Tempering (1)
The club’s training ground was bustling as usual.
However, having played two matches back-to-back, only the starters from the Leicester City clash were out on the pitch for a recovery session. The rotation players who had featured in today’s league fixture had been dismissed to rest, leaving the training ground far emptier than usual.
“What is wrong with everyone today? Why are you all so stiff?”
“N-No, Boss! Not at all! Running as hard as ever!”
Dominic couldn’t even bring himself to meet Manager Gordon’s gaze.
Last night, I had compiled a quick summary of the manager’s managerial and playing career from the internet and sent it to the group chat. The results were proving remarkably potent.
“Um... Boss. Did you ever mention that you won the Champions League before?”
“Ah. No wonder everyone’s been tiptoeing around like frightened sheep. So that’s what this is about.”
When Emir finally mustered the courage to squeak out the question, Manager Gordon seemed to piece together why the youngsters, Dominic included, looked so utterly paralyzed today.
“It was nothing grand. Just warming the bench as a backup some forty years ago and picking up a medal.”
He offered a booming, hearty chuckle, waving a hand dismissively as if it were truly inconsequential, but to us, it was anything but.
Reading the cold text on a screen was one thing, but hearing “forty years ago” spoken aloud made his legendary tenure hit completely differently. It drove home just how astronomical his span in football truly was.
“That’s not all, Boss. Word is you also won the Champions League not too long ago as the head assistant coach at Bayern Munich.”
“Bah, that was all the lads on the pitch, not me. Much like our boys cruising through the league right now.”
“Speaking as your current head coach, Boss, your tactical input was overwhelmingly decisive,” Vincent interjected from his side.
Even from my perspective, Gordon exercised near-absolute authority over tactical preparations, player scouting, and club matters. That wasn’t to say Vincent or tactical coach Oleg were slacking off, of course; it was simply a testament to the immense influence the manager wielded over this entire squad.
“At any rate, does any of that change a single thing?” Gordon asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Sir?”
“Whether you know about my past or not, I remain your manager, and you remain my players. A few extra trinkets in my cabinet won’t magically put points on the board for you.”
Well, Boss, taking one look at the squad right now suggests a great deal has changed.
Dominic had practically sanctified Gordon before this, but now he looked ready to build an altar and worship him as a living deity. As for Emir and Mick, they had looked half-dead from exhaustion just minutes ago, but now their eyes shone with dewy reverence, glued entirely to the manager.
As for me, I had known all of this well before signing with the club. The encyclopedia websites back in Korea—run by people whose obsession with cataloging data verged on madness—were absurdly thorough when it came to football archives. Good luck finding another platform that neatly charted every obscure detail of a manager's career with that kind of accessibility.
“After returning from Munich, I intended to rest,” Gordon continued, a reflective look washing over his weathered face. “And I did, for nearly two full years.”
Considering there hadn’t been a whisper in the press after the brief announcement of his resignation from Munich, he truly must have lived entirely off the grid.
“Yet, the longer I rested, the more my bones began to itch. My wife told me to just enjoy my retirement, but like all fools obsessed with football, I couldn’t help getting sucked back in.”
“Is that why you took over Luton, Boss?”
“Aye, you could say that. Close to home, the owner was an old acquaintance, and molding rough-hewn players held a certain charm.”
Is that the managerial equivalent of a veteran gamer starting an alternate account from scratch at level one?
“And it’s only natural you knew so little about me,” Gordon added. “I loathe being hounded by the media. I had more than my fill of that nonsense during my Munich days. Myers... well, Chairman Myers caught an awful lot of flak shielding me from the press, poor lad.”
Only then did the pieces fall into place regarding why his pedigree had stayed so quiet around here. In this day and age, anyone who dug deep enough on the internet could trace his past, but with no prominent articles or tabloids highlighting him, most presumed he was just an obscure journeyman plucked from some remote lower league. Had I not researched him thoroughly myself, I would likely have assumed the same.
Moreover, even accounting for veterans like Captain Teddy and Allen, our average squad age at Luton Town barely scratched twenty-four. It wasn't particularly shocking that these young lads had never looked up the head assistant coach of a Champions League winner from five or six years ago. Asking them who the actual manager had been might have yielded an answer, but the assistant was another story.
“Well, that’s all there is to the tale,” Gordon concluded.
“...... Ah. Yes, Boss.”
It was clear there was much more to it than that, but at the manager’s sharp whistle, we jogged back into our drills. While the initial petrification had dissolved, the sweat dripping onto the pitch seemed to double in volume.
“By the by... who was the one who went digging up this history lesson?” Gordon muttered.
In unison, every head turned to stare directly at me.
The manager’s eyes narrowed into a glare that unmistakably read: So you’re the cheeky brat making trouble for me.
A chill crept down my spine.
The moment I opened my eyes, a sharp, acidic tang coated my tongue.
That absolute bastard had downed a mountain of orange juice before handing over the body and going to sleep. I had repeatedly told him how much I despised oranges, yet he never listened to a word I said. Sure, I had eaten avocados before bed the other day, but that had been a purely preemptive strike of legitimate self-defense.
“...... Just how hard did he run during recovery training yesterday?”
By rights, Han was supposed to have loosened up the muscles after the Leicester City match, yet my body felt noticeably heavier than usual. Sighing, I shuffled toward the kitchen.
