Hale End (6)
"You cowardly bastard...!"
"Come on, since when is there cowardice in soccer? You're old enough to know better. Getting tricked is just embarrassing. If you're over thirty, shouldn't you know how the world works by now?"
"What are you talking about? I'm twenty-five."
"..."
For the first time in a while, I was speechless. Twenty-five with that face? Had I lost my touch after being away from Europe for a few years? No matter how I looked at him, he easily seemed well over thirty...
As his name suggested, he was of Eastern European descent, featuring a square jaw and a thick beard and mustache that wrapped all the way from his sideburns. There was no way that face belonged to someone in their twenties.
Wait, was he saying this just to throw me off guard? Highly likely. The U-23s were currently on the attack, and Kolasinac was constantly moving, trying to find space.
"...Seriously?"
"Yeah, you brat."
"...Hang in there."
"...?"
Kolasinac looked utterly bewildered by my response.
I'll have to be nice to him when we meet in the first team.
At any rate, the match was relaxed enough for me to have such idle thoughts. It wasn't because it was just a friendly; the players were highly motivated, fully aware that Wenger was watching. However, most of them were under twenty-three.
No matter how passionately they played, compared to the EPL tempo I remembered, it felt slow. Of course, since our team consisted of academy kids, getting overpowered physically was inevitable.
And after a few back-and-forth exchanges, our players momentarily clustered on the left side. Seizing the opportunity, Kolasinac tried to use his physicality to shove me out of the way.
He accelerated, making a run into the vacant space on our right. Right on cue, a high ball was lofted from the left, attempting to switch play to the open right flank.
"Get off me...!"
But Kolasinac's attempt was as good as dead. The moment he sped up, I matched him instantly—no, I ran even faster, successfully cutting him off.
As I positioned myself where the ball was set to land, Kolasinac began shoving me from behind. The power coming from his back was immense. But by simply lowering my center of gravity, this body easily withstood his strength.
At this rate, I wouldn't do too badly as a striker.
Of course, there were plenty of center-backs with even more monstrous physical stats, but since I could hold my own even with my previous life's physique, this body was more than enough.
The ball dropped. Players from both sides rushed toward us. Kolasinac and I jumped almost simultaneously, and I felt the heavy impact of the ball against my head.
At that moment, Kolasinac shoved me from behind, causing me to stumble as I landed. I lost sight of where my header went, but—
"Run!"
—a voice I had grown somewhat familiar with over the past three days echoed out. I immediately bolted forward. This miraculous body regained its balance the instant it stumbled, moving exactly as I willed it to.
A body that executed my commands without a single millimeter of error the very instant I thought them. I had felt it during solo training, but to have it obey its master so flawlessly in the heat of a match!
This was the very thing I had desperately yearned for ever since my career-ending injury. A tear almost welled up in my eye, but crying in a mere friendly would be pathetic, so I blinked it back and sprinted toward the ball.
Kolasinac was behind me, and an opposing midfielder was in front of me. I could tell who he was just by his hair. A flashy style with dreadlocks cascading down to his shoulders was hard to miss.
A glance at the name on his back confirmed my suspicion. Out of all the Arsenal U-23 starters, the only name that stood out vividly in my memory was Guendou... no, Guendouzi. Thanks to a name that sounded rather provocative in Korean, he was quite well-known back home.
Moreover, although we had never faced each other on the pitch, he was still active when I made my professional debut. He was probably more famous in Korea than in his own country.
In any case, Guendouzi, who had been positioned further back, was now running ahead of me. I quickly caught up and leaned my shoulder into him. Guendou... no, Guendouzi tried to shove me away with his natural strength.
But this body, which I could never praise enough, pushed right back, overpowering him.
Luka, you bastard, were you really just bullying middle schoolers with a body like this?!
My judgment was spot on. Staying in Japan with a physique like this would have stunted Luka's growth. There was nothing to be gained from playing in tournaments where raw physical dominance solved every problem. Even if I hadn't possessed him, Luka absolutely needed to go abroad.
"Urgh...!"
I heard Guendouzi grit his teeth. As I applied more pressure, he stumbled slightly, allowing me to reach out for the ball first.
However, I couldn't claim full possession just yet. Kolasinac, who had been chasing from behind, was bearing down on me, taking advantage of the split second I had slowed down while battling Guendouzi.
