A Starry Night (1)
The night over Luton was far from dark.
On any ordinary evening, only the modest porch lamps of terraced homes and the sparse, yellow beacons of streetlights would have pierced the gloom. Tonight, however, roaring crimson flares and thousands of smartphone screens blazed in their stead.
Even long after the final whistle had blown, Luton Town's supporters remained trapped in the intoxicating afterglow of promotion. Whether it was a babe in arms not yet a year old, a youth in his twenties, a breadwinner of forty, or an eighty-year-old pensioner who had followed the club through every trial and tribulation—this historic triumph was an unprecedented, unforgettable first for every single one of them.
Perched high above the town in a fine dining restaurant atop one of the modern high-rises just beyond the residential sprawl of Kenilworth Road, the historic ground looked as if it were overflowing with pure light.
And the very men who had ignited that brilliance were gathered here, savoring the feast set before them.
"Properly classy, isn't it?"
"And here I thought all English food was complete rubbish."
"Hate to break it to you, Dom, but this is French cuisine."
At Allen's dry correction—coming from a man who knew enough about the culinary arts to run his own restaurant—Dominic nodded as though he had known all along, popping an appetizer straight into his mouth without missing a beat.
Looking over the lavish buffet spread, arranged to cater to the players' free-spirited tastes and the freewheeling party atmosphere, the physical reality finally hit me: just a short while ago, we had poured every drop of our sweat and soul into over ninety grueling minutes on the pitch.
In short, I was starving.
...What should I go for first?
The dishes we had eaten at Allen's restaurant back then had been wonderful, but there was no escaping the universal truth that food quality scaled directly with price. Following Dominic's lead, I scooped up a cracker topped with fresh salmon carpaccio and a modest serving of greens before heading back to our table.
"You not hungry? Coming all the way to a place like this just to chew on rabbit food?"
"I'm getting meat next, obviously. But if you shovel it down like that on an empty stomach, you'll end up doubled over with cramps before the night is out."
"My stomach is built like an engine, mate! I'll be fine!"
"Right, of course you will."
Dominic had already piled his plate with a miniature mountain of carved beef and was scarfing it down with predatory zeal. True to his South American blood, enduring dietary restrictions that kept him from eating beef to his heart's content must have felt like a personal tragedy.
"Fancy a glass of red?"
As I watched Dominic wage his one-man war against the buffet and speared a bite of salad with my fork, Allen leaned over to offer a bottle of wine. For tonight, at least, I had no intention of declining. I held out my glass and let him pour.
Only after savoring a gentle sip did Allen speak again.
"Still feels a bit surreal, doesn't it?"
"It really does."
We had played the way we always played.
We had won.
And we had achieved promotion.
That straightforward chain of events was now reshaping the footballing life of every soul in this room.
"I watched you from the bench. You ran like an absolute madman out there today, Han."
"We had to win. You would've done the exact same thing in my boots, wouldn't you, Allen?"
"Too right I would. If we'd lost today, I might've ended up blubbering like a child."
"Oh, come off it, Allen! You don't have to imagine—you actually did! Remember years ago when we bombed out of the playoffs..."
"Oi! How many years back was that, you git!"
Having clearly resolved to get utterly hammered tonight with zero regard for tomorrow, our captain, Teddy, came swaying over clutching a beer can, intent on unearthing embarrassing relics of the past. Unfortunately for him, Allen's frantic defense of his dark history was far more vigorous than Teddy's drunken mumblings.
"Where do you get off spreading such foul slander?!"
"...B-but it's... true..."
Ultimately, having steadily pumped alcohol down his throat all evening, a completely sloshed Teddy wobbled back toward his own table. It dawned on me then: the only reason our captain rarely touched a drop of booze was simply because he was a hopeless lightweight.
"Pay him no mind. People talk utter nonsense when they've had a few."
"...Let's go with that, then."
"Whatever you say, Coach," Dominic chimed in with a grin.
Picturing a weeping Allen in our minds, Dominic and I lowered our heads toward our plates, shaking with muffled laughter.
All in all, it was a delightfully joyful evening.
Everyone was gloriously intoxicated by today's victory and the sweet, hard-won fruits of promotion. Even the boss, who would normally bark at us to keep our heads down and start preparing for the next match, wore a gentle, fatherly smile tonight as he watched his players and backroom staff celebrate from just behind my table.
