first.
“Looking good. You holding up?”
I shot back with a grin.
“Fucking great, asshole. We won.”
“Nah, not that. You're catching mad shit from the public lately.”
“When don't I?”
He furrowed his brow at my nonchalance.
“No, I mean, you were always the quiet type—why the sudden change? Feels like a different person.”
This guy too, huh.
Ever since regressing with my past life's memories, my attitude had shifted for sure. Enough to weird people out.
But thinking it over, I felt a bit wronged.
Was I that quiet before?
Nah. In Spain, I had a filthy temper—fair to say. Nearly came to blows with Rüdiger against Real Madrid; teammates had to hold me back or I'd have clocked him.
National team was different. The weight of it all, not wanting to sour the vibe—I kept my mouth shut like Bong Hyeoksu. So they saw me as the quiet guy who just played ball well.
If my club teammates heard, they'd die laughing.
I shrugged.
“Just... everything's bullshit. Reporters, public, association, national team.”
“......”
“Was holding it in, but felt like I'd snap. Why?”
“Why? Just worried as a friend, dickhead.”
Junyoung lowered his voice, dead serious.
“You're splitting opinion 50/50 now, but one slip and it flips. You know how it is here.”
He wasn't wrong. The 50 Million Bandwagon Fans temperament—super vulnerable to agitation. Throw 'em a spark, they boil over; cool off, and they're ice cold. National team guys knew it bone-deep, as victims themselves. My close teammates worried about my outbursts.
I said firmly.
“Think I can't handle it? It's just soccer—why all the noise?”
“That's why—don't take the hard road. Adapt to the vibe, play along a bit.”
No chance.
Adapting to public opinion? Zipping it? Tried that last life. Result? Korean soccer's collapse.
Of course, Junyoung didn't know I'd regressed.
I clapped his shoulder.
“Don't worry, asshole. Haven't even started.”
I flashed a bright grin; he let out a baffled chuckle.
“Ha, you're a real psycho.”
He smirked and shook his head. Next to him, Ha Dohyeon just watched silently.
I turned to him, feeling the stare.
“Dohyeon, good work.”
“Huh? Oh... yeah. You too.”
Ha Dohyeon's reply was stiff, awkward.
He made the national team but as rotation fodder, not starter. Solid skills, but edged out by mainstays like Tak Go-gang, Bong Hyeoksu, and me. Mo Chanhee had openly favored him, landing him in that faction naturally.
After my blowup with Mo Chanhee, even if the guy himself didn't care, his crew got awkward with me.
Doesn't matter.
I drew a cold line in my mind.
Mo Chanhee's faction? I'd purge 'em anyway. Gutless guys who couldn't speak up like men, riding public waves for scraps like rats.
No room for opportunists in the new national team I'd build.
That night, at the Celta Vigo team hotel in Seoul.
Post-shower, my agent Cha Daehyeok approached hesitantly.
“Bro.”
“What.”
“That Seo Taeyoung committee chair contact you mentioned. I... tried reaching out.”
He looked troubled.
“He said he has nothing to say, sorry, but please don't contact him.”
“Hmm... alright?”
I toweled my wet hair casually.
“Cool. Good work.”
My flat reaction made his eyes widen.
“Wait, bro? Don't you need Seo Taeyoung? That's it?”
“He said don't bother him—what more can I do? Guy's hurt; no need to harass him.”
“I get that, but... you said last time you'd root out association trash, needed his help.”
True enough. Ex-chair Seo Taeyoung knew the association's guts better than anyone; his intel could help drain the rot.
I sat on the bed, shaking my head.
“But he says he has nothing. Can't force it. I'm no psychic, and we're not that close.”
“Still...”
“You think shaking down someone who clams up gets info? That's not how talking works.”
Forced confessions just breed resentment. Timing's off. Hearts move on logic and pull, not force.
“Forget Seo Taeyoung. If fate crosses paths, we'll meet again.”
I cracked a canned beer and waved him off.
“Good work. Go rest.”
“Yeah, got it.”
Daehyeok left without pushing. He knew the public heat too—wanted allies for me. Appreciate it.
Door shut, silence fell. I sipped the cold beer, gazing at Seoul's nightscape.
No rush. Board's set; I'm not the desperate one. But damn, this new beer's trash. Why'd I chug this? Black IPA's king. I dumped the glowing yellow piss. These bandwagon fucks, agitator reporters, association, national team—all getting tossed like this. New wine in new wineskins, that's the rule.
Football Association president's office. Kim Myeonggyu spoke up.
“So... how'd it go?”