No Matter What Anyone Says (1)
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With the piercing trill of the referee's final whistle, the stadium erupted into a deafening roar from the Luton Town faithful.
Pints of beer rained through the air across Kenilworth Road. Even as frothy spray drenched the supporters in the stands, not a single soul wiped it off without a wide, ecstatic grin plastered across their face.
“The semi-finals! We're in the bloody semi-finals!”
“We can actually win the FA Cup!”
“You absolute beauties!”
The fans showered relentless cheers down on our players—including me, currently sprawled flat on the turf beside the opponent's corner flag.
All that effort, grinding it out by the flag and pulling off tricks worthy of a freestyle exhibition just to run down the clock and shield the ball, had paid off in full.
Luton Town had never once lifted the FA Cup in the club's history.
It felt a bit rich coming from one of their own players, but Luton had never won a top-flight league title either; their entire silverware cabinet amounted to two League Cups. And the more recent of those had merely been an EFL Trophy, contested only by clubs from the third tier and below.
So their almost hysterical delirium wasn't entirely incomprehensible.
Reaching the semi-finals hadn't been a walk in the park. They had toppled Premier League opposition twice along the way, so naturally expectations were soaring through the roof.
To be completely honest, I had no idea how far we could actually go.
The title race in the league would only grow fiercer in the second half of the campaign, and there was never any guarantee we'd steer clear of injuries. Even if we managed to field our best eleven every week, I had zero illusions that the remaining giants in the final four would be outmatched by us on paper.
Well, I can cross that bridge when we get to it.
For now, all that mattered was reveling in the fact that we had conquered Newcastle and punched our ticket to the semi-finals.
“...You ran yourself half to death out there. Did you actually kick the bucket?”
Before I could even soak in the stadium's intimate, electric atmosphere, Dominic came trudging over. He nudged my shoulder blade with the toe of his boot to check on me.
“Did you seriously have to check my pulse with your foot?”
“Then get your ass up. You're getting soaked in beer.”
“You've got zero romance in your soul, you know that?”
This is why you can't get a girlfriend.
I wasn't about to entertain any retorts pointing out my own relationship status, either. Setting aside a girlfriend, this guy didn't have a single woman within a five-mile radius of his personal life.
Unlike me.
“Did that beer splash into your mouth or something? Are you actually drunk?”
“Feels like it, maybe.”
“Cut the crap, you can drink like a fish. Stop spouting nonsense and get on your feet before you summon the medical staff for nothing.”
Dominic's relentless nagging pulled a weary sigh from my chest.
Asking if I was drunk only to immediately shoot it down was absurd, but seeing the physios already hovering toward the corner flag reminded me of how much I'd panicked them on the final matchday of last season. I scrambled quickly to my feet.
“Lee Han! Lee Han!”
“Stay with Luton Town!”
“You're the greatest!”
The moment I brushed the damp grass off my kit and stood tall, the crowd roared even louder than before.
I can't let these people down.
Seeing them this overjoyed, we had to bring home at least one trophy.
Tucking that silent resolve into the back of my mind, I stepped off the pitch at a measured pace.
[Insert generic adorable teddy bear reaction image]
They qualify for the Europa League right after getting promoted.
Gets right back on his feet the second Dominic kicks him [GIF]
No matter how many reinforcements we had brought in, Luton Town was objectively never a club blessed with a deep double squad.
As a natural consequence, the aftershocks of the brutal clash against Newcastle caught up to us almost immediately.
“And there's the referee's whistle! It's all over!”
“Luton Town tastes defeat at home for the very first time this season.”
“Their magnificent home winning streak finally comes to an end today.”
“The players gave everything, but sheer exhaustion is written all over their faces. Even the substitutes, brought on early in the first half and practically forced to play a full ninety, look completely drained.”
The turnaround between the FA Cup quarterfinal and our next league fixture hadn't been impossibly tight, but it certainly hadn't offered enough time to breathe either. More than that, the fatigue accumulated over months of unrelenting football had simply found its detonator against Newcastle.
Maybe we should just count our blessings that nobody picked up a serious injury.
When physical wear and tear piles up, the body becomes fragile. A routine challenge can turn into a season-ending collision, and even a minor ankle sprain takes twice as long to heal. Rest was paramount.
Of course, Manager Gordon had only sent the starting eleven out because the medical data showed no physical anomalies. But football, unfortunately, isn't played on muscle and stamina alone.
Mental sharpness is just as decisive.
When mere milliseconds in processing time define the difference between a top-flight player and a lower-league regular, mental burnout was a threat that couldn't be ignored. Unlike a tight hamstring, the psychological toll extracted by a grueling, high-stakes match had to be resolved by the players themselves. Our sluggishness today wasn't something raw biometric data could have predicted.
