Chapter 34
Chapter 34
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 34
Chapter Title: Gateway (5)
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It had only been a little over four minutes since he'd been subbed in.
In that time, Quick Floyd had already collected the ball four times and tried dribbling with it.
But the commentators and fans were already showing signs of disappointment.
Because Quick Floyd kept dragging the ball along aimlessly.
He'd hesitate on a shot at the end and turn it over, or ruin a chance with a pass that was too slow.
Even when he did manage a difficult shot, there was no real connection behind it.
Some fans who'd been cheering throughout the match now looked nauseated.
"Why'd they have to sub in Floyd of all people..."
"Look at him dragging the ball. Save him for when we're winning!"
"Just pass it to Owen!"
A few fans had been saying the same thing since the last match.
Someone with ball-keeping skills like Quick Floyd—'only' those skills—should definitely be brought on when they had the lead.
That way, he could slow things down, bait the opponents into getting frustrated, and control the tempo in their favor.
But right now, it was the complete opposite.
One fan yelled out in frustration.
"He's killing our team's tempo...!"
"Pass! Pass it...! Ugh! Is this guy blind?!"
As the boos from the crowd rained down and his poor finishing grew even sloppier, Floyd's movements started to slow.
When he tried a pass, it was a tempo late—sometimes two.
By then, the opponents had already cut off every passing lane.
'Damn it...!'
Floyd cursed inwardly.
He'd run as a Pulse Nine during training sessions too.
Back then, the pressure had been lighter, so he'd managed a few decent shots.
But now...
"What's wrong? Heart pounding 'cause it's been a while since you tried to shoot? Do it right, you chicken-breasted bitch."
The opposing center-back, Joshua Ramsey, was trash-talking him while marking tight.
Chicken-breast was another nickname born from his habit of hesitating in clutch moments.
And before Ramsey even brought it up, Floyd was already dragging the ball.
Not because he wanted to.
He'd just tap it forward, and suddenly the shooting angle—or even a passing lane—would slip by, forcing him to keep going.
Like missing your highway exit when you needed to get off.
It wasn't an exaggeration to say complex emotions were tangled up in his dribbling itself.
Inferiority complex about wanting to score, the pressure to deliver quality passes and chances for the team—it all weighed on him constantly.
When he turned the ball over and gave away a counter, he'd chase back desperately.
He couldn't hurt the team.
But then he'd get tangled up with his own teammates' positioning.
Technical area.
One might expect Ma Jeong-woo to be furious at Floyd's dismal performance, but instead, the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.
"Oh ho, he really is good at holding onto the ball, huh?"
The moment he said that praise, Floyd dragged the ball again and blew another chance with a ridiculous pass.
But now, Jeong-woo wasn't watching Floyd drag the ball anymore.
Instead, he stared straight at the opposing midfielders and defenders who'd been pressing him during that dribble.
Unlike at the start, their pressure was subtly weaker, and the gaps between them had widened just a bit.
'Their pressing timing... it's slipped a little, but only against Floyd.'
Not overlapping pressure so much as relief.
That the kid with the ball wasn't a real threat.
Jeong-woo could clearly see those faint tells.
Thanks to Floyd's blunt shots and passes at the end.
He thought to himself.
'These guys are nibbling at the bait, bit by bit.'
To everyone else, Floyd had put on a truly pathetic showing.
The kind that made you wonder how someone could be that bad in such a short span.
But Jeong-woo didn't see it that way.
'He's slumping, sure.'
If anything, Floyd had played exactly as Jeong-woo wanted—without even being told.
Jeong-woo had hoped Floyd would slump, if only for that short time.
That's why he hadn't given any specific instructions.
Anyone hearing the plan would've called him crazy.
Hee-won had even muttered, "Is he insane?"
Then, Jeong-woo glanced at Floyd and wrinkled the bridge of his nose.
'This is enough... time to sell the halftime acting job.'
* * *
Beep, beep, beeeeep—!
The halftime whistle blew.
Score: 0-0 for both teams.
Wooooooh—!
The home crowd erupted in boos the second the match ended.
Most of them were Bolton Wanderers fans.
It was 0-0, but Bolton had looked inferior to Gillingham in every way.
Players from both sides trudged off the pitch.
The broadcast camera zoomed in on Quick Floyd, head down, shuffling along listlessly.
The commentators kept going.
[We thought Quick Floyd's sub might be a masterstroke... but who knows. He didn't look much different from before in the first half.]
[If anything, he forced even more plays than usual, didn't he?]
[Maybe the pressure of that Pulse Nine role? Hope we see something different in the second half.]
The camera panned to Jeong-woo, just exiting the tunnel.
[The manager who dragged Bolton from the swamp up to 19th place! But... his substitutions in just this first half feel... a bit lacking, don't they?]
[Looking at the first half alone, there's gonna be a lot of talk.]
[I don't think it was even the right time for a sub.]
Jeong-woo was the type to drop bombshells in interviews and spar with reporters without a care.
Sure enough, some reporters in the press box—who'd never warmed to him—were furiously typing up articles.
[First half: Ma Jeong-woo toyed around by Gillingham with clumsy subs...!]
[Another first-half sub...! Was it really necessary?]
[Ma Jeong-woo's genius disease strikes again!? Why obsess over a second Owen?]
* * *
Halftime. Quick Floyd entered the locker room with a sour look on his face.
Short time on the pitch, but he'd given away crisis after crisis with turnovers.
Every time he dragged the ball forward only to lose it at the end, he found himself glancing at the crowd consciously.
