Chapter 32
Chapter 32
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 32
Chapter Title: Gateway (3)
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A bright afternoon.
Training had just wrapped up ahead of Round 41 of the league.
“Huff, huff—!”
Captain David Dignity, drenched in sweat, poured a bottle of ice-cold water straight over his head from the bench.
“Ugh, that hits the spot!”
The heat vanished in an instant.
Today’s session had been the usual high-intensity grind, but Dignity’s face was brighter than expected.
‘Definitely... my stamina’s improved.’
After playing a few matches under Jeong-woo’s regime, Dignity could feel it in every fiber of his being.
Not just him—his teammates’ movements were more dynamic, sharper.
When the opponent took one step, Bolton was covering nearly two.
It left the other side unable to mount any proper play.
They’d hounded them like a swarm of hornets.
“Now I get it.”
Delicate, gulping down water beside him, seemed to be thinking the same.
He glanced over at the opposite bench.
Jeong-woo had gathered the coaching staff for a talk.
Delicate tossed his now-empty bottle to the ground with a clunk and spoke up.
“Why he drills stamina so hard. And... why we’ve been starting multiple times.”
Dignity plopped down on the bench and nodded.
“Everyone except Owen or Slow Bulky has rock-solid stamina anyway.”
It was true.
Dignity and most of the starting lineup had that baseline toughness in spades.
Even so, the high-intensity training had pushed their endurance even higher.
Plus, Bolton’s average age had plummeted.
Dignity himself was only 26.
Just three months ago, the squad’s average had hovered around 30.
Suddenly, he muttered in disbelief.
“Me being the oldest starter? Does that even make sense?”
Delicate, Aaron Rapid, Dominic Shield, and the rest.
All the new starters under Jeong-woo were young talents in their early to mid-twenties.
No doubt about it—your early to mid-twenties meant less fatigue than late twenties or early thirties.
Recovery was quicker too.
Jeong-woo had pointed it out himself.
‘The one edge we have over other teams is our youth—that stamina.’
He’d put it to excellent use, layering in highly efficient tactics in between.
Dignity and Delicate found themselves seeing Jeong-woo in a new light.
His hot streak helped, no question.
That was when it hit.
“That guy’s more dedicated than I thought.”
“Huh? Who?”
Delicate followed Dignity’s gaze.
There was Chong-ah.
Even after training ended, the kid was still working on shooting drills.
Delicate smirked and muttered.
“If he nails shooting too, he’ll be a total cheat code.”
Both had been skeptical of Chong-ah at first.
Not his background, but the vibe that he’d been brought in through Jeong-woo’s connections.
That bias shattered quick.
“Fast, and fast again—just insanely quick.”
Dignity draped an arm over the bench back, sounding exasperated.
In practice matches, he always ranked Chong-ah as the toughest opponent.
As a midfielder, there was no stopping those ferocious sprints.
He kept getting burned on the overlap.
‘Once he breaks through, no catching him.’
Delicate wiped sweat from his brow with a towel and chimed in.
“That’s why you keep getting fouled. They get pissed at the constant runs behind, so they just slam you outright.”
“Yeah.”
Dignity shrugged, then narrowed his eyes.
“Heard he’s getting a personal coach now?”
“Personal?”
“Some famous trainer, they say.”
Jeong-woo didn’t skimp on cash when a player wanted private coaching.
Like private tutoring.
Dignity furrowed his brow.
“Stamina specialist?”
With all those sprints—had to be stamina-focused, right?
Either way, Dignity was starting to trust Chong-ah.
Wouldn’t be wrong to say he was relying on him.
Just those sprints alone tied up the opponent’s defense and mids.
* * *
A few hours later.
Training center.
Thud—!
“Huff!”
The black-haired young man tumbled across the mat with a sharp exhale.
None other than Park Chong-ah.
He’d headed straight there after afternoon training.
Since then, he’d been rolling on the ground, flipping sideways or backward—repeating all sorts of falls.
Minutes later, the man with him started shoving him down.
Chong-ah resisted, then flawlessly executed the falling techniques he’d practiced solo earlier.
Like that—
Thump—!
“Urk!”
Thwack—!
“Eek!”
Splat—!
“Guh!”
Back throws, inner thigh lifts, inside hooks.
In the man’s grip, Chong-ah whipped around like a reed.
Yet he’d spring right back up, resetting his stance.
“Ugh.”
By the entrance, Jeong-woo watched the resilient Chong-ah with a satisfied smile.
Park Hee-won, beside him, squinted in confusion.
“What’s that, some kind of falling class?”
As he said, Chong-ah—in a judogi—was rolling wildly, spending more time flat on the mat than upright.
Jeong-woo grinned slyly and replied.
“Builds resistance to pressure, and technically? Even if he goes down, no injuries on a fluke.”
Thud—!
“Gack!”
Another thigh wrap takedown crumpled Chong-ah.
He softened the impact with a rolling fall.
Arms crossed now, Jeong-woo watched like a spectator and added.
“The kid’s finishing is trash, so he needs these dirty tricks down pat. Right?”
* * *
The day before the match.
Flash, flash!
Camera strobes popped here and there.
Pre-match press conference for League Round 41: Bolton Wanderers vs. Gillingham FC.
Gillingham, based in Southeast Kent, England, sat at 13th in the table.
