Here I Am (1)
A chill. That was the first thing I felt the moment we landed in the United States. Of course, it wasn't the weather. It was July, the dead of summer. No, the chill came from the icy glares of my teammates.
But I was used to it. Envy and jealousy toward a genius were practically my daily bread. Their looks certainly hadn't been this cold before we boarded the plane, which left only one logical explanation.
"Hmm, did they watch my highlight reels on the plane? Well, makes sense. I got called up to the senior training camp at just sixteen. Anyone competing with me would be sweating bullets."
I had passed out the moment I buckled my seatbelt, so I hadn't actually seen them doing it, but it was the only explanation that made sense.
"...That's not it, Luka."
"I understand, Saka. You'll probably never have to experience this feeling in your entire life. But to me, it's all too familiar. The burden of your teammates' envy and jealousy, I mean."
"I'm telling you, that's really not it..."
"Oh, please. What else could it be?"
Watching Saka desperately deny the obvious, a thought crossed my mind. Wait, is he jealous too? Well, it made sense. To Saka, I was a direct rival. No matter how nice of a guy he was, he was still human. It was only natural to try and hide ugly, shameful emotions like jealousy.
But I was the adult here. My physical body might be younger than his, but mentally, I had lived twice his lifespan. I decided to be the bigger man and overlook his childish denial.
"What's with that look on your face?"
"It's fine, Saka. I get it. It's only natural."
"Man... I seriously want to punch you right now. I thought Asians were supposed to be humble..."
"Saka, you're still young, so you might not realize this, but even generalizations like that can border on racism."
"W-What? No! I didn't mean it like that..."
"It's fine, it's fine. You're still young, Saka. I forgive you."
"You're literally younger than me..."
Saka muttered under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear, but I graciously pretended not to. If I called him out on it, it would only embarrass him further.
"Alright, listen up. Here are the room assignments."
Fortunately, I didn't have to endure Saka's awkward squirming for much longer. The coach immediately gathered the squad.
Double rooms for everyone... and triple rooms for the goalkeepers? Is Arsenal that broke? Let's see. My roommate is... Theo Walcott.
Aside from our captain, Vieira, every single player was paired up. My first thought upon seeing the layout was that Arsenal's financial crisis was worse than I thought, but seeing Walcott's name printed right next to mine made the club's intentions clear.
Walcott and I were both line-breakers who relied on explosive pace. Though our technical details differed, our overall styles were remarkably similar. The coaching staff had clearly paired the prospects with established first-teamers so we could learn from them during the trip.
Saka had been roomed with Freddie Ljungberg, and Robin van Persie—who was bound to be my fiercest rival—was paired with Thierry Henry.
Meanwhile, Maitland-Niles and Reiss Nelson, who occupied more ambiguous positions in the squad, were roomed together. It was a clear indicator of just how much expectation the club was placing on me.
Not that I need this kind of hand-holding, though.
Honestly, I would have preferred they expect nothing and just let me room with someone my own age. Even without special treatment, I was entirely confident in proving my worth during this camp.
Sharing a room with a senior player with a massive age gap was bound to be a massive pain in the ass. Especially when that senior player was a direct competitor.
Besides, me learning how to play football from Theo Walcott when I literally studied Lionel Messi's playstyle in my past life is an absolute joke.
What could I possibly learn from him?
"Your name is Luka, right?"
The moment we stepped into the room, Walcott lowered his voice, trying to assert his dominance. Back in my day, this kind of primitive locker-room hazing had practically died out. It really was the savage 2010s.
"Yeah."
"I heard you were disrespectful to Thierry?"
"Thierry? Ah, Henry?"
"Yeah."
All I did was exchange a single, brief sentence with Henry before boarding because of Saka, and now I was being accused of disrespect?
Seeing Walcott throw such a ridiculous, petty jab the second we got into the room, I realized my initial assessment was spot on: I had absolutely nothing to learn from this guy.
"I never did that," I said, swallowing a sigh and stating the flat truth.
"Ha... I heard all about it from Emi, too."
"Pfft."
But the moment the name 'Emi' slipped from Walcott's lips, I couldn't hold back a snort. Walcott glared at me, completely baffled.
But as a Korean, there was absolutely no way to hold this in. Sure, I'd met plenty of players nicknamed 'Emi' during my previous life in Europe, but hearing it out of nowhere after so long caught me completely off guard.
I mean, seriously, how was I supposed to keep a straight face when it sounded exactly like the Korean slang for "your mom"?
"You laughing?"
"You've got a serious attitude problem. Watch yourself. I'll be keeping my eyes on you."
