I'm Heading Overseas (4)
“Luka, is that true?”
“What?”
“That you turned it down.”
What the hell is this racket first thing in the morning?
On the way to school for a regular weekday, every club member I ran into was grilling me about what went down over the weekend. I was the only one there at the meeting—how the fuck did the rumors spread this fast?
That bastard must've blabbed.
Fujimoto's idiotic face—Furumoto or whatever the hell—pops into my head with that stunned look he had when he left our house. Back in my past life or now, I've never been one to sweat the small stuff afterward, but having everyone swarm me like this to throw in their two cents was getting annoying.
On the flip side, it stirred up a bit of nostalgia from the old days.
Back when I was at my peak, it felt just like reporters shoving mics in my face, desperate for a soundbite from the soccer superstar.
Those were the days...
At first, it was a drag, but I ended up loving the attention. Later on—well, during my time in Japan—no one gave a shit what I said, so it got pretty lonely. Feeling that vibe again now? Kinda nice.
Am I just an attention whore? Most athletes are, anyway. Sure, there are types like Messi or some national team seniors who aren't total show-offs, but even they all say the same thing: you never forget that overwhelming high from the stadium roar.
50,000 fans. 70,000. 100,000 all chanting your name in unison—that intoxicating rush. Once you're hooked, it's like a drug you can't quit.
Me? I took it further; I craved even more spotlight. That's why even after my injury tanked my career, I couldn't stop ego-Googling myself.
“Luka?! Luka!”
“Luka! Say something! What the hell are you planning?”
They were all waiting now—pretty much the entire club gathered around, hanging on my answer. Not just the third-years; first- and second-years dying to know my plans, too. Even regular students wandering over, wondering what the commotion was.
Yes... this is it!
I flashed a sly grin, teasing them like reporters on deadline, and opened my mouth.
“Kyaaaaah!!”
“Tachibana-kun!!!!”
“Tachibana-kun looked at me! He looked!!”
...What the fuck?
The second I smiled, girls started screaming. Even at my prime as Korea's top soccer star, I only got cheers like this at the airport.
Being this handsome really is the best. Fuckin' A.
To be fair, my past-life self wasn't ugly—pretty damn hot, always top of the lists for Asian soccer hunks. But Luka? Manga artist's pet rival character. Top-tier looks in this world. Made me a tad jealous at first.
Whatever—I'm Luka now, and Luka's me. Jealousy's gone.
Anyway, I was about to put on a little “decision show” for my fans when—
“Luka! Coach wants you.”
Someone called from afar. Suzuki Hajime, Seiran Middle School soccer team's captain. Close? Nah, not really.
Luka's style was an all-consuming striker who hogged every resource. Hajime, the captain, loved building team plays as a midfielder. Styles clashed.
If I were him, I'd hate a forward who snatches the ball mid-buildup and scores. Steals your shine.
Digging through Luka's memories, no real buddies on the team anyway. Teammates? Sure, we talked—but they were just tools for my soccer.
...Am I nicer than Luka? Duh. He was a Ronaldo simp; of course I am.
“Alright, everyone, calm down. Coach called, so I'm heading out first.”
I soothed the crowd and followed Hajime to the coach's office.
“So, where you going? Heard you ditched Shinomiya.”
“Hajime.”
“Yeah?”
“Been wondering since morning—where'd you hear that shit?”
“...From the coach.”
Makes sense. That loose-lipped Fujimoto must've yapped to our coach or staff. Club members who came for weekend practice heard it from him.
I skipped school weekends scouting overseas options, so shit hit the fan without me.
“More importantly, Luka—you really not going?”
“Yeah.”
My blunt reply hardened Hajime's face. No way, him too?
“Dude, they said if I go, they'd take you too. Pro tip as your soccer senior: playing like that won't improve you. Earn your spot fair and square.”
“...Not me.”
Fair. Hajime's captain-level skill could land him a starting spot at a strong high school, no special favors needed. No reason to updongi into shaky Shinomiya.
“Then what's with the face?”
“But for the other guys...”
First time seeing Hajime like this. We weren't tight, so non-soccer talk was rare—but he was asking me for something.
“Dude, this is better for them. Tsk. What good's that? They'd just fetch water for starters, quit later, cram for exams.”
Couldn't grant that request. Wasn't why I refused, but facts are facts. Elite high school or not, they'd never make it big that way.
