Tempering (2)
How much time had passed?
The heaps of steak that had once piled high on the table had long since disappeared into the stomachs of vigorous young athletes, leaving behind nothing but shallow pools of crimson jus on the empty platters.
Stuffed and content, we gradually settled back into our chairs and began trading stories. Naturally, Dominic, our favorite target for banter, became the opening topic.
"Hey, do you have a girl in your life or what?"
To put things into perspective, aside from our player-coach Allen—who single-handedly spiked our squad's average age—the rest of our group was firmly in their early twenties. Even without a drop of alcohol, when a bunch of young lads gather over a hearty meal, conversation inevitably drifts down this predictable path.
Sure, we could have talked about football, but after coming all this way on our day off, making football the very first topic would be thoroughly depressing.
"Where would I find the time for that? Shuttling between the training ground and home drains all my energy as it is."
"Says the bloke who spent his entire first season sneaking off to London clubs every weekend. Unbelievable."
"Th-that was just an adjustment period!"
Caught out by my pointed remark, Dominic flushed in flustered embarrassment, desperately scrambling to argue that he was a changed man now. In fairness, after a few months of that, Manager Gordon had thoroughly overhauled his character. Reborn through that tough love, Dominic had become surprisingly diligent compared to the typical South American party boy stereotype.
"What about you, Han? You're the one I'm really curious about. Do you seriously not have anyone? Come on, there's gotta be someone."
"...Hmm."
Dominic's question struck a sore spot. It wasn't that I had nothing to say, but rather that things were a bit too ambiguous to explain.
"Seeing him hesitate like that definitely means there's something," Mick remarked with a dry chuckle over a sip of fruit punch. Having married young, Mick held absolute immunity in discussions like this; neither I nor Dominic could touch him.
Hiding behind Mick's impenetrable shield, Dominic immediately launched a barrage of questions at me.
"Who is it? Really? Come on, how did you two meet?"
"...Back off, you lunatic."
"I think I might know," Teddy chimed in with an uncharacteristically sly grin, gazing at the wide, sparkling eyes turned toward him. Judging by how frantic Dominic looked while Mick simply smirked, Mick seemed to have caught on as well.
"Well, I'm truly touched to discover you boys actually possess some situational awareness."
"Listen to this guy. You're the one who's completely oblivious," Mick scoffed, shaking his head.
To be fair, Han hadn't actually caught on yet, so Mick wasn't wrong. But either way, I knew.
"Count me out of that category. I've got plenty of tact."
"...So you know?"
"How could I not?"
Why on earth would the vice-chairwoman drop by at such odd hours under the pretext of 'inspecting facility upgrades'? It hadn't happened just once or twice, either. Every single time she came by, she lingered around, making sure she ran into Han at least once. Anyone who couldn't see it had to be an idiot.
Which meant Han really was an idiot.
The oblivious fool.
"How far along are you two?"
"There's nothing to progress—we haven't even started anything!"
"...Man, you really are something else."
Even the paparazzi had given up on me. Nothing had managed to pierce my clockwork daily routine yet. Of course, who knew what the future might bring.
"Sort out your own love lives, you lot," Allen interjected smoothly, chiming in on our idle chatter. At thirty-seven, he clearly couldn't bear listening to the pathetic dating lives of twenty-somethings any longer.
"Coming from a married man, that just makes it more depressing..."
"Does it? Well, moving past that... thanks to you boys, it looks like I might finally taste promotion and see what the Premier League feels like." Chewing and swallowing the final bite of steak on his plate, he continued, "It beats me how a bunch of kids so young managed to plug every hole this squad had."
"That's all thanks to the gaffer. We only ended up here because he talked us into it."
"Though, to be fair, we played our parts brilliantly too."
"This is the part where you stay humble, you idiot Dominic."
"Giving credit where it's due is just being honest!"
"Haha. Aye, Dominic has a point, and so does Mick. You're all doing a cracking job." Relying on the seasoned authority of a man pushing forty, Allen broke up Dominic and Mick's petty bickering with a jovial laugh. "The reason I called you lads here today is because you're still young."
Only then did we begin to understand why Allen had gathered us for lunch.
"Barring any major disaster, considering the gaffer's tactical acumen and your sheer talent, this team will win promotion."
"Most likely, yes."
Some might call it arrogance, but it was fair to say our current side was virtually complete—at least by Championship standards. Our defensive line was anchored by veterans enjoying their second prime, while the midfield was commanded by Captain Teddy—an all-rounder whose attributes filled out the entire hexagonal chart at this level—supported by specialized players Gordon deployed to perfection.
And up front, awkward as it felt to boast, Dominic and I shared an almost telepathic chemistry, burying goals game after game. Whether this squad would hold its own in the Premier League remained an open question—our upset against Leicester City might well have been a fluke—but within the Championship, barring an unforeseen plague of injuries, we had no apparent weaknesses.
