Showcase (2)

At my side-eye—a look reserved for viewing a hopeless case—Dominic looked utterly aggrieved.

“You’re the one without a conscience! I’m literally top of the league in assists!”

“Yeah, and you wouldn't be if it weren’t for me. Besides, I’m top of the league in goals.”

At the end of the day, football has always valued goals over assists.

I wasn’t taking counterarguments.

“And you wouldn't be top scorer without me either!”

“Is that a stray dog I hear barking?”

Watching us squabble back and forth, the newly transferred players over on the bench seemed a little uneasy. But the moment the rest of the squad swooped in, wrapping us both in bone-crushing bear hugs that nearly folded our waists in half, the newcomers realized this was just business as usual and let out relieved smiles.

Once we tucked away another goal or two and celebrated together, they’d get used to it even faster.

...Though wait, did someone just slap me on the back of the head instead of patting me?

Probably just my imagination.

“Anyway, it’s your return match today,” I said, turning back to Dominic. “You’re not honestly satisfied with just one assist, are you?”

“Why ask the obvious? Three minimum, no question.”

“Then feed me the ball.”

“I was planning to anyway, so you’d better swallow every last bite.”

Judging by the sharp form Dominic had shown during the pre-match warm-ups, completing a hat-trick of assists didn't look out of reach at all. And as for me, as long as the delivery was on target, putting it in the back of the net was a given.

Sharing a smirk, we jogged back toward the center circle. I felt a pang of sympathy for Birmingham City, but we had every intention of giving our fans, who had packed the stands after a long wait, a proper festival.

“[Lee Han’s sensational backheel flick is curled into the net on the first touch by Dominic Moss, blowing the score wide open to 4–0! And we’re only thirty-five minutes into the first half!]”

“[Ah, the traveling Birmingham City supporters are already getting out of their seats and heading for the exits!]”

“[Birmingham City manager Norman Spring can only shake his head in utter disbelief.]”

“[To be fair, while Birmingham City looked shaky until they conceded the opener, they actually found their tempo afterward and launched a few decent counterattacks. But none of that mattered against what Luton is doing today.]”

“[Quite right. With Lee Han sitting on two goals and an assist, and Dominic Moss on one goal and two assists, the pair of them have single-handedly dismantled Birmingham City’s defense.]”

“[Indeed. While Captain Teddy Bennett’s thumping long-range screamer for Luton’s third goal was magnificent in its own right, you simply cannot talk about this match without highlighting those two.]”

“[The Birmingham players must be praying for the halftime whistle to blow as soon as humanly possible.]”

“[You can see the agony written all over their faces on the close-ups. And now, Birmingham City prepares for their fourth kickoff of the afternoon as play resumes!]”

Once the second half began, there was a very high chance that the key starters, myself included, would be subbed off in droves. It was partly to give the winter signings match fitness and help them integrate into the squad, but even setting that aside, we had an FA Cup fixture looming on the horizon. In a grueling marathon like a league campaign, giving his stars a breather once victory was practically in the bag had been manager Gordon Morton’s bread and butter since our League One days.

Of course, throughout the first half of the season, our bench had been so thin you couldn't find a viable substitute even if you washed your eyes out, meaning the core squad had been run straight into the ground. Still, the boss hadn’t had any other choice, so there was no point holding a grudge.

We had secured brilliant results, suffered virtually no injuries aside from Dominic’s knock, and built up immense team chemistry along the way. Above all, we sat proudly at the very top of the Championship table. In that sense, it was time to show the world the true pedigree of the league leaders returning from a well-earned rest.

“Hey, Dominic.”

“What?”

“Before we get pulled off, shouldn’t we both wrap up a hat-trick? Goals for me, assists for you.”

Our current haul was already plenty impressive, but nobody on this team was built to settle for just ‘good enough.’

“Obviously,” Dominic agreed without a heartbeat of hesitation.

Having struck our pact just before kickoff, we drifted across into the opposition half. With only a few minutes left before the interval, we went hunting for what might very well be our final opportunity of the match.

To their credit, Birmingham City hadn’t entirely thrown in the towel despite the lopsided scoreline. Their fighting spirit was admirable, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but from our perspective, it was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slightly inconvenient. More importantly, if we could rattle in four goals in thirty-five minutes, it wasn’t impossible for another Championship side to stage a sudden resurgence. With Gordon likely to withdraw the veterans and bring on untested combinations in the second half, conceding a goal or two wouldn’t be shocking. To secure our victory beyond any shadow of a doubt, it was my job to shatter their spirits once and for all.

Even if the gaffer hadn’t explicitly given me that order.

Now, how should we break them down?

I scanned Birmingham’s back line, who were wound as tight as piano wire. Having already been stung once by Teddy’s screamer, their midfielders swarmed whenever I even pretended to cock my leg for a long-range effort. Meanwhile, their defensive lanes were clogging the passing channels between Dominic and me reasonably well.

