England at Last

"Ugh..."

The announcement filtered through my fading sleep. I could feel us drawing closer to the ground. The moment my mind cleared, the first thing I checked was my knee. I bent and straightened it.

The dull, throbbing ache that usually accompanied any flight was completely gone. And I had flown economy, not business or first class!

"It's so light..."

For a second, I wondered if I was dreaming and pinched my cheek. A sharp sting flared up. This was definitely reality, not a dream.

After my ACL tear, flying had always been a torturous ordeal. Tears almost welled up at the realization that I was finally free from that agonizing pain.

"Mmm... Are we there yet?"

Luna, who had been sleeping with her head resting on my shoulder, blinked her eyes open. No wonder ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my shoulder, which usually never bothered me, felt so stiff.

"Almost."

"What? Are you crying again, Oppa?"

"Who's crying?"

"Liar, you totally are. Mom—"

"Shh. We're still on the plane."

"Ah..."

I pushed Luna aside as she tried to tease me the second she woke up, and slid open the window blind. Since I was in the window seat, the sudden burst of sunlight made her scowl and try to swat my hand away, but I ignored her and stared down at the land below.

England. The country where I had spent three years of my career. And the painful ground where I had cemented my legacy as one of the greatest transfer flops in history.

After my spectacular failure at Barcelona, Newcastle had signed me on a free transfer. I did decently in my first season, scoring 7 goals in 16 appearances, but the following season, my injuries flared up again, leaving me with a miserable record of 1 goal in 9 appearances.

After that, I was loaned out to Ipswich Town in the Championship. I managed to play 20 games, but with my body already ruined by injuries, I only scraped together 4 goals.

In short, I had flopped hard in England. Utterly and miserably.

That final season at Ipswich had marked the end of my European career. Returning to the very land where my career had been declared dead stirred up a complex knot of emotions.

The injuries that crept up just as I was hitting my stride, the sorrow of wanting to do better but having my body fail me, and the boos and curses from the passionate fans who had cheered louder than anyone when I was doing well.

...Fuck.

No, it wasn't complex. It just made me scowl.

And I wanted to show them. I wanted to prove that I wasn't that kind of player. I wanted them to realize that having this body play in the Premier League was a grace the league would never witness again.

My decision to choose the Premier League as my first destination was half about picking the best team for my future, and half about wanting to redeem myself on the grandest stage of them all.

"What's with that face? You were so full of confidence before we left, but are you nervous now?"

"Nervous? Me?"

"Well, I guess after the absolute shitshow you caused back in Japan, you don't have the right to be nervous."

Hearing the word "shitshow" brought back memories of what happened before we boarded the plane. The coach and homeroom teacher visiting our house, my father holding his forehead in sheer disbelief, and my mother insisting that I should at least attend school properly.

Fortunately, after the coach and teacher left, I told my father that the coach had threatened me. He just shook his head in resignation. Naturally, I kept leaving school early right after lunch, just like before.

My mother was furious until summer break started, but in the end, since even my father was helping me train in the afternoons, the "shitshow" concluded with her giving my father a few hard slaps on the back.

And now, our family had arrived in England the moment break began. Honestly, I had planned on just going with my father, but Luna had begged to come along to see England, turning it into an unexpected family vacation.

Well, I had done more than enough sightseeing in England to last a lifetime, so my only focus was soccer.

"Well, shall we get started?"

"Huh?"

"The conquest of England."

"...Ugh, stop talking nonsense and go grab the luggage."

Seriously, girls have absolutely no sense of romance. Anyway, we had finally arrived in England.

"Big Ben! Let's go see Big Ben first!"

The place we arrived at was London, the city that boasted the highest number of Premier League teams. Currently, there were a whopping six Premier League clubs based in London.

Even if I fail the trials, I have backups. There's no way I couldn't even make it into some low-tier side like Fulham or Crystal Palace. No, actually, there's zero chance of me failing. I am Kim Taehyun, and I am Luka.

As I pumped myself up while stepping onto London soil, the excited voices of my mother and sister drifted from behind.

"Luna, don't you remember coming here when you were little? We even took photos back then."

"Photos? Oh, let's take a commemorative arrival shot! Dad! Oppa! Let's take a picture here before we go!"

It was a hassle, but since I'd be taking plenty of photos in the future, I decided to treat this as fan service. Besides, it would be good to have a signature pose associated with "Luka," so I needed to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠start practicing now.

Rather than making a fool of myself with all kinds of dramatic gestures like Ronaldo every time a camera flashed, it was much cooler to stick to one consistent pose like him—no, like Messi.

Should I just do a simple thumbs-up? Or a finger heart? Is the finger heart trending right now? If I do it first, do I get the copyright?

Creating signature merchandise with a finger heart? That didn't sound too bad either.

"Say cheese!"

I casually raised my hand and formed a finger heart.

"Let's see how it turned out... Ugh, what is this?"

"What's wrong, Luna?"

