The Napkin Contract
I had learned one new fact.
Jorge was a Tottenham fan.
"Why Tottenham?"
Of course I had to ask.
"My parents are fans, so I became one too."
That made sense. If his parents supported Tottenham, he would have grown up surrounded by the club, and the more you absorb something, the easier it is to become a fan yourself.
"So who's your favorite Tottenham player?"
"Jürgen Klinsmann."
"Why?"
"He finished second for the Ballon d'Or once, and then he came back to Tottenham near the end of his career and saved them from relegation."
I was left speechless. Jorge was singing Klinsmann's praises, and there wasn't much I could say to that. After all, Klinsmann hadn't become a manager yet, so there was nothing particularly wrong with him. The part where he later took over the Korean national team, pocketed ten billion won, and bailed was still a story for the future—it hadn't happened yet.
If anything, the Klinsmann of this era could fairly be called a German football legend. He had helped Germany win the 1990 World Cup and Euro 1996. So I had nothing to argue with Jorge about. Unless I revealed that I was reincarnated, I had no way of making him believe anything I might say.
"Yeah. Fair enough. You can like whoever you want."
"What about you, Junho? Who do you support?"
"I…"
I didn't have a particular team. In my previous life I had thought about picking one, but nothing ever really pulled me in.
"None."
Jorge looked at me like I was a unicorn.
"Really? That's surprising. Most people have a club they root for."
"Eh. It's possible not to."
"I guess so. Oh! Then how about you become a Tottenham fan with me?"
"That might be a bit…"
"What's wrong with Tottenham?"
Jorge's voice rose a little.
"Even if I end up supporting someone, that's my choice. I already decided I wouldn't pick a team just because someone else told me to."
Jorge's face fell, and he slumped.
"Well, can't be helped. I can't force you."
I felt bad for Jorge, but no matter how I looked at it, I was never going to become a Tottenham fan. If I was going to support a club, I wanted a strong one. From their last trophy—the Carabao Cup in the 2007–2008 season—all the way to the year I died in 2024, they never won a single thing again, getting mocked as a chicken shop the whole time. Football was supposed to be fun to watch, and supporting Tottenham would mean stress every single match. Rooting for a team that lifted trophies regularly would be far less painful and a lot more enjoyable. So no, I would never be a Tottenham fan. On top of that, the Octopus King who gnawed the club down from the inside lived there.
For the record, Messi was like me—he didn't support anyone either.
"Messi, you got a team?"
"Nope."
Jorge looked stunned.
"How can you not have one?"
In Jorge's world, supporting no one at all apparently made no sense.
"Just accept it, Jorge."
I put a hand on his shoulder.
"Uh… yeah. Okay. I guess that's possible."
He stammered, still flustered, but eventually accepted that some people simply didn't have a club. Spanish people loved football so much that his reaction was understandable. My own family all had teams they supported, after all. My childhood friend Park Jieun and my mother were die-hard Barcelona fans. My father rooted for Real Madrid, and my little sister was a Manchester United fan. With everyone around me cheering for powerhouses, of course I had to turn down Jorge's invitation to join the Tottenham faithful. Barcelona, Real Madrid, Man United—all of them were always fighting for first in their leagues and collected trophies like they were snacks. Tottenham? Not even close. And with a trophy-less ghost haunting that club, it was one of the teams you absolutely should never support. Even Manchester United, who tanked after Sir Alex Ferguson retired and became a punchline, still kept winning cups. Tottenham? Nothing. From the 2008 Carabao Cup all the way to 2024.
After the match against Atlético Madrid, I got closer to someone: Iniesta, who had been fighting a brutal war with his hairline since an unreasonably young age.
"You've got even less hair than yesterday… tragic."
"Hm."
I brought up his hair so often that Iniesta had stopped reacting.
"What are you thinking so hard about?"
"I was wondering how to get a girlfriend…?"
He trailed off when he saw my expression.
"Want me to tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"How to get a girlfriend."
Iniesta's eyes lit up.
"For real?"
"Yeah. I'll tell you for real."
His eyes shone even brighter. Watching him, I opened my mouth slowly.
"Get a hair transplant."