Not that this left me without options. It wasn't as if I hadn't faced this brand of low block dozens of times before.

I casually drifted down toward the center circle where Dominic was operating.

“What the hell? Why are you coming over here? Shoo!”

“Shut your mouth and give me the ball.”

Because Birmingham’s defensive block had dropped ridiculously deep, Dominic had dropped into our half to help cycle possession and switch play. I marched straight up to him and practically stripped the ball off his feet.

“Hey! That was mine!”

Ignoring his outraged squeal entirely, I spun on a dime.

“[A pass... I suppose? Taking the ball off Dominic Moss in midfield, Lee Han turns and charges straight forward!]”

“[Dominic Moss is sprinting furiously right on his heels!]”

Tuning out Dominic’s incandescent fury as he chased after my back, I accelerated straight toward the Birmingham defensive midfielder who had been diligently tracking my shooting lanes all afternoon. Having one runaway train barreling at him was terrifying enough; having Dominic charging right behind me must have doubled his panic.

I feinted a shot, leaving him lunging desperately at thin air as I skipped past him, gliding into the pocket between the midfield and back line before driving laterally across their defensive structure. Drawn inexorably toward me like iron ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shavings to a magnet, the defenders converged, leaving a narrow channel between their legs. Through that exact gap, I slipped a disguised pass back into the path of the oncoming Dominic.

Caught completely flat-footed by the reverse momentum, one center-back tumbled onto his backside while the other scrambled desperately on all fours across the turf trying to close Dominic down.

Unfortunately for them, Dominic Moss was a man possessed by the singular desire to assist—someone who would pass even with only an open net and the keeper before him so long as a teammate was available. The defender's desperate scramble was entirely in vain.

Tap.

The helpless, crestfallen expressions of the goalkeeper and center-back formed a hilarious contrast with the wide grin plastered across Dominic’s face.

Meeting the gentle, floated cross as it drifted lazily in from the right, I dipped my forehead forward in a polite, bowing gesture, guiding the ball cleanly into the open net.

I couldn't unleash the soaring, thunderous leaps and headers that Lee Han produced so effortlessly, but on an unchallenged, softly weighted pass right on the goal line, finishing with my head wasn't particularly difficult.

And no, I certainly didn't choose to head it just because it would seal a Perfect Hat-trick.

Really, I didn't.

“[It’s 5–0!! Before the first half has even drawn to a close, Lee Han latches onto Dominic Moss’s delivery to complete his hat-trick! And Dominic Moss marks his long-awaited return with a hat-trick of assists! What an utterly breathtaking partnership!]”

“[The Birmingham City players have completely unraveled mentally!]”

“[In stark contrast, the Luton Town faithful have turned Kenilworth Road into a roaring cauldron of noise! The celebrations in the stands are boundless!]”

With the whistle signaling the end of the first half, the contest was effectively settled. Just as we had anticipated, the key starters were taken off during the break under Gordon’s instructions, spending the second half lounging comfortably on the bench as spectators.

And just as Lee Han had noted down, the shower in the changing room had been fixed properly.

Checking the match reports and fan reactions the moment I woke up had become second nature by now.

The second half of the season is off to a great start.

Even accounting for the home advantage, a crushing six-goal margin was a result that left everyone delighted—except for the visiting side, of course. Naturally, I was pleased as well. Why wouldn't I be thrilled when the team won? There had even been times in the past when I willingly conceded my own pitch time to Lee Yeon because it looked like we were about to taste defeat.

Come to think of it, how did we even manage to pull that off back then?

Looking at the state of the match after the first half, I had thought we were utterly finished. I had squeezed my eyes shut in the changing room, desperate for a way out, and suddenly our consciousnesses had traded places. Ever since, we had researched methods to trigger a rapid switch in case of emergencies, yet mechanically reenacting the exact same actions never caused our minds to swap.

It seemed to require sheer, unfiltered desperation, but the precise mechanics remained a mystery that only more match experience could unravel.

The real problem, though, is that we hardly ever find ourselves in desperate situations these days...

As the morning headlines made blindingly clear, Luton Town was currently cruising comfortably at the summit of the Championship table.

...Hmm.

There was the FA Cup.

Our upcoming Round of 32 fixture, much like the Round of 64, was against another League One side. Provided we kept our heads screwed on straight, we were almost guaranteed to win. There was virtually no chance of an upset. In the end, we likely wouldn't feel any true sense of desperation until we reached the Round of 16, where Premier League heavyweights waited in the wings. And as for which of us would take the pitch when that time came, neither I nor Yeon could predict it with any certainty.

I’ll just focus on what’s in front of me.

Racking my brain over things I couldn't control was a waste of energy. Right now, simply preparing for the next match was the smartest move.

I stretched my arms high above my head and rolled out of bed.

It was time to head to the training ground.