First a ridiculous accusation, and now an outright threat. I hadn't expected us to be best friends, but I hadn't wanted to make an enemy either. Still, if he was going to act like this, I wasn't about to play the submissive rookie.
"Be my guest. Watch all you want."
"..."
Besides, the spot I was gunning for belonged to Walcott. It was foolish to play nice with a direct rival anyway. Since we shared a similar profile, the manager would have no reason to field both of us at the same time.
Walcott and I were fundamentally incompatible. I didn't care if he had been at Arsenal for nearly a decade; I was entirely confident I could bench him. Football wasn't played based on seniority—it was played on merit.
After that brief clash, we unpacked our bags in icy silence until the coaching staff called for a team meeting. Having arrived in the evening, this was our final scheduled activity for the day.
"As you all know, we have a friendly against the Colorado Rapids in a week," the assistant manager, Steve Bould, announced. "And after that, we'll be heading straight into the International Champions Cup. Between now and the Colorado match, we'll be running tactical drills alongside intensive physical conditioning.
I don't want to see any idiots overexerting themselves and getting injured just to show off during pre-season. Keep your heads on straight."
With Bould's warning, the meeting concluded. The moment we were dismissed, Saka scurried over to me, already buzzing with nervous energy.
"Luka! How's Theo? He's a bit quiet, but he's alright, right? Man, I'm so stressed. I already knew it, but Freddie is really hard to deal with."
'Freddie' had to be Freddie Ljungberg, his roommate. If even the easygoing Saka was complaining, it was safe to assume a similar drama was unfolding in their room.
"Walcott, quiet? The guy wouldn't shut up."
"Huh...? Theo did?"
"Saka. Do you still not get it?"
"Get what?"
"The reason they paired us up like this. Wake up, Saka. We're all rivals here. Ljungberg isn't giving you a hard time just because he has a quirky personality—he's trying to break you.
He's the guy you have to displace. Are you really going to roll over and accept defeat before the fight even starts?"
"Wait, I never said he was giving me a hard time..."
The poor kid didn't even realize he was being systematically broken down. What a tragic soul.
"Anyway, you've got all the tools, but your soft heart is your biggest weakness."
"Being nice is a weakness?"
"You still don't see it? Well, I suppose it's a bit too early for you to grasp."
"What the hell are you even..."
"Just watch your back, Saka."
I gave Saka a pitying pat on the shoulder and headed back to my room. I was getting ready for bed when Walcott finally walked in about thirty minutes later. It wasn't hard to guess why he was late; he'd probably been busy talking trash about me to his buddies.
Since we weren't on speaking terms, I slipped on my sleep mask and remained lying down. Walcott clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"Unbelievable... The youngest kid on the squad, and he acts like this. I heard the other rookies are actually respectful. What a joke."
Yeah, keep barking, old man. Maintaining peak physical condition was crucial for tomorrow's training. I ignored Walcott's grumbling and focused on falling asleep, which didn't take long.
...But my fatal mistake was underestimating just how petty Walcott could be to sabotage my sleep.
"KRRRGHHH! Snort.Wheeze. Phew..."
Oh, for fuck's sake! Let me sleep! Was that even a human snoring? It sounded like a chainsaw tearing through sheet metal. He had to be doing this on purpose to ruin my conditioning. There was no other explanation for a sound that demonic!
"..."
What, did he choke to death? Or is he doing this on purpose?
"KRRRGHHH! Snort."
I chucked a pillow at him to see if he was actually asleep, but the snoring didn't even skip a beat. I checked the clock. It was 4:00 AM.
I jammed earplugs into my ears and tried to force myself back to sleep, but the vibrations bypassed the foam entirely, rattling my eardrums.
Once my brain locked onto the sound, sleep became an impossibility. I tossed and turned under the sheets for another hour.
Son of a... It's already 5:00 AM? I've been tossing and turning for a whole hour? Yeah, sleep is out of the question. Might as well go for a run.
Huh? Blonde hair? Judging by the windbreaker, he looks like one of our players...
In the quiet twilight of dawn, just as the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the darkness, Dennis Bergkamp—Arsenal's oldest veteran—was warming up on the hotel's jogging path. He stopped, surprised to see a figure clad in an Arsenal training kit running past him.
It was only 5:40 AM. Having just landed yesterday, most of the squad would still be struggling with severe jet lag, yet here was someone already out and pushing themselves.
Bergkamp didn't recognize the face that had briefly flashed past, meaning the boy was almost certainly one of the academy prospects called up for the tour. To see a youth player showing this level of dedication at dawn... it spoke volumes about his professional mindset.