And each time, memories from long ago flooded back.
'You fix it!'
'You're the striker!'
'You idiot! Just smash it!'
'Know how many chances you blew today?'
From his teens, when he'd briefly played striker—the scolding voices rang in his ears.
He ran desperately to shake them off.
But nothing changed.
"The owner—no, the gaffer—is coming in."
Dignity said from beside him, wiping sweat.
Floyd's face darkened further.
'Shit...!'
A few days ago, during the practice match, Floyd had run as a forward, not a center-back.
On Jeong-woo's orders alone.
But there'd been no specific instructions.
Just to play the Pulse Nine role, so Floyd had tried his best to fit it.
He figured that was right.
No corrections from Jeong-woo, after all.
Of course, he'd felt like it was the wrong fit.
Still, he'd secretly hoped.
He'd always dreamed of playing striker, not center-back.
Even if this match had crushed that hope again.
He glanced up.
Jeong-woo had already entered the center of the locker room, Hee-won and the coaching staff in tow.
Floyd quickly looked down.
He couldn't face Jeong-woo.
Part of him was dying to know, though.
'Why...?'
Why sub him in with five minutes left in the first half?
Human nature—mixed in was a sliver of resentment.
The timing felt all wrong from the start.
Before the match, Jeong-woo had said:
'Do everything you can. Don't worry about anything around you.'
Just like that, unlike usual, Floyd had given his all for the position.
He'd even tried forcing shots.
Passed too, but rushed ones that missed the mark more than expected.
'...'
Even he thought it was pathetic.
That's when it happened.
"You idiot. Who told you to solve it yourself? Why do shit I didn't tell you to?"
"...Huh?"
Floyd opened his eyes, which he'd squeezed shut.
He looked up. Jeong-woo stared at him with a sour, incredulous face.
The words from his mouth were a rebuke.
But nothing like what Floyd expected.
"Do what you normally do, but no shots. Just fake it. Drag the ball to just before their final third and pass it off—let someone else deal with it. Got it? They'll score the goals."
Jeong-woo glared, gesturing with his eyes at a few players.
Owen, Aaron Rapid, Chong-a Pak, etc.
Though he flicked his eyes at Chong-a, then rolled them away.
"More to Aaron or Owen than Chong-a."
Chong-a, whose finishing wasn't great, gave an awkward smile.
Floyd felt a bit confused.
It was so unexpected.
And the next words flipped his thinking entirely.
"What I want from you? Not goals. You're already doing it. See? Even today, in that short time, you nearly created how many chances?"
"Me?"
Floyd's eyes went wide.
He racked his brain.
Hadn't he just slumped hard since coming on?
Created scoring chances?
It didn't make sense.
Yet his cheeks flushed faintly.
In the manager's eyes facing him... trust was blooming subtly.
Jeong-woo kept going.
"Assists, secondary assists—they're all assists. Hell, drawing eyes with dribbles is part of assisting. That's all you. Part of the goal build-up."
Jeong-woo shrugged and added sharply.
"Chicken-breast? Who gives a shit? As long as we win. Better than forcing every damn thing your way."
Praise from out of nowhere.
Floyd's pupils shook.
No one had ever praised him like this.
Jeong-woo jabbed his index finger right at the stunned Floyd.
"Don't trust yourself. Trust me, you punk. And don't think you're a forward just 'cause you're up top. Think of yourself as a front-line center-back. Not saying defend up there. You do decent passing play from our defensive line anyway. What's the difference?"
Of course there was a difference.
The opponent's half meant a wave of pressure like no other.
One sliver of shooting space could lead to a goal in the final third.
Jeong-woo addressed that too.
But he negated it right after.
"But you're fine. In this league—top one—the Lucas Mouras or Lionel Messis are dribblers. They shake two, three guys easy. Right?"
Overpraise.
But it felt good.
Jeong-woo tossed it out casually, but he knew exactly how to poke at a player's psyche.
And he added:
"Know why I subbed you five minutes before halftime—not second half?"
Floyd shook his head.
No clue.
Jeong-woo met those wavering eyes straight on and answered.
"A warm-up. And paint."
"Paint...?"
Floyd didn't get it.
Jeong-woo didn't mind.
"Tactical paint—even fooling our own side."
Still no idea.
Question marks popped up over the other players' heads too.
Instead, Jeong-woo leaned on his chin with one hand, his usual logical expression in place.
"There's a saying: Fool your own troops before the enemy. But in the second half... you'll feel it yourself and get what I mean."
Then his sharp side burst out.
Jeong-woo gestured wildly, ranting on.
"So dribble like usual, shake 'em up! Front, back, left, right—bump, grind, shake it off and torment those Gillingham bastards! Fuck! Shit! Let the dog bastards hear it too! That's a real dribbler! Right? The fun's in toying with them! That's a dribbler's true virtue!"
For some reason, he looked less like a stern manager and more like a street-tough big bro covered in blood.
But strangely, it inspired trust.
Jeong-woo suddenly grabbed Floyd's shoulders and continued.
"Just drag the ball forward. Give it to those guys I mentioned. That's the real goal. Why? No space? Fine. Like first half, just blast it into the box. No need to score. Hell, don't even try. Lob it over the dead line to buy time for our defenders to reset."
Jeong-woo patted Floyd's shoulders like dusting them off, then nailed it home.
"Don't forget. I don't want goals from you. You're the aggro magnet on the pitch today. And in that short first-half time, they've already bitten your hook."
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