Preparing for Winter (Part 2)
Dr. Anderson Lane, chief team doctor of Luton Town FC, had spent the past two days agonizing over the medical results from Lee Han’s mid-season checkup.
Considering that a standard physical review rarely took more than two or three hours per player, this prolonged scrutiny was bordering on unprecedented. That was precisely why he had summoned the striker back to the clinic in person.
“Han, I know this might sound offensive, and I know it’s rude, but as a physician, I have to ask.”
“...Ask what?”
Fresh out of the CT scanner, Han eyed him warily with a puzzled frown.
“Are you using any kind of illicit substances?”
“No. You know I only take the vitamins you hand me specifically so I never fail a doping test.”
Han grimaced. He had already spent over two hours undergoing tests today, and hearing that sort of question was bound to make any professional athlete uneasy.
“Is there something wrong with my body?”
“No, quite the contrary. You’re completely fine. The fact that you’re too fine, that there’s absolutely nothing wrong, is the problem.”
“...Excuse me?”
“Normally, by the end of the first half of a season, a player’s muscles are exhausted and their stamina drops off a cliff.”
Yet what did Han’s test results show?
If anything, he had developed subtle muscle groups he rarely used before. His flexibility—the very first attribute to deteriorate under chronic fatigue—was steadily increasing, and his recovery rate was verging on the scientifically absurd. In particular, during a brutal stretch that rivaled the Boxing Day schedule—League Round 18, an FA Cup tie, and League Round 19 in rapid succession—his muscular tissue had staged a miraculous overnight regeneration.
A comparative chart placed next to the rest of the squad illustrated the sheer absurdity of the discrepancy.
“Han, look at this. It’s a simplified chart tracking your physical recovery over the past three seasons.”
During his maiden campaign in EFL League One, there were only one or two sporadic spikes where the line graph suddenly leaped. Last season, after promotion to the EFL Championship, those spikes climbed to five or six. And in the current season, with only the first half completed, his recovery rate was bouncing around like a wildly volatile cryptocurrency chart.
“No matter how many times I look at this, it defies medical logic. A normal human’s recovery curve follows a predictable baseline. Yours doesn’t have one at all.”
“...Uh. Right.”
Anderson, evidently brimming with pent-up academic curiosity after forty-eight hours of obsessing, launched into an impassioned lecture on the physiological anomalies of Han’s body. To Han, however, the jagged chart told an entirely different story.
...My recovery skyrockets every time we swap control.
Checking the timeline in his head, the sudden surges coincided perfectly with every switch between him and Lee Yeon.
No wonder I felt so weirdly refreshed the morning after a match whenever Yeon took over.
In truth, Han had harbored suspicions for a while. Returning from national team duty, or whenever he hadn’t literally trained himself to the brink of collapse, his typical muscle soreness had mysteriously vanished. Suspecting was one thing, but confirming it was another. Looking at Anderson’s charts, Han was now absolutely certain.
Naturally, he couldn’t very well divulge the true cause to Anderson, so he opted to keep his mouth shut.
“Are you listening, Han? You see, muscle regeneration is often tied to psychological factors—”
“Yes, yes, I hear you. But I should probably stop you there, Dr. Lane. I have an appointment with Acting Chairwoman Myers.”
Calling it an appointment was a generous stretch—it felt more like dropping off a wish list in the club owner’s suggestion box—but it was the perfect excuse to slip away from this suffocating interrogation. Fortunately, before he was a research-crazed scholar, Anderson was a man of basic common sense.
“Ah, is that so? Then off you go. At any rate, setting aside the anomalies I mentioned, you’re in peak physical condition, so don’t worry yourself sick.”
“Understood.”
“And if you ever find some spare time, would you mind helping me with a research paper? Just your biometric data, and that sort of thing...”
“Maybe much later. I’ll think about it after the season ends.”
“Tsk. Fair enough.”
The way the doctor gazed at him like an abandoned puppy in the rain was a little heavy on Han’s conscience, but self-preservation came first.
After nearly three years of coming and going, Kenilworth Road had grown deeply familiar and dear to Han.
Looking out at the staff parking lot from the passenger seat, I worked the stiffness out of my limbs with a slow stretch.
“You have to hand it to Miss Myers. Busy as she is, taking the time to check in on every single player shows how much love she has for the club.”
Wooseung hyung, acting simultaneously as my football agent and personal chauffeur, spoke as he smoothly guided the car into an open bay.
“To be exact, the actual owner couldn’t care less. It’s only Miss Myers, the acting owner, who pours her heart into it.”
“True enough. They say the family supports Luton Town, but for all his wealth, Ernst Myers barely opens his wallet for us.”
“That’s why everyone in the dressing room is on edge about the winter transfer window.”
“I’m worried too, honestly. They’re not going to end up with ‘zero’ signings again, are they?”
“Surely not.”
Throw away a golden shot at promotion—and the guaranteed fortune of the Premier League that came with it?
No matter how stingy the senior owner might be, that seemed unthinkable. Above all, Adelia Myers, whose devotion ran so deep that she attended every fixture in person, would never let that happen.
“Alright, I’ll catch some shuteye here, so go have a good chat. Steer clear of wages and transfers as much as you can, and stick to light small talk. Got it?”
“Will do.”
Having rattled off his agent’s checklist of warnings, Wooseung hyung reclined his seat all the way back and pulled out his phone. I opened the door and ambled toward the stadium offices.
“What brings our star striker all the way here on a weekend?”
