National Team Call-Up
I saw articles already jumping the gun.
Mm. I'd already chosen Spanish nationality, so watching people get this worked up made me laugh.
Do a little research, would you.
They probably figured that since both my parents were Korean, I'd naturally taken Korean citizenship. But as someone who had already seen what the future Korean FA would get up to, I had decided that dipping my feet into a football system drowning in corruption was the worst possible move.
So I chose Spain.
And by now, Spain felt more like my country than Korea ever had. I had no family left in Korea, but in Spain I had found family—good family. And I'd met a precious childhood friend who was now my girlfriend, too.
"Congratulations on your debut."
Jieun smiled at me like a blooming flower as she offered her congratulations.
"It's a little disappointing. If I'd known I was going to play, I would've given you a ticket and told you to come watch."
"Well, what can you do? You didn't know you'd be starting the opening match, right?"
"True, but still."
Even with Jieun's comfort, my expression wouldn't settle. She took my face in both hands and pulled me into her chest. I didn't resist—I just buried my face against her, and the soft warmth of her was unmistakable.
"Well? Feeling better?"
The way she said it, with that mischievous little smile, left me no choice but to feel better. It helped that her mother was Spanish, so Jieun carried Spanish DNA—she'd inherited her mother's build almost exactly: slender arms and legs, with a chest and hips closer to a Western figure. Of course burying my face there felt good.
I was still savoring that soft feeling when it happened.
"Oppa, did you eat my pudding?"
My little sister opened the door and walked in.
"Oh? Ah—sorry for interrupting. Have a good time!"
She took one look at the two of us, slammed the door at the speed of light, and vanished. Seeing that, neither of us could help bursting into laughter.
"One hundred!"
At last, Messi managed a hundred keepy-uppies with a banana.
"Whoa. You actually pulled it off, Messi."
Honestly, juggling a banana was so hard I figured he'd give up in no time—but after four years of never quitting, he'd finally hit a hundred. I hadn't seen that coming.
"You did it."
Jorge said it as he picked the banana up off the ground.
"It's been a long road."
Messi's face was full of the pure satisfaction of having done it. Well, if I'd spent four years chasing something and finally succeeded, I'd look like that too. I got it.
"So one of us achieves something after four years, and another one of us loses his hair."
Iniesta cut in between us.
"But I got a girlfriend."
"Did you blackmail her?"
"Why on earth would a beauty like that go for a bald guy……?"
Messi and Jorge's fact-check assault turned Iniesta's face red.
"We like each other. That's why we're together."
Iniesta pushed back, but nobody bought it.
"Hold on—what if he paid her to pretend to be his girlfriend?"
"That tracks."
"I'm seriously getting mad now?"
Iniesta looked ready to actually blow up, so we cut the jokes.
"Haa. Talking to you guys is exhausting."
Iniesta sighed and kept going.
"The coach called everyone. We're playing a match."
At that, we moved right away—toward the pitch.
By the time we got there and walked in, everyone else was already waiting. We hurried to the back and stood in line, and Ronaldinho asked Messi,
"Why so late?"
"We were a bit far out, Dinho."
"Alright, then. Can't be helped."
While Messi and Ronaldinho traded a few words, Coach Frank spoke up.
"Let's split into two teams and play a match so we can get a feel for each other's level. I'll balance the sides myself, so don't worry."
Coach Frank started dividing the teams at once—and Messi, Jorge, and Iniesta all landed on the other side.
"Ah……"
Messi tried to comfort me when he saw my look of despair, but it didn't help. Of course it didn't—Jorge was on the other team.
Someone might ask why I was fussing about Jorge when Messi was the better player. There was a reason I couldn't help it. For one thing, I was a striker, so I barely ever ran into Messi. I played up top, and he stayed high as well—how often would we even meet? The defenders stuck with marking him would suffer, sure, but that was their problem. So when Messi was on the other side, it wasn't that scary.
Jorge was different.
At seventeen, his muscles were still ripening, and his height was closing in on the mid-one-nineties—finding anyone taller than Jorge was hard. And despite the impression that tall guys must be slow, his speed was excellent. He was the kind of defender who planted pure despair in a striker's heart.
Man, I want to be on that team……
The match kicked off.
Thankfully, Coach Frank kept his word about balancing the sides. In exchange for Messi, Jorge, and Iniesta on the other team, mine had Ronaldinho, Puyol, and the rest. Thanks to that, the game stayed tight.
Messi was being Messi, but our back line's sheer defensive power—and a bit of luck—managed to keep him in check. Iniesta was putting on plays that made you understand exactly why he was a starter, tearing free with moves that drew gasps, though he still couldn't finish. And Jorge was marking me exclusively.
Shit.
I went flying through the air.
"You okay, Junho?"
I took Jorge's hand, got up, and ran through my situation. Every time I received the ball, it felt like a truck had hit me from behind. Jorge was fast, but he was still slower than me, so I tried to beat him with pure speed—only for him to use his body at just the right moments and lock me down completely.
But my team didn't only have me. We had Ronaldinho.
"Dinho!"
I didn't take the ball coming my way—I one-touched it straight to Ronaldinho. Jorge tried to cut it off, but no one is faster than the ball, so my one-touch pass reached him clean. Ronaldinho took it, glanced back at the two players closing in, then slid a phantom dribble right between them. Both men were beaten in an instant. With open space secured after beating the pair, Ronaldinho didn't hesitate—he struck, and the ball hit the net.
"Nice finish."
"Your pass was good too."
Ronaldinho and I traded compliments over the play. Other players came over to celebrate while we were at it—but my mind was somewhere else. In the middle of the congratulations, I looked at Messi.
He was smiling.
Ah……
Under that uneasy feeling, the match restarted. The second it did, Messi put on one insane play after another and scored—and just like that, we gifted him five goals and got utterly demolished.
After the match, on the way home, I was walking with Messi, Jorge, and Iniesta. As we went, I kept feeling people's eyes on us—and that was inevitable. Jorge alone, mid-one-nineties with ridiculous muscle, would have drawn plenty of attention. Put Messi, who was in the one-sixties, next to him, and the contrast looked like an adult walking with a child. Add me looking relatively normal on one side and bald Iniesta on the other, and the aggro was off the charts.
What kind of combo is that?
He looks young, but his head's already empty……
The four of us pulled every stare on the street, but none of us cared. After four years of walking around as a set, the looks had always followed—we were used to them by now.
"I'm hungry."
"Go home and eat."
"Guess I should."
Jorge said he was hungry, and I told him to head home for food.
"Messi, I heard you got a girlfriend?"
"Uh…… yeah."
"I'll tell you what you need to do from here on out."
Beside us, bald-but-has-a-girlfriend Iniesta and freshly-girlfriended Messi just kept talking.
At that same hour, something unexpected involving Lee Junho was unfolding in Korea.