Taking in the lively spectacle, I made sure to fetch a thick cut of freshly seared steak to properly enjoy my dinner.
It had been a long while since I had tasted beef with such deep, authentic flavor—not since our gathering at Allen's restaurant during the first half of the season.
Rich, savory juices pooled beneath every press of the fork. When I placed a cut into my mouth, the luscious marbling washed over my tongue, melting away in tender harmony with the meat.
Now this was a proper steak.
"Tastes good, does it?"
"Ah, Boss."
Just as I was savoring the sublime cut of beef, Manager Gordon slid into the seat beside me.
With Allen and Dominic having both wandered off for second helpings and the rest of the squad gathered on the small raised platform in the center of the hall to dance to the latest chart-toppers, it was just the two of us left at the table.
"You put in a magnificent shift today, Han."
"Thank you, Boss. It was only possible because everyone pulled together."
"A bit too humble for a striker who delivered both a goal and an assist in the biggest match of the season, don't you think? Haha."
Had Lee Yeon been sitting here in my place, he probably would have puffed out his chest and boasted, 'Naturally! You've got me to thank for the whole thing!'
Of course, Gordon would have simply laughed that off with a hearty grin as well.
In the end, it was a matter of temperament. It wasn't that I was overflowing with humility; rather, I held my tongue because I hadn't yet achieved what I truly hungered for. Yeon, on the other hand, simply wore his unfiltered feelings on his sleeve.
Had I already reached the summit I envisioned, I was confident I could make twice as much noise as that loudmouth.
"So. Do you feel you've taken your very first step toward that bold ambition you proclaimed back at your trial?"
At Gordon's question, I slowly laid down my fork.
"I suppose you could say that, sir."
"Aye. I imagine so. There's still a long, grueling road ahead of you."
The boss was undoubtedly remembering the afternoon of my very first trial.
Back when I had flown across the globe to England driven by nothing but a burning obsession to play football, throwing myself into trial after trial until I finally landed on Luton Town's doorstep.
'What is your ultimate goal, lad?'
'The Ballon d'Or, sir.'
'......'
Gordon popped the cork of a champagne bottle resting on the table and poured a measure into a tall glass flute before taking a sip.
"Looking back on it now, it was utterly absurd."
"You had every right to think so, sir."
An eighteen-year-old Asian boy who couldn't even control a football with his feet walks into a trial and brazenly declares he will win the Ballon d'Or—anyone in the sport would have found it laughably ridiculous. Especially a seasoned manager boasting a career as decorated as Gordon's.
"And yet, do you know why I chose to sign you anyway?"
"...Uh. My physical frame and raw talent?"
"Well, of course that was part of it. When a club is starving for a proper striker, who in their right mind turns down an imposing lad who wins every single aerial duel without fail?"
Gordon chuckled warmly, nodding in agreement with my answer. But evidently, that wasn't the heart of the matter; after another draught of champagne, he continued.
"Beyond all that, what truly struck me was your sheer willpower."
"My willpower, sir?"
"Do you know what the youth players would say back when I was at Bayern Munich, whenever I asked about their dreams?"
At the manager's prompt, my expression naturally blanked in ignorance.
"Little lads of eight or nine ramble on about their idols, spinning grand, abstract fantasies of becoming the greatest footballer alive, the best defender in history, the deadliest forward on earth. Childish innocence at its purest."
"...That sounds about right."
"Yet the higher up the ranks they climb, the narrower and more pragmatic their answers become. By the time they reach the adult threshold in the Under-18 squad, ask them about their dreams, and all you get are short-term milestones. Earning promotion to the first team. Getting minutes on the pitch. Or more brutally realistic still: weekly wages and securing their place in the hierarchy. It becomes agonizingly grounded in harsh reality."
A trace of bittersweet sorrow passed across Gordon's weathered features, as if old faces from his past were flashing before his eyes.
"And it was no different here at Luton Town. If anything, it was worse."
Back when Gordon first arrived, Luton Town had been in a state incomparably bleaker than it was today. Players here had likely been forced into ruthless self-awareness far earlier than most.
"Yet you... you were a completely blank slate. Ah, don't misunderstand—I don't mean your head was empty."