In that regard, Manager Gordon's decisive call to yank his key players early and virtually forfeit the match had been nothing short of remarkable.
Some record like an unbeaten home run had been hanging in the balance, but he discarded it without a backward glance just to safeguard our legs for the war ahead.
A few supporters might have felt the sting of disappointment, but ultimately, our campaign was about winning the championship. We weren't chasing aesthetic milestones like the highest points tally or the fewest goals conceded. Once you hoist the trophy at the end of the year, an occasional stumble along the way is remembered as nothing more than a harmless hiccup.
“How many points are we ahead of Middlesbrough now?”
“Five points.”
“Do those bastards ever drop points?”
“Easy for them when the league is all they've got left to play for.”
Ironically enough, our second-half home fixture against Middlesbrough happened to be scheduled for the very last matchday of the season.
Looking at the current margin, and factoring in Middlesbrough's squad—deep enough to field three competent starting lineups, completely unburdened by cup distractions—it wouldn't be surprising in the slightest if that final showdown turned into a direct title decider.
Naturally, whenever microphones were shoved in our faces, none of us ever said such things out loud.
Sticking to standard clichés about taking it one game at a time was what the fans expected, and there was no sense in stirring up unnecessary drama by wagging our tongues.
Behind closed locker room doors, however, all our idle chatter and buried anxieties inevitably spilled out.
Not that our conversations revolved entirely around football, either.
To us, football was a dream.
At the same time, it was our day job—our livelihood. And talk about work had a funny habit of wandering off track.
“Are you two finished gossiping?”
“We just got to the part where Dominic tried to hit on a girl on the street and got shot down in flames.”
“...You lot really never change, do you?”
Before we knew it, our fretting over the title race had evaporated, replaced by trivial locker room banter. Captain Teddy looked at us, visibly torn between relief that the room wasn't steeped in gloom and hesitation over whether he should deliver a rousing speech for the upcoming fixtures.
“Haaah. Fine. I suppose this is better than sulking.”
In the end, our captain threw in the towel.
Only later did we realize the real reason he had surrendered so easily: Manager Gordon was about to walk into the dressing room anyway.
If I'd known that, I would have kept my mouth firmly shut.
...Hmm.
Is that why Lee Han was always so quiet before the gaffer walked in?
Tucked away near Kenilworth Road, a small, unassuming cafe enjoyed immense popularity for its fruit ades. Blended entirely from fresh fruit brought in from Dylan's Greengrocer just down the street, their drinks contained no added sugar or artificial syrups—nothing but pure, cold-pressed juice.
Its reputation was evident from the fact that professional footballers frequently dropped by to grab a drink instead of soda.
As a result, if you were willing to camp out at a corner table long enough, the odds of crossing paths with Luton Town players were surprisingly high.
The framed autographed shirts lining the walls and the snapshots of players grinning alongside the owner behind the register spoke for themselves.
Of course, that rarely meant you'd end up sitting at the next table over; most encounters were limited to a brief greeting at the counter, or catching a fleeting glimpse of an agent handling personal business on their client's behalf.
In that regard, Fren—a diehard Luton Town supporter and sports journalist—was having an extraordinarily lucky day.
Writing for a modest online news outlet, it had been barely three hours since his editor-in-chief chewed him out, yet here he was, staring straight at a golden scoop.
“One grapefruit ade, please. Oh, and an orange and a mango ade as well.”
“Right away, sir.”
That towering, athletic build; that familiar voice he'd heard countless times in press rooms; and the Asian features so rare around the streets of Luton. Finally, even with the hood pulled low over his forehead, the sharp black hair and dark eyes were unmistakable.
Among the people Fren knew who met every single one of those criteria, there was only one man.
Lee Han.
It was unmistakably Lee Han.
Certain of his mark, Fren slowly shifted his gaze away from the blank wall and slid his eyes toward the counter.
If he just dropped by to grab a quick drink, it's a dead end, but...
A reporter's sixth sense was screaming that there was far more to this scene.
Above all, as a fanatical Luton supporter whose admiration for Lee Han had bordered on blind devotion over the past three seasons, Fren knew this order made no sense at all.
If he came alone, why on earth would he order three glasses?
What's more, Fren distinctly remembered an interview where Lee Han had visibly recoiled in disgust at the mention of orange juice. Aside from the grapefruit ade, the other two drinks were definitely not meant for him.
Which meant someone else was meeting him here.
Befitting an establishment popular with professional athletes, Lee Han picked up his tray and slipped quietly into a private back room.
Under ordinary circumstances, Fren would have been content to simply see who entered that private room and snap a discrete photo before heading back.
...Under ordinary circumstances, that is.
Having just endured a blistering, career-threatening reprimand from his chief editor, Fren needed something far meatier.
Something infinitely more detailed—and infinitely more sensational—than a mundane photo op.