Bergkamp had always been renowned for his meticulous self-discipline. Now that he was thirty-two, maintaining his physical condition required even more effort, which was why he had taken the initiative to start his morning routine early.
But seeing a young prospect out here training of his own free will, without any coach forcing him to, filled the veteran with a sense of pride.
Let's see who this kid is.
The boy was maintaining a light, steady jogging pace. Bergkamp gradually picked up his stride, closing the distance to get a better look. But just as he drew near, the runner ahead suddenly accelerated.
Oh? Look at him go. Bergkamp's veteran instincts told him the boy had accelerated because he heard footsteps behind him. Not wanting to look pathetic in front of a junior, Bergkamp dug in and picked up the pace to catch up.
Yet, no matter how much he accelerated, the gap didn't close. In fact, the boy was pulling away. Judging by the sweat glistening on the back of the kid's neck when they first crossed paths, he had already been running for at least ten to twenty minutes. Yet, his pace was still too fast for Bergkamp to match.
Who is this kid? How does he have this kind of pace and stamina...? Just as Bergkamp was racking his brain to identify the mystery runner...
"Whoa—!" A split-second lapse in concentration proved fatal. Running at near-maximum speed while distracted, Bergkamp lost his footing and went tumbling forward.
"Oh, jeez! Are you okay? I was wondering who was tailing me. Didn't expect it to be you, Mr. Bergkamp." Hearing the loud crash behind him, the runner finally stopped and jogged back.
Up close, Bergkamp got a clear look at his face. He was a remarkably handsome blonde youth, though not of typical Caucasian descent. His features were a striking, perfect blend of Asian and Western aesthetics.
Ah, so it's him. Bergkamp immediately recognized the boy. He was the youngest member of the tour and the hot topic of the locker room: Luka Tachibana.
The reason Luka had become such a sensation among the squad was simple. Arsenal's locker room was already a volatile powder keg. There was Cesc Fàbregas, the arrogant teenager who spat at opponents without a second thought.
Jack Wilshere, the lazy slacker who treated constructive criticism like white noise. Robin van Persie, Bergkamp's fellow countryman who had arrived only a year ago but was already causing endless friction with his abrasive attitude.
Freddie Ljungberg, the eccentric weirdo who marched to the beat of his own drum. Sol Campbell, the former rival captain and "traitor" whose world-class talent was undeniable, even if his bizarre behavior remained a mystery. And finally, Patrick Vieira, their fiery, tyrannical captain.
Even in a squad full of such difficult personalities, Thierry Henry and Theo Walcott were considered some of the few genuine "nice guys." Yet, both of them had already voiced complaints about this rookie, Luka.
Henry had laughed it off, amused that one of the academy kids had the balls to look him dead in the eye without flinching. Walcott, however, had been furious, calling Luka an insolent brat who didn't know his place.
Considering how little time had passed between room assignments and the team meeting, pushing the usually mild-mannered Walcott to his limit in that short span was actually quite an achievement.
Add to that the fact that their backup keeper, Emi Martínez, had been throwing a tantrum claiming the kid had mocked him, and Bergkamp had every reason to expect the worst from Luka Tachibana.
"See? This is what happens when you push yourself too hard first thing in the morning."
"Just how long have you been out here running?"
"Since about five? Why do you ask?"
Hearing that the boy had been running since five in the morning, Bergkamp silently adjusted his opinion of the rookie. To maintain a pace that could outrun a veteran's sprint after nearly forty minutes of continuous running required a phenomenal level of physical conditioning—the kind built through relentless, daily grind.
Moreover, to wake up at the crack of dawn on the very first day of training camp showed a level of professionalism that was highly commendable for a sixteen-year-old.
Bergkamp had always had a soft spot for hard workers. True professionals. The football world was crawling with toxic, arrogant personalities, but very few possessed the sheer work ethic required to build such a physical engine at sixteen, let alone drag themselves out of bed at dawn on day one of a grueling tour.
Well, kids these days being arrogant is nothing new. I just hope his footballing ability matches his work ethic... Then again, the boss handpicked him himself. He must have some serious talent.
"By the way, Bergkamp."
"Yes?"
"I've been meaning to ask you something. I thought you couldn't fly on planes?"
"Me? Where on earth did you hear such a ridiculous rumor?"
"No? I could've sworn I heard that somewhere... Oh, look, your knee is bleeding. Here, use this to wipe it."
Watching Luka casually toss him a towel after dropping such a bizarre question, Bergkamp couldn't help but chuckle. The kid was definitely eccentric—just like the rest of his generation.