Chapter 96
Chapter 96
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 96
Chapter Title: Seeing the Bare Face (2)
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Paaang—!
I trap the ball with the inside of my foot and turn toward the front.
Tuk, tuk—!
While checking the movement ahead, I carry the ball forward.
On the left, senior Saponara spreads wide along the flank.
On the right, Romero, who had dropped back, cuts into the center.
The opposing defense reacts accordingly, slowly retreating while holding their positions.
There are a lot of them.
With the exception of a single forward, everyone is set deep in their defensive zone, leaving almost no passing lanes to exploit.
And yet—
Despite the sheer number of defenders, none of them rush at me, the player on the ball.
Only two or three midfielders step up, keeping their distance and blocking lanes.
From their movement, it’s clear they’ve drawn a line—allowing me to approach up to a certain point while focusing on defending space beyond it.
They must be judging that I don’t have the kicking power to score from long range.
Tuk, tuk—!
To figure out exactly where Empoli has drawn that line, I continue advancing slowly with the ball.
Still, the defense doesn’t budge.
At this point, it almost feels like a provocation—
Go on, break through on your own.
Shoot if you can.
Responding to that intention isn’t the best option, but in this situation, I have no choice but to pull back my right leg.
To draw out a defense that’s sitting heavy, I need to show them I can shoot.
Ta-tat—
I nudge the ball forward and lengthen my stride.
Only then do the defenders step up a pace.
Ignoring them, I place the ball on the top of my right foot.
Bweooooong—!
Shuuuuung—
The shot slips through a gap in the defense.
But it doesn’t go into the goal.
Paaang—!!
It’s a shot on target, but the goalkeeper dives and punches it away.
I managed to shoot through the defensive line, but the keeper wasn’t foolish—he’d sealed that gap well.
I raise a hand, apologizing to my teammates.
“Nice shot! Nice shot!”
“Good! Looks like today’s our youngest’s shooting practice day—shoot as much as you want!”
Despite the miss, the seniors clap and encourage me.
With that encouragement in mind, I head toward the corner flag, determined to deliver the next set piece more sharply.
“Alright! Let’s go!”
“Lee! Show us one!”
As I stand at the corner flag, I can hear the fans’ voices right behind me.
Focusing even harder, I scan the penalty area.
Then I raise my hand—sending the agreed-upon signal we practiced in training—and swing in the corner.
Bweooooong—!
Low and fast, so even a slight touch will drag it into the net.
Shuuuuung—
Our center-back duo charges in from behind and leaps powerfully toward the ball.
But once again, it sails just past the post.
“It took a deflection! It deflected!”
Senior Milenković, who headed the ball, protests—but even from far away, I could tell it came off his head and went out.
His appeal is cleanly ignored, and we retreat back into our half.
I sprint back to my position as well.
I was already impatient—but with the opponent fully committing to defense, that impatience only grows.
Bweooooong—!
From a slightly long distance—
A free kick from the right side of the opponent’s half is sent deep into the box.
Shuuuuung—
The ball drops into the middle of a tightly packed crowd.
In a chaotic scramble I wouldn’t dare stand in myself, the ball ricochets around like a pinball before crossing the goal line.
Another corner kick.
The scoreboard shows just over 20 minutes played, but it’s already our sixth corner.
“Whew—”
Exhaling, I jog back to the corner flag.
It’s not something I should complain about in front of seniors battling defenders in the box, but handling every free kick and corner isn’t easy.
Especially in a match like today.
“Feels like it’s time for one to go in!”
“Just shoot it directly! Their headers are off today!”
As I shake out my legs and prepare, the fans’ voices reach me again.
With so many corners in such a short time, even the fans—who were cheering wildly at first—are starting to sound frustrated.
We need to score soon.
Only then can we relieve both the flow of the game and the fans’ tension.
And since I’m the one most frustrated of all, I focus harder than ever on this corner.
“…”
Just as I’m about to start my run-up, I pause.
I’d unknowingly tensed up.
A good kick doesn’t come from forcing strength into your body.
To kick hard, you actually need to stay light and focus on the impact.
I could feel the tension in my leg, so I stopped.
“Whew—”
I steady my breathing, shake out my leg, and prepare again.
Then—
Lightly.
Bweooooong—!
The corner, struck cleanly underneath the ball, arcs toward the goalmouth.
Watching its trajectory, I know.
I see Milenković surging in from behind—and the exact point where his head and the ball’s path will meet.
Shuuuuung—
Just as expected.
Paaang—!
Thwack—!!
At last, Empoli’s net ripples.
Waaaaaaah—!!
The stands erupt.
I clench my fist quietly and exhale.
There’s still a long way to go…
But at least we’ve got one.
I thought scoring first would completely change the flow of the match.
No matter how defensive Empoli’s tactics were, I didn’t think they could maintain that posture after conceding.
But until halftime, Empoli never changed shape—continuing to defend deep and occasionally counterattack, frustrating us.
“Good work, good work!”
Back in the locker room, encouraged by the seniors on the bench, I collapse heavily into my seat.
My legs feel heavy.
For several reasons.
I’d spent a lot of time on the ball today, and handled many set pieces.
On top of that, I’d invested heavily in the pre-match warm-up—it felt less like 45 minutes played, and more like 70.