"If we do secure promotion, nobody knows what will happen to this team. Some might renew their contracts, while others might move on."
"..."
"Selfishly, I'd love nothing more than for all of you to stay, but I've seen far too many cases to know how hard that is."
Faced with Allen's wistful smile, we could only maintain our silence.
"And if—God forbid—we actually fail to go up, things will turn far worse. Looking at how this club handles transfer windows, the moment the board sees your skyrocketing market valuations, they won't even hear the fans' screams."
He was entirely right. Luton Town wasn't on the verge of bankruptcy, but cash flow was far from smooth. In our current financial state, the club simply didn't have the muscle to retain us against massive outside bids. Promotion was the bare minimum to draw in lucrative sponsorships and unlock deeper investment from the ownership. Otherwise, the only other way money would appear was if the owner suddenly went mad and dumped an injection of private funds.
"So what I'm trying to say is... Ah, hell. It's too bloody hard being serious." Throwing his hands up, Allen downed his glass of sparkling water in one gulp and barked, "I'll put it plain and simple! Don't let a few wins go to your heads just because you're young. Finish this season properly, with zero regrets, and seal a clean promotion! Can you do that?!"
"Just promotion? We're going for the title!"
"Haha, aye! That's the spirit! Win the bloody league and march into the Premier League!"
"Yes, sir!"
In an instant, the dining room exploded back into lively clamor, as if the heavy silence had never existed.
"If you win the title, free steak for life for every single one of you!"
"Whoooo! Allen, you legend!"
"Title or bust! Title or bust!"
"Steak! Steak! Steak!"
There wasn't a drop of liquor at the table, yet somehow everyone seemed rowdier than if we'd downed an entire keg.
Late afternoon arrived, with the sun casting its warm, golden decline. Kenilworth Road, the home ground of Luton Town FC, rested in serene silence.
"I'm going to die of exhaustion..."
Having just wrapped up a meeting despite it being the weekend, Adelia Myers sighed deeply and collapsed onto an empty stadium seat. Setting aside the baffling mystery of why a promoted club still had no money, there was simply far too much work on her plate.
The media-related affairs, in particular, gave her an agonizing headache the more she dealt with them. The manager adamantly refused to let his past career become tabloid fodder until they actually earned promotion to the Premier League. Meanwhile, Lee Han generated a tidal wave of coverage—especially across Asia—simply by existing. She had to run herself ragged just shielding the squad from disruptive media circuses.
To make matters worse, other clubs circled their players like starving vultures, making her temples throb with stress. Clubs lining up to pay double Lee Han's buyout clause could fill an entire lorry, and Dominic Moss, after his sensational campaign, was another prime target on everyone's shopping list. Naturally, formal inquiries for their other starters were flooding in as well.
"Still, they're playing so well that I can't complain..."
For a club that had spent decades bouncing like a yo-yo between League One and the Championship, watching them run riot near the top of the table was nothing short of deeply moving.
"...Should I just close my eyes, bite the bullet, and beg Father for the cash?"
If she did, the club wouldn't risk losing key players over pure wages, and they could hire additional front-office staff commensurate with Championship operations, easing her burden considerably. Of course, whether her father would actually open the purse strings remained to be seen.
Sighing repeatedly as she cracked open a beer can, using the sunset over Kenilworth Road as her humble companion—
"If anyone finds out about this later, we're dead meat."
"We'll leave that problem to future us! It's just a quick kickabout, what could go wrong?"
A distinctly suspicious conversation drifted across the pitch.
It had all started innocently enough, merely an attempt to aid digestion with some light exercise. True to Allen's football-obsessed nature, a miniature pitch was nestled behind the steakhouse. Guilt-ridden over how much meat we'd gorged on, we began lazily knocking a ball around to clear our consciences.
"Oi! Block him!"
"Why the hell did you hit it that hard, you psycho?!"
"It's going over the fence!"
Of course, with professional footballers' boundless pride and competitiveness, what began as a casual cooldown quickly escalated into a heated scrap. An inevitable catastrophe, really.
"Boys... how about you take your playtime outside?"
Sure enough, after shattering a windowpane, Allen's wife politely escorted every single one of us out the front door. Allen, naturally, was expelled alongside us.
"Hmm. Seems a bit anticlimactic to call it a day here, don't you think?"
"Spot on, Skip! Han's been acting cocky just because he's gained a bit of footwork lately—he needs a proper lesson!"
"Shut up, Dominic."
Since we all lived nearby, none of us had driven, leaving our noisy crew to wander aimlessly down the streets while constantly bickering. A few locals recognized us along the way, but watching us look as though we were on the verge of a fistfight—or rather, actively engaged in one—they sheepishly asked for autographs and photos before scurrying off. Striking up a conversation was clearly off the table.