"That would be Dominic, sir."
"Haha!"
Evidently finding my deadpan retort thoroughly amusing, Gordon glanced over toward the dance floor, where Dominic was vigorously showing off some routine he claimed to have picked up at a nightclub. The fact that even the manager expected nothing from Dominic outside of his raw footballing instincts spoke volumes about what kind of character he was.
"In any case, that was why I brought you in. I believed you were someone capable of fiercely protecting that grand, audacious dream without letting the world whittle it away."
In EFL League One—the third division of English football—no one else had ever dared give such a towering answer at a trial. Or so Gordon had told me.
"...Thank you for seeing it that way, Boss."
"Has your mind changed at all since then?"
"Not a chance."
I had no idea when that day would finally arrive.
I didn't even know whether it was genuinely achievable or an outright impossibility.
Yet precisely because of that unknown, I could keep sprinting toward it without ever slowing down.
"I'm definitely going to win the Ballon d'Or."
"With Luton Town? Or with another club?"
"Cough—!"
The sudden curveball caught me mid-gulp, sending water down the wrong pipe.
Come to think of it, the silver-haired tactician sitting beside me wasn't just Luton Town's manager—he was also one of its fiercest, most passionate supporters.
When I sat there momentarily choked and unable to form words, Gordon let out another booming laugh.
"I'm pulling your leg, lad. In this day and age, what manager could possibly chain a player down against his will? It all rests on your own ambition. Luton Town isn't shameless enough to trap someone outgrowing its walls. When the time comes to let go, a club must let go with grace."
"Wait, Boss, I don't have any intention of leaving."
I had already made that abundantly clear to Miss Myers, so there was no way the manager hadn't caught wind of it.
"One never knows how the tides of the world will turn. Which is why planting these seeds—so you might hesitate even for a single second before packing your bags—is vital managerial work."
"...Though, wasn't Bayern Munich usually the club doing all the poaching?"
Just how many stars had Bayern plundered from rival Bundesliga teams over the years? Counting them on fingers and toes wouldn't even scratch the surface.
"......Ahem. Which means I understand all the better how to keep our own talent from being poached, doesn't it?"
The former Bayern Munich coach, seemingly caught off guard by my sharp counterpunch, cleared his throat and downed another glass of bubbly. I had no idea what his alcohol tolerance was, but after tossing back that much champagne, even he had to be feeling a mild buzz.
"Hmph. An old man lingering here will only spoil your appetite. You look starved, lad—eat up."
Having said his piece, the boss picked up his now-empty flute and pushed himself up from the table.
"See you in a bit, Boss."
We had been told there would be a small celebration ceremony after dinner, so the squad would gather again for team photos regardless. We had already snapped plenty in the dressing room, but one could never have too many memories of a milestone like this.
I watched Gordon make his way over toward our drunken captain before turning my undivided attention back to the steak on my plate.
By the time I finished off the last tender bite of meat, the atmosphere across the dining hall had climbed to a fever pitch. Any pretense of gentle, classic dinner tunes had long been drowned out; the pulsing party tracks blasted through the speakers to fuel the players' dance floor only grew louder with every passing minute.
Personally, I had never cared much for thumping, bass-heavy noise, which was why I had retreated to a table in the back. Yet combined with the gentle warmth of the wine I had drunk, my head was beginning to throb.
Is there a way to step outside for some air...?
Scanning the room, my eyes caught a path leading toward an open-air rooftop terrace.
A humid summer breeze drifted in through the ajar glass doors, but it was far more welcoming than the sweltering heat radiating from dozens of hyped-up footballers and backroom staff.
Pushing the door open, I climbed the quiet stairs at an unhurried pace.
The open sky greeted me.
While the night canopy above wasn't densely studded with stars, the clear summer dark held an understated elegance of its own, and the sprawling carpet of city lights below more than compensated for the heavens.
Befitting a terrace attached to a high-end venue, manicured trees and ornamental blossoms swayed gently in the evening draft, casting a serene, refined atmosphere.
Taking in the night vista and the tranquil garden as I sought out a quiet spot to rest, my footsteps carried me to the outer railing of the rooftop.
"Lee Han."
There, looking out into the distance—
Gazing down upon the incandescent beacon of Kenilworth Road—stood Adelia.