"Oppa's pose is so weird. What even is that? Where did you learn that? First you keep muttering 'shibal, shibal,' and now this? You've completely turned into a Korean. You're not a high school girl..."

"...I was trying to make a fist, but the timing was off."

"I knew it. Let's take it again."

...

Seriously, a soccer player should focus on making money through soccer. Who was the idiot who first thought of making money by creating signature celebrations? Come to think of it, Ronaldo was probably the pioneer of that.

Ronaldo really is the root of all evil... Wait, is he?

For a split second, a certain senior from the Korean national team—famous for his signature celebration and personal brand—crossed my mind, giving me a brief wave of dizziness.

But with Luna poking me in the ribs, I just flashed a standard peace sign and got the photo over with. Making sure my palm faced outward, of course.

"Shall we drop off our bags and head to Big Ben first? Aren't you guys tired?"

"Nope! I'm totally fine!"

"I'll head to the hotel and rest. I need to manage my condition."

Zzzzt.

She was just staring at me, but I could practically hear sparks flying.

...Well, in a few months, it's going to be hard to even see each other's faces. Maybe I should spend today with the family? What's that, Luka? You think so too? Alright, then. I guess I have no choice.

After a dramatic agreement between Kim Taehyun and Luka, I decided to join the trip to Big Ben. This was purely out of a brother's kind consideration for his younger sister. ...It definitely wasn't because Luna was looking a little terrifying.

"Luka, how's your condition?"

"Not bad, for now."

Day three in London, and it was time for our first club visit. I had stepped outside early to do some keepie-uppies to maintain my touch, and my father was checking in on me.

"I noticed it while we were training together, but your ball control has definitely improved. It's much better than it was during the finals."

Well, that was obvious. With all my years of experience, it would be a disgrace if my ball control wasn't better than some middle school brat's.

Besides, during my prime, my greatest strength was my stable dribbling at explosive speeds—people used to say the ball was practically glued to my feet. ...Though all of that had become meaningless after my legs became uneven.

Honestly, even with the praise, I still felt lacking compared to my prime. It had only been about three weeks since I became Luka. My original height was 184 cm, but now I was about 2 cm shorter.

On top of that, having lived for nearly ten years with uneven legs made adjusting to a normal body quite a challenge. Still, even in this state, it was more than enough to run circles around these wet-behind-the-ears brats.

Thwack!

I kicked the ball high into the air.

"Luka!" my father yelled in surprise, looking at the luxury cars filling the parking lot. But his eyes widened as the ball dropped and cushioned perfectly onto the laces of my boot.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Just showing you my condition is around this level."

"...Your trapping is far better than mine ever was."

"Come on, this is still far from perfect."

During that trap, I felt the ball bounce about a centimeter or two off my foot. In my prime, I could have deadened it instantly without it bouncing at all, so my modesty was genuine.

"..."

"Dad?"

"...Ah, right."

My father's expression looked incredibly complex, but I couldn't fathom why.

As I thought, I still need some fine-tuning.

At this rate, it would probably take about six months to perfectly sync my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mind and body. Having lived in a different body for 28 years, even six months felt like a rapid adjustment, but my goal was to shrink that timeframe as much as possible. And the goal before that, of course, was to get signed.

"Shall we go?"

"...Huh? Ah, right. Get in."

I hopped into the passenger seat, buckled up, and quickly opened UTube. On the screen was a video I always watched to calm my mind whenever something important was on the horizon.

"...A Messi highlight reel?"

"Ah, yes."

"Have you stopped liking Ronaldo? Well, I suppose Messi's style suits you much better anyway."

Tsk.

My father's constant chatter was distracting me from Messi's play, so I gave a half-hearted nod and rewound the video by ten seconds.

Wow, that is insane. How did he even do that? His opponent is Cannavaro... Wasn't Cannavaro a Ballon d'Or winner? I think he was the last defender to win it.

Since this was four years ago, Cannavaro would have been... around twenty-nine. Prime Messi versus Cannavaro. This is absolutely legendary.

Every time I watched Messi, I realized how incredibly lucky I was in this world. Even though I had watched almost every Messi video in my past life, UTube here was flooded with footage of his plays that I had never seen before. Needless to say, his play was still utterly magical. And this was prime Messi!

While I was engrossed in the video, we had already arrived at our destination. As the security barrier lifted, seven letters came into view.

And right beside it was the emblem—a cannon set against a vibrant red background.

After endless deliberation, this was the club I had chosen for my first step in this world. The club I believed could propel me to the top of the world the fastest: Arsenal.

"Look at you. I guess it's finally sinking in now that we're here. You're not nervous, are you?"

"Dad."

"Yeah?"

"If anyone's going to be nervous, it should be Arsenal."

"...?"

"Because if they want to sign a professional contract with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me, they'll have to break the bank."

"...You really are something else."

My father shook his head, but seeing his son's overflowing confidence, he couldn't help but burst into a hearty laugh.