Manager Steve Bruin was a veteran’s veteran.
A mid-50s journeyman who’d seen plenty of clubs.
He’d taken the reins that winter window.
Results? Stellar.
He’d dragged them from 20th to 13th already.
That’s why he was the coach most compared to Jeong-woo lately.
“Bolton’s mounted a comeback just like Gillingham. Do you think they can snag a win at Bolton’s home ground?”
One difference: most reporters respected Bruin more than Jeong-woo.
Bruin scanned the journalists with his signature sharp gaze and answered.
“The ball’s round, so who knows? Why not see the result after the match?”
Including the Rochdale and Shrewsbury bosses before him.
Most trashed or dismissed Bolton in interviews.
It even made sense.
Bolton had improved, sure, but they’d barely escaped the drop zone.
One slip, and they’d tumble right back.
Managers flat-out refused to credit the parachute owner Jeong-woo.
But Steve Bruin was different.
“I respect Bolton’s Ma.”
No mention of the manager, but unlike the others, he was keeping Jeong-woo in check.
* * *
Same time.
Jeong-woo sprawled on the sofa, watching the rival manager’s live interview.
[I respect Bolton’s Ma.]
[In their last match, Bolton maximized individual talent. And capped it with superb team play to steal the win...]
Gray smoke trickled from the gap in his teeth, cigarette clenched.
Jeong-woo’s brow furrowed deep.
[As always, we’ll go full throttle tomorrow.]
[We’ll stop theMad Dog claim the higher ground.]
Jeong-woo’s under-eye twitched.
“That guy...”
He looked dead serious, face and all.
Unlike the priors, his stance on Bolton felt straight-up legit.
In fact, Bruin was one of the league’s hot sensations alongside himself.
Park Hee-won, on the right sofa, watched with quiet admiration.
“Damn, that’s respect for ya. Not like that scrawny handshake-dodger—different class!”
But Jeong-woo? Opposite.
He shot up—
“What the hell, why respect me!”
Opponents slacking off made wins easier, like before!
Fists flying at empty air in fury.
“Son of a—!”
Easy and low-stress was best.
But tomorrow looked tough.
“Argh! Ptooey!”
Then.
Knock, knock!
Strategic Planning Chief Charlotte Emma stepped in.
Hee-won’s eyes went wide.
“You... what’re you doing?”
“One-two! One-two! Jab-jab! Left hook! Hah! Eye poke—er, straight punch!”
Jeong-woo had switched to legit shadowboxing.
“Swoosh-swoosh! That ain’t a mouth sound!”
Hee-won eyed Emma, then the macho-posturing Jeong-woo, eyes narrowing.
Instinctual male display.
‘This bastard...!’
Emma, oblivious, spoke in her flat tone.
“Time to enter the mixed zone.”
* * *
Even as they walked the hall, Emma listed off no-gos from the side.
“If reporters ask uncomfortable questions, don’t snap. Handle it gracefully.”
“Horiuchi and Fredrik Jacob will definitely lob unpleasant ones at you, sir. Ignore them.”
“Stick to the response list I sent earlier.”
“Manager Steve Bruin showed you respect. No provoking like last interview.”
As she said, Jeong-woo had once mocked an opponent’s brain as udon noodles mid-interview.
The memory stung a bit.
‘That prick started it, calling my dick tiny.’
Not interview—overheard in the hall by chance. Defamation.
Suddenly, Emma arched a fine brow.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Repeat what I said?”
“Do the interview well.”
“...”
Jeong-woo ambled on, hands jammed in pants pockets, and thought.
‘Mommy...?’
Still, the faint smile lingered.
Her demure vibe, brows furrowing with each pointed word—cute.
Though now furrowed for other reasons.
Felt genuine.
She was worried for him.
‘England life’s kinda suiting me...’
Back home, he’d lived detached.
No one sought him out, and aside from Hee-won, no real connections.
Here? Different.
Non-stop busy.
People hitting him up hourly.
Tiring, but fit his groove.
‘Feeling that human warmth now too.’
Soon, Emma halted at the mixed zone door.
Jeong-woo stopped too.
She looked up at him.
He looked down.
Like walking a pooch.
She emphasized once more in that brief moment...,
‘In one ear, out the other.’
She was sure. Routine now—no sting.
Emma let her green eyes drift downward slow.
Jeong-woo’s burning gaze embarrassed her a tad.
Always like this around him.
Still, no sign on her face.
“Please respond to the interview as pre-planned.”
She dipped her head Korean-style; blonde strands slid down her cheek.
Jeong-woo stared a beat, then grinned and thumbs-upped.
“On my way, Kim B—no, Chief. I’ll keep the advice in mind.”
Of course, if shit hit the fan, freestyle was king.
But..., playing nice once wouldn’t hurt.
Unlike priors, Bruin seemed malice-free.
* * *
[I respect Bruin too. I know he’s a great manager. But... I wonder if he’ll show that respect after the match... curious, isn’t it?]
[Care to elaborate?]
[Because Bolton will beat Gillingham handily. Tactically, I’ve got the edge for sure. So..., we’ll see tomorrow. If he’s a big man or not.]
Jeong-woo was a born scrapper.
Plus, self-sacrifice boosted merch sales.
No excuse.