I heard the distinct sound of a body sliding against the grass, different from the sound of running. It was a sliding tackle from behind.
Thanks to the empty stadium, I heard it coming early. I dragged the ball back with the sole of my right foot, rolling it behind my standing leg, and flicked it diagonally to the left.
The moment I executed the drag-back, Guendouzi, losing sight of the ball, flew forward under his own momentum, while Kolasinac's sliding tackle swept harmlessly through the empty space where the ball had just been. But I had already changed direction.
That was close.
He was going for the ball, but it was still a dangerous challenge. I felt a brief flash of annoyance, but since tackles like that were dime a dozen in the EPL, I quickly calmed my mind and drove forward with the ball.
"Hey!"
I quickly whipped my head around to see Greenwood calling for the ball beside me. For the record, this wasn't the Manchester United Greenwood who had been mired in off-pitch controversies; it was a different Greenwood. His skill level was fairly average.
Still, he was competent enough to pull off a quick one-two. If I played a wall pass with him here, I could easily bypass the defender in front of me, Mustafi. There was a chance Greenwood might miscontrol or misplace the pass, but that wouldn't be my fault.
But with Wenger watching, I wanted to show something more. My opponent was Mustafi, a first-team player. If I could beat Mustafi here...!
Mustafi blocked my path, determined not to let me penetrate any further. I gave a light shoulder drop to test his reaction. I could see Mustafi's eyes darting back and forth, desperate not to miss a single movement.
Let's start simple...!
Honestly, beating a defender who was squared up in a 1v1 wasn't easy. While knocking it past him and using my acceleration had a high success rate, what I needed to showcase right now was technique, not just physical dominance.
Besides, I wasn't the type of player to pull off flashy skills like a Marseille turn or a flip-flap at top speed. I had done it a few times against the U-18s because they were just kids, but my opponent now was a first-team player from a Premier League giant.
In this situation, the only skill move I could rely on was the La Croqueta, shifting the ball between both feet to ruin the defender's timing. Step-overs and body feints were too basic to even be called skill moves, so excluding those, this was my only real option.
This was my signature weapon during my prime, the one that tore down the flanks of countless teams and prompted clubs to trigger my 200-billion-won release clause. At point-blank range, I threw in a body feint, tapped the ball with my right foot, then my left, and back to my right...!
...Huh?
But something unexpected happened. The moment the ball shifted to my left foot, Mustafi lunged. Before I even needed to touch it back to my right, Mustafi completely missed the ball and lost his balance.
A wide-open space unfolded before my eyes.
Are you fucking kidding me...
I wanted to show Wenger the absolute limit of what I could do, but seeing Mustafi crumble so pathetically made me curse under my breath. Still, I couldn't just turn back, so I drove forward and unleashed a shot toward the goal from a comfortable distance.
"Tachibana!"
"Whoa! You're the real deal!"
As the second goal hit the back of the net, my teammates rushed over and mobbed me. But instead of feeling the joy of scoring, I felt a lingering sense of disappointment.
I finally had the chance to showcase my skills in front of Wenger, yet I felt like I hadn't even shown half of what I was capable of.
Granted, since the double-touch was my signature weapon, I had polished it endlessly so I could execute it even at top speed. I had once been compared to the absolute best in this field, like Messi and Iniesta.
There was a reason Newcastle had kept an eye on me even after my career was ruined by injuries, despite my 200-billion-won price tag.
However, it was hard to say I was at 100% right now. For a soccer player, this body had the leg-to-torso ratio of a model, which shifted my center of gravity. I estimated I would need at least another year of practice to fully adapt.
Was his match fitness that bad? To crumble after just one or two touches?
No matter how good I used to be, it was bizarre for an Arsenal first-team defender to fall apart so easily. It meant Mustafi hadn't found his match rhythm yet.
Beating a player who wasn't even match-fit wasn't going to leave a lasting impression on Wenger, which made the whole thing feel incredibly anticlimactic.
"Tachibana!"
As I was swallowing my disappointment, Gillard called out to me.
"Yes?"
"Can you play as a center-forward? Swap positions with Greenwood."
"Sure, I can. Why?"
"Someone wants to see you there."
Gillard pointed upward. Wenger was still standing there. When our eyes met, Wenger offered a faint smile. I wasn't a mind reader, but that was definitely a smile of satisfaction.
"Then keep your eyes peeled."
I looked straight back at Wenger and smiled.