Maybe it showed, because the trainer hurried over and started massaging my legs.
“How is it? You okay?”
“Of course I’m not.”
The coach asks about my condition first, but the trainer snaps back irritably.
The coach turns to me with a troubled look.
“Do you think you can keep going?”
His voice is full of consideration—but to me, it sounds a little… cruel.
Honestly—
It is harder than usual, but it’s not like I can’t run anymore.
More than anything, I don’t want to come off now.
Even with one assist, the match isn’t over—and it’s nowhere near enough to make up for recent poor performances.
Resting now might ease my body, but my heart would be restless.
I feel like I need at least one goal to be at peace—yet my legs feel unbearably heavy.
In this situation, the coach giving me the choice feels unfair, despite his intentions.
“I’ll try a bit more. If I can’t, I’ll raise my hand.”
“Alright. I’ll keep a sub ready. Signal anytime.”
“Yes.”
That was the compromise I managed to find among my conflicting desires.
About ten more minutes—
Focus everything I have, score one goal, then rest.
It may not be ideal, but it’s the best option right now.
“You really should rest now,” the trainer says worriedly.
I force a smile to silently refuse.
I’m afraid of seeing fans who came expecting to watch me play walk away disappointed.
They say 1–0 is the most dangerous score in football.
0–0 is neutral.
2–0 offers some breathing room.
But 1–0—one goal, and it’s instantly level.
And when that happens, momentum swings to the team that equalized.
In many ways, a 1–0 lead barely feels like a lead at all.
So when the second half begins, we don’t let up the pressure—
And I sharpen my focus even more, searching for gaps.
My legs feel like they’re pushing me from behind, screaming that time is running out.
Paaang—!
Paaang—!
We exchange lateral passes, probing the static defense.
They’re relentless—truly relentless.
For the first time, I find myself regretting Vlahović’s transfer.
If we had someone who could battle in the center like that… but now, it’s tough.
Tuk, tuk—
In the end, I advance slowly with the ball.
I’d already mapped out the zones I could enter during the first half, so reaching that line isn’t difficult.
The problem is beyond it.
I’ve tried a few long shots to threaten them, but they don’t budge.
They must think conceding a shot is safer than getting dragged out of shape.
If only I could smash one in right now…
Frustration builds, and I push the ball forward.
Ta-tat—
I lengthen my stride and swing my right leg hard.
Bweooooong—!
But the shot doesn’t even reach the box.
A defender throws his body in, unafraid, and blocks it with his head.
And the rebound angle—
It’s bad.
The ball flies out far with the force of the shot, rolling right to an opponent’s feet.
He checks his options, clearly looking to play it forward immediately.
I don’t hesitate.
Ta-ta-tat—!
Since my shot created the danger, I have to take responsibility.
I grit my teeth and sprint—
And my calf screams.
My face contorts, but I can’t stop.
Ta-ta-tat—!
As the opponent waits for movement ahead, I reach him from behind and stretch my leg, poking the ball away.
A defender joins in, and after a brief scramble, the ball deflects off a foot and goes out for a throw.
As play stops—
I collapse to the ground.
I didn’t want to—but my calf forced me down.
“Slowly, slowly.”
Supported, I walk toward the nearest touchline.
As much as I don’t want to accept it, the medical team tells me I can’t continue.
“Ha… damn it.”
The trainer is furious.
The seniors gather, full of concern.
But absurdly—
Even then, I worry about the fans watching me.
Before my throbbing calf.
With each step toward the stands, I lower my head further.
I’m afraid that if I look up, I’ll see disappointment in their eyes.
The stadium has been eerily quiet—it must mean they’re disappointed.
But—
When I finally reach the touchline and sit down for treatment—
I hear voices I didn’t expect.
Not sharp voices.
Warm ones.
“Don’t get hurt! If you get hurt, our hearts get hurt too!”
“As long as it’s not serious, it’s okay!”
“We’re sorry! We’re sorry…!”
“This damn team, making such a young kid carry everything.”
“You’ve done enough—don’t push yourself! We just want to see you play healthy!”
It’s strange.
Strangely, those voices pierce my ears as if spoken right beside me.
And they stab deep into my heart.
“…”
I have to clench my teeth.
So hard my jaw aches, holding back what’s about to burst out.
I finish treatment and stand.
I could’ve taken the stretcher, but I could walk—and I wanted them to see that.
“You’re the best!”
“Don’t push it—please!”
“The team can lose, but you can’t get hurt!”
Since I exit on the side opposite our bench, I have to walk halfway around the pitch—slowly.
The fans’ voices keep striking my chest.
So I bite down harder.
They weren’t disappointed.
They were cheering.
And through their voices, I feel something.
I suddenly remember Jiwoo, angry about showing her bare face—and how I couldn’t understand her.
Why chase perfection when being yourself is enough?
But wasn’t I doing the same thing?
Making people think that way about me.
“Let’s go straight in.”
I reach the bench, but don’t sit—I’m taken off for examinations.
“…Coach.”
“Hm?”
Only after entering the tunnel, out of the crowd’s sight, do I apologize to the trainer supporting me.
“I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay.”
But I can’t finish.
What I’d been holding back spills out.
“I should’ve been firmer with you.”
I bury my face into his chest and cry like a child.