Perhaps worried that letting this drag on might produce headlines tomorrow about squad disharmony, Teddy offered a captain's solution.
"If you lot want to settle it so badly, let's head to the stadium and have a proper match."
"Oi, I told you, we can't just sneak into the stadium!"
"It's the closest venue by far. Besides, back when we were in League One, we used to do this all the time. It'll be fine."
Our vice-chairwoman had done a commendable job stamping out the slapdash management practices from our third-tier days, but regrettably, the captain's mindset was still firmly anchored in the past. And the biggest problem of all was that our group lacked a single sensible soul capable of steering an errant captain back onto the right path. Absolute bunch of blockheads.
"The groundskeeper is going to tear into us if he catches us on the pitch. Are you sure about this?"
"What's the worst that could happen? The training ground's way too far."
"Yeah. Can't be bothered trekking all the way out there."
My timid objections were instantly rejected and returned to sender. Swept along by the collective madness, I found myself arriving at Kenilworth Road after a brief stroll. Passing down familiar passages, the captain somehow procured a key and unlocked the gate that had been barred for the evening.
It seemed I'd just discovered another relic of slapdash administration to report to Miss Myers.
At any rate, we stepped out onto the pitch where we spent half of every season. The verdant turf was bathed in the crimson wash of dusk.
"Where's a ball?"
"There's one rolling over ther—oh."
Right where my finger pointed, a stray ball sat resting near the touchline. And just above it in the stands sat Miss Myers, who had taken a swig of beer only to spit it out in shock.
"What on earth are you all doing here?!"
"..."
Busted.
At her shriek, we spun on our heels and bolted for the exit, but our bid for freedom died in the car park when we walked straight into Manager Gordon.
Manager Gordon looked at our sheepish, single-file line and let out a heavy sigh.
"So. Did you have fun?"
"We're sorry, Boss."
"Technically, we got caught by Vice-Chairwoman Myers the second we walked in, so we didn't even get to pla—"
"Read the room, you moron."
"..."
Once again, Dominic opened his mouth when silence was golden, earning sharp rebukes from both Mick and me.
"How could you just run off like that?!"
As Gordon lectured us on how painstakingly the groundskeeper tended the turf and demanded that any extra sessions—formal or otherwise—be kept strictly to the training ground, Miss Myers came hurrying out of the stadium into the parking lot, catching up to us at last.
"Are they docking our wages?"
"Surely not over something like this."
"You never know with management."
The murmurs ceased as she closed the distance.
"I-I didn't come out here to make a massive fuss over this..."
Evidently, she had caught wind of our nervous whispering on her way over. Sensing the chilling atmosphere—largely radiating from Manager Gordon—she swiftly pivoted the topic.
"I just ran out to encourage you all and say how much I enjoyed your recent performances, including the Leicester match!"
With that hurried preface, she began rattling off praise not just for the obvious highlights from our league games and the Leicester cup clash, but for nuanced tactical adjustments and off-the-ball movements that hadn't even led directly to goals.
"Ahem. Seeing our boys flying so high made me ramble on a bit too long. I'm sorry for holding you up when you must be busy. Best of luck in the next fixture! Fighting!"
Realizing how long she had been speaking on her own, she flushed lightly—surely just a reflection of the sunset—and beat a hasty retreat from the car park. Watching her scurry away, she seemed less like a high-powered club executive and far more like an enthusiastic football supporter. Perhaps the faint aroma of beer wafting from her contributed to that impression.
Once Miss Myers had vanished from sight, Manager Gordon spoke.
"What did the chairwoman just say?"
"...Uh... 'Fighting'?"
"She said she hopes you win."
A chill of ominous dread ran down my spine.
"And what should we do to ensure we win the next match? Especially when we're facing the side sitting second in the table?"
"...Training, Boss?"
"Glad we're on the same page."
And so, following our grimly preordained fate, we were marched straight to the training ground. It wasn't an intense tactical drill, but training on a scheduled rest day was thoroughly demoralizing all the same. Well, on the bright side, our heavy lunch was thoroughly digested.
During our breather, Dominic—whose mouth was apparently fitted with an unbreakable motor—sprawled across the turf, grinning like a sly imp.
"...By the way, did you notice she talked about you the most?"
"Of course she did. Why wouldn't she?"
I was the team's top goalscorer and led the squad in attacking contributions by a mile. Aside from defensive stats and dribble success rate—and even those had improved noticeably—I topped virtually every advanced analytic chart. It would have been stranger if she hadn't talked about me.
"You know damn well that's not what I meant."
"Can't hear you, lalala."
"Oh, aren't you special? Go on then, live your whole life like a brick wall."
"Now you're just cursing me."
All in all, another wonderfully peaceful day.