Got caught on the wrong foot and had to do extra conditioning before leaving. Anderson said it’s nothing serious, just watch out for some muscle tightness tomorrow. I’m not particularly sorry.
— Lee Han
“Treat our body with some care, you lunatic! This isn't just your body, it’s ours!”
Of course, no matter how much I yelled, my grievance only bounced uselessly off the high kitchen ceiling. A heavy sigh escaped me.
Deciding to settle for a simple bowl of cereal for breakfast, I planned to review Han’s match footage. I carried the bowl of soggy cereal into the living room, but just as I reached for the TV remote, my phone buzzed with an incoming text.
It was Allen.
He hadn't been making many matchday squads lately, so I wasn't entirely sure what had prompted this. Han must have done something during the match to earn a free meal, but without seeing the tape, I had no clue. Maybe watching the highlights would clear it up. Regardless, replying came first.
Well, in that case, refusing free meat was out of the question.
Even if Han was the one who had earned it, why should I care?
And just like that, lunch was settled.
Thank goodness it was a proper steak instead of traditional British fare. Not that even traditional British food could taste worse than this bland health cereal, mind you.
Pocketing my phone, I settled onto the couch and queued up the match analysis clip sent by the club. Watching the tail end of the Leicester City highlights, I finally saw Allen’s goal and understood the context.
Allen’s positioning hadn’t been entirely flawless, but Han throwing himself into the aerial duel as a deliberate decoy—dragging every center-back along with him on the jump—had been spectacular. It was certainly merit enough to warrant a free meal.
Going forward, I should really tell that guy to leave a memo summarizing notable in-game moments.
Of course, seeing as I wasn’t particularly sorry either, I had no intention of writing down any notes about the steak I was about to enjoy today, seeing as no such rule existed yet.
Stone Steak House.
Following the coordinates Allen had sent, a clean, unpretentious sign greeted me at the storefront. And alongside it, an unexpected welcoming party.
“Oh! Han’s here too!”
“Allen told you he was coming, didn't he?”
Dominic, Emir, Teddy, and even Mick were loitering outside. With a lineup like this, you could easily mistake it for a full-squad Luton Town outing. Just in case, I had put on glasses and pulled a ballcap low over my brow as a disguise, but these clowns were standing in broad daylight on an open sidewalk without bothering to hide their faces at all.
“Wait... did Allen invite all of you as well?”
“Yeah. Said he was in high spirits after scoring and told anyone who wanted to come along to show up.”
“Especially me! I provided the assist, after all. I’ve more than earned my seat at the table,” Mick declared with a puffed-out chest.
According to the official match report I had checked this morning, the cross had grazed Han's head first before reaching Allen, meaning the assist had actually been credited to Han. Still, that didn't change the fact that Mick had whipped in an exquisite cross, so there was no point in bursting his bubble.
“What are you lot dawdling out there for? Get in here, quickly!”
As we stood chatting on the pavement, the front door swung open, and Allen poked his head out. Come to think of it, there was no reason to stand around on the street when we could have just walked inside. Sheepishly, we followed him through the entrance.
Despite it being the height of the lunch rush, the dining room was completely devoid of other patrons.
“Closed for private booking today. Would’ve been a nightmare if a crowd swarmed the place, wouldn’t it?”
“Closed to the public?”
“Ah, right, forgot to mention. I own the place. My wife runs the day-to-day operations, though.”
No wonder there hadn’t been a line out front. In hindsight, finding a quiet place to dine together in Luton with this group was virtually impossible. In this town, the players were essentially royalty; even while standing outside just now, a few passersby had already stopped them for autographs. I had wondered why Allen would pick a casual family-style restaurant for this gathering, but hearing that he owned it cleared up every doubt.
“The food’s already prepared, so serve yourselves whatever you like.”
True to his word, an assortment of freshly grilled meats was arranged buffet-style across a long table. Thick beef steaks glistened with moisture, radiating appetizing aromas of seared crust and tender pink meat. Glazed lamb chops showed off uniform caramelization without a speck of char, their succulent firmness on full display. Even the tasteless chicken breasts we were forced to choke down daily had been completely reinvented—tossed into a crisp salad laced with unique spices and cracked black pepper to serve as a stunning appetizer. Best of all, the charred vegetable garnishes were roasted over open flame, rendering them lean, savory, and entirely greaseless.
“I made sure to keep the fat content down,” Allen said. “We’re still in the middle of a grueling season, after all.”
“Allen, this is absolute paradise.”
“Forget coaching when you hang up your boots! Just franchise this restaurant chain instead! I swear I’ll be your best customer!”
Dominic attacked his plate with predatory ferocity, as if releasing all the pent-up sorrow of enduring months of draconian meal plans. I had never seen him eat with such unhinged gusto.
“Oh, and by the way, there’s still water, sparkling water, and fresh-squeezed juice I picked up from the juice bar a block over,” Allen added. “No sodas or sugary soft drinks, mind you.”
“Naturally.”
“If we touch soda, the fitness coach will literally hunt us down and murder us.”
“Glad you know,” Allen snorted. “I’m not particularly keen on getting murdered by the staff either.”
Laughter echoed through the dining room as we indulged in a warm, uninterrupted feast.
Every bite was so utterly divine that for a brief, fleeting second, I almost felt sorry for Lee Han.