“Luka. Not everyone can live like you.”
“...Huh?”
“Not everyone's got your talent. Everyone's got their own path. Toru dreams of law school, Kinji wants to be a teacher...”
What bullshit is this?
Middle school soccer club means life's on the line for the game, right? Wait—Japan. Club activities often fizzle out post-high school. Right.
“You nuts?”
My head boiled over hearing that.
“...What?”
“You want me to care about those fuckers who aren't even all-in on soccer?”
I've steeled myself to lose family, friends, even die for this sport. But these guys? Just chasing better lives, stealing spots, leeching teammates.
“L-Luka, that's not—”
“Shut it.”
Lack of talent? Excuse. I ran with a 4cm leg length difference, grinding through. Quitting on excuses insults my struggle.
Couldn't stomach more from Hajime. I was right—these trash shouldn't touch soccer. It's an embarrassment.
I shoved open the coach's office door.
“Luka!”
Coach bellowed as I entered. Dad's senior from his Japan pro days, apparently. Decent coaching chops, at least.
“Hajime, out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ahem. Luka. Go to Shinomiya High. It's...”
“Coach.”
Dad's senior or good coach? Didn't matter.
“Uh?”
“I'm not going.”
“Think again. You know Toru, Kinji, Kaneda—they've got real skill. If they just get in...”
“If they're that good, they can get in themselves. Stop pimping students for deals.”
“P-Pimping? You little shit!”
“Whatever. Don't bug me about this again. I'll handle overseas myself. And if they're quitting soccer anyway, better now than later, right?”
“Luka! ...Damn, Yuichi. Raised a real piece of work.”
“Shouldn't you have coached them better? How's a team got three starters with that mindset?”
“You arrogant—!”
Coach stands, grabs an ashtray. Iberian Peninsula-conquering taekwondo kick flash through my mind—but he sets it down and sits.
“Fine. You're hot shit, like your dad. But remember, Luka—act like this, and no kicking ball in Japan.”
Threat incoming.
“Shove it up your ass. ...Shit.”
Old habits—flipped him off without thinking. Juchul hyung warned me to chill on the temper...
“You cocky little—!”
Fuck, close call. BAM! I ducked instinctively; something shattered.
Holy shit, almost died? Hyung was right—gotta tone it down.
Ashtray rolls on the floor, intact. Plastic, probably.
Plastic or not, this fucker...!
Charging at him—
“Coach! Hey! Luka! What the hell! Coach, calm down! Calm down!”
Hajime burst in, grabbing me.
“What happened?!”
Hajime yells, holding tight. Korean fury time? Nah—Dad's senior. I'll hold back. Wasn't hit anyway. Real hit? No mercy. But record could screw overseas plans.
“Call it even. You know that's attempted murder, right?”
Insult vs. murder—I'm losing, but kid like me should suck it up.
“Luka! Luka! Tachibana Luka! Hey, you—don't you walk!”
Shoved Hajime off, ignored coach, stormed out.
“Athletes are all dumb muscle. Can't control their damn tempers. ...Huh. Blood?”
Thought it was sweat. Blood? Didn't hurt much—grazed.
“Fuck. Gonna sue.”
Rushed to nurse's office.
“Excuse me... Empty?”
No nurse, door open. Hunting gauze—
Footsteps rushing in.
“Luka! You okay?!”
Brown-dyed hair, heavy makeup, necklaces, bracelets everywhere. Pretty face under it all.
Memory clicked: Mai.
“Mai?”
“Look. You're hurt?”
Seiran top-caste girl, Luka's girlfriend. No spark seeing her, though.
Not my type—half-assed makeup kid. I like Western curves. Luka dug her a bit? Original story had no such character; must've split before high school.
While I recalled, Mai grabbed antiseptic, cleaned the graze.
“Scar? Luka? What happened? Kids said you were bleeding to the nurse...”
“Mai.”
Had to say it.
“Let's break up.”
“Huh?”
Good—no sex, just kisses. Clean break fine. Overseas bound—tidy now. Dragging it when I don't care? Scummy.
“Graduating, heading abroad.”
“Wha? W-Wait, what...?”
“So, breaking up. Thanks for everything.”
“L-Luka! Where, where you going?”
Where? My decision after agonizing: simple.
“England.”
Soccer's birthplace. Where I top Messi+Ronaldo.
...The one and only.