"Fuck."
"Hey, why the swearing…"
Iniesta turned his head away.
"I should've known. My fault for trusting you."
And with that, he left.
Was that not practical advice? Having hair would obviously make him more popular than he was now. Still, I figured he'd understand someday.
A lot happened after the Atlético Madrid match, but I should start with this: Messi finally signed with Barcelona, thanks to a strong recommendation from director Carlos Rexach. Whatever the process, the contract was done, and Messi was now receiving support from the club. Barcelona covered his medical expenses and provided housing for his family. Maybe that was why his face had been permanently bright lately.
"Hmm~"
He hummed and smiled at completely random times, but I figured it was a good thing.
After Atlético, we kept playing other teams and racking up experience. Messi was excellent as always, but something good must have unlocked him further—he looked even more switched on. Jorge, meanwhile, had somehow gotten even bigger. Growth spurt or not, was that even normal? Iniesta's level was jumping too. His already wide vision seemed wider, and the way he beat opponents was getting smoother by the day; little glimpses of peak Iniesta were starting to show.
I wasn't standing still either. I kept developing every attribute a striker needed, and now I was practicing how to playmake. I knew full well how valuable it was for a forward to create as well as finish, so I couldn't drop that either. Thankfully, the work paid off. The more I trained, the wider my vision became and the better I read the game. My passing accuracy climbed too.
"Before you receive the ball, turn your head and see how the opponents are moving."
Whenever I hit a wall, I asked Messi or Iniesta and filled in the gaps.
"Like this?"
"Yeah. Like that."
Before long I was holding the ball better than before. Tracking defenders in real time meant far fewer situations where I actually got dispossessed. Three or four players collapsing on me at once was still rough, but that rarely happened—if three or four of them marked me, who was left for Messi? He could slice through a crowd without breaking a sweat. So the most I ever drew was two defenders, and I had more than enough individual quality to beat two men. I punched through the gap with a La Croqueta and struck. The ball ripped the net.
"Haa…"
And once again I got to hear the opposing defenders' sighs.
We were starting to build a name for ourselves. Messi was the most famous, of course, but I wasn't far behind.
"Play that makes his age look meaningless."
"You're telling me."
More people started showing up to watch. Barcelona's youth sides always drew a decent crowd, but once Messi, Jorge, Iniesta, and I started putting on shows, the numbers jumped.
"There's a ton of people."
Messi said it while looking at the crowd outside.
"Means we've gotten famous."
"Have we? Still doesn't feel real."
"Same here, Messi."
Back when I played in K League 2, the scenery outside the stadium had been empty. Even K League 1 had plenty of vacant seats—how many people were really going to a second-division match? Almost none. Compared to that previous life, I could feel the difference in my bones. This many people were watching me play football.
I hope even more people come to watch.
And the greed grew—the desire for still more people to come see me. This place couldn't hold tens of thousands. But Barcelona's home ground could seat a hundred thousand. If I ever played there, a hundred thousand pairs of eyes would be on me. Just thinking about that many people watching me was enough to get the blood pumping. So I was looking forward to that day. I hoped it would come soon.
I opened the door and walked into the house.
"Oh, you're back."
Jieun was there again today, as always.
"What were you doing?"
"Watching Barcelona, obviously."
I glanced at the TV—sure enough, a Barcelona match was on.
"You didn't come to the game today."
"Hmm? What, were you sad I didn't show up?"
"Not really?"
Jieun studied my face and laughed, a soft little hee.
"Fine. This noona will believe you."
As she said it, she pulled my face into her chest.
"Well? Nice, right?"
It was, but my pride refused to admit it out loud.
"Why so quiet?"
My heart was pounding faster and faster. In the end, I surrendered.
"It's nice."
"Cute."
"Weren't you going to let go?"
"Nope."
"Ah…"
For a while I had to fight myself, and eventually a war broke out in my head.
Get a grip, Lee Junho. She's a minor!
Yeah, but my physical age is the same as hers, so isn't it fine?
Are you serious?
Yeah.
Haa… Fine. Think whatever you want.
In the end I decided to stay right where I was. The maternal warmth was just too much.
This is nice…