As I made my way through the concourse, Bob Thomas, the head groundskeeper, approached with a wide, crinkling grin across his weathered face. Having bled Luton Town orange since the day he was born, Old Bob was perpetually brimming with enthusiasm whenever he crossed paths with the players.
“I have a meeting with Miss Myers today.”
“Ah, the same ones Teddy and Allen had, eh?”
“How many have gone in so far?”
“Just the two I mentioned. Allen went yesterday, and Teddy was here this morning. Looks like you’re the afternoon slot.”
Grandfather Bob looked genuinely pleased, clearly relishing how orderly and unified the club had become compared to the chaotic years of old.
“Have a good talk with her, lad. And we’re counting on you for the second half of the season.”
“Of course. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“Aye, coming from you, how could I not believe it?”
Delighted by my confident reply, the old man chuckled heartily and strolled back out toward the pitch.
The reason neither of us mentioned autographs, by the way, was because there were already far too many between us. Without exaggerating, he probably had close to a hundred items signed by me lying around his house.
Shaking off the momentary pause, I hurried up the stairs to make sure I wasn’t late for the meeting.
The Owner’s Office.
When I pushed open the door, the fragrance of steeped tea washed over me.
“Would you like some tea?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine with me.”
“Black tea it is, then.”
I didn’t bother wondering if there was ever any realistic alternative to black tea in England. I accepted the cup poured by Miss Myers’s secretary and took a gentle sip.
“The reason I invited you today is simple: I wanted to share a candid conversation about the overall state of our club.”
“...I’m not sure I’m in any position to speak on club affairs.”
“Of course you are. You’re practically the prime contributor to our current position. Besides, I’ve already spoken with our captain, Mr. Bennetts, and Mr. Morrison, so you needn’t worry about friction within the squad.”
She certainly understood the delicate psychology of professional footballers. She clearly had no intention of sparking locker-room gossip about favoritism. Though to be fair, with the numbers I was putting up, it wasn’t as if anyone could realistically accuse management of bias anyway.
“First, let me share our roadmap. Our sole objective this season is unconditional promotion.”
“Which means...?”
“Yes. We will sign at least four players in the winter transfer window. A midfielder, a center-back, and two full-backs.”
“...I’m relieved to hear Miss Myers is a woman of reason.”
A club I used to support back in the day had kept buying wingers while their defense and midfield were completely gutted, nearly driving themselves straight to relegation. Seeing Miss Myers pinpoint Luton Town’s exact weaknesses and move to reinforce them—undoubtedly after thorough consultation with Manager Gordon—filled me with genuine appreciation. It was a vivid reminder of how crucial a competent owner truly was.
“By the way, it feels a bit odd for a player to ask, but... do we have the budget for that?”
The winter window usually dealt in immediate starting-caliber reinforcements, which meant exorbitant markups and overpaying were almost guaranteed. Bringing in four such players at once, all of whom sounded like seasoned regulars rather than speculative youth prospects, made me genuinely wonder whether Luton Town’s finances could bear the load.
“Fortunately, the parent group has agreed to inject the necessary capital.”
“Ah.”
“My fathe—excuse me, the Chairman promised that if we secure promotion, he will provide funding well above the Premier League average, completely separate from this investment. So I suppose that gives us yet another reason to go up.”
She danced around the phrasing, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that her definition of ‘investment’ encompassed significant wage bumps for the squad.
I smiled and added, “Then we’ll have to work even harder. In fact, we might as well aim for the championship title.”
Money, after all, was one of the greatest motivators on earth. Besides, at moments like this, dreaming big never hurt, so I boldly set the bar at lifting the trophy.
Apparently not displeased by the swagger, Miss Myers let out a soft smile.
“Yes, lifting the trophy would be ideal. I’ll be counting on you in the second half.”
“Everyone’s giving it their all. The results will follow.”
“I see it every week. The squad pours everything onto the pitch. In particular, the high press led by you, Han, is always bursting with intensity. And wonderfully effective, too.”
True to her status as a dyed-in-the-wool supporter, the conversation naturally drifted into tactical analysis—she honestly seemed to understand the game better than I did, despite me being the one on the pitch—and harmless locker-room banter. There was no further heavy corporate talk.
Contrary to Wooseung hyung’s fretting, neither wages nor contract extensions were ever breathed aloud. Perhaps it was because both of us already understood that I had no desire to leave.
Moving to another Championship club was out of the question, and going to another league meant dealing with a foreign language barrier. Even looking at the Premier League, mid-to-lower-table sides offered little allure if Luton achieved promotion, while moving to a giant meant no guarantee of regular starting minutes.
Staying put was the best move for both the club and myself. My wages would rise substantially anyway, especially given the sheer influence I commanded within the team.
As long as it’s a win-win, that’s all that matters.
A pleasant stretch of time passed until Miss Myers’s secretary leaned in with a quiet whisper, prompting her to conclude the meeting with a touch of lingering reluctance.
“It was truly delightful speaking with you, Han. Hearing things from a player on the pitch is entirely different from watching down from the director’s box.”
The look on her face resembled a fan who had reached utter spiritual fulfillment, and I doubted I was imagining it.
“I hope we can have chats like this from time to time even after this season ends. I haven’t kept you too long, have I?”
“Not at all. I enjoyed it just as much.”
With that, we exchanged our goodbyes. Just as I was about to close the door behind me, she called out.
“Oh, right! The broken shower head in the second stall on the left—it’s been fixed!”
Since our final two matches of the first half had both been away games, I hadn’t even noticed, but she had resolved it with blistering speed.
She actually remembered that?
She really was a fantastic owner.