The End of a Season
The day after the FA Cup final, none of us could do a single thing.
To be precise, the muscle aches were so debilitating that we couldn't even walk properly, leaving us holed up inside the club's recovery facilities.
"I swear to God, I almost died this morning."
"Why?"
"Driving over here, my legs were so dead I couldn't even push down on the brakes."
Emir's melodramatic grumbling was met with quiet groans of sympathy from everyone who had played yesterday, all of us lying limp on massage tables. Screams and winces echoed from every corner of the room as therapists worked out knotted muscles. Plenty of lads looked ready to pass away on the spot, but knowing that skipping today meant missing tomorrow's open-top bus parade kept everyone diligently pushing through the agony.
Even Dominic, who normally wouldn't lift a finger for a solid week after a season wrapped up, was lying there enduring every stretch. That alone told you everything you needed to know about what the parade meant to the squad.
"So, what's everyone doing now that the season's actually over?"
Captain Teddy—who, alongside Luke, had easily worked himself into the ground more than anyone else in the final—asked the room while receiving treatment on his calves.
"Not much, honestly. Just heading back to Brazil in about a week."
"Same here, basically."
"Taking the family down to Mallorca for some sun and quiet."
"Vegas for me."
The unmarried lads like Dominic and Emir mostly planned to kick back in their places around Luton before visiting their hometowns. Those with families, like Mick, Allen, and Walter, were off to proper holiday resorts.
"Han, what about you?"
"I've got quite a bit on my plate, actually."
Tomorrow's car parade was one thing, but with the Olympics ahead, I had to fly out to Brisbane, Australia, to begin training and building chemistry with the rest of the national squad. Given the peculiar dynamic between myself and Lee Yeon, getting on the exact same wavelength as our teammates was far more critical than anyone could imagine.
From the moment I committed to the Olympics, I had accepted the grueling schedule. Even an early exit would mean at least three weeks in Australia, and the further we advanced, the longer that stay would stretch. On top of that, I had commercial shoots lined up for several personal endorsements. Fortunately, the agency had accommodated my schedule by arranging the shoots locally in Australia. If I had to fly from England to Australia, bounce back to South Korea, and then return to England, my head would be spinning no matter how fast my body recovered.
The saving grace was my agent, Wooseung. The second it became clear that Luton was headed for the Premier League, he aggressively brushed aside every incoming pitch. My stock was climbing rapidly. From an agent's perspective, my value was skyrocketing by the day simply by doing nothing; if we snagged an Olympic medal, commercial demand back in Korea would outright explode. There was zero reason to rush into sponsorship deals. The longer we waited, the larger the payout would be.
More money was always better. Thanks to his shrewd posturing, my itinerary wasn't entirely crushed under commercial commitments.
"...Man, you really don't stop, do you?"
"Wait, Dominic, aren't you going to the Olympics?"
As far as I knew, he was still under twenty-three and eligible, which meant he should have at least been considered as a reserve, but I hadn't heard a peep.
"Take a look at who's playing in my spot."
Sighing heavily, Dominic fished out his phone and flashed Brazil's roster at me.
"...Ah."
Right there, locked into the lineup, was Nauzinho—the twenty-three-year-old Brazilian superstar who had already secured a starting spot at Real Madrid by the age of twenty-one.
"And to make things worse, they used a wildcard on a veteran striker, so there's no room for me at all."
"...Right. Yeah."
I shouldn't have brought it up. Dominic had swallowed bitter pills back-to-back, missing out on senior national team call-ups and now the Olympic squad. My thoughtless question had clearly dragged him down into a funk.
"Well... if we end up facing Brazil and beat you, I'll make sure to ask in the post-match interview why they didn't call up Dominic Moss."
"Facing us is one thing, but you think you can actually beat Brazil?"
When it came strictly to football, Dominic's national pride flared right up. No matter how frustrated he was with the selectors, it was still his country. He narrowed his eyes, challenging whether Korea could ever pull it off.
"Did anyone think we'd beat Arsenal to win the FA Cup? Sometimes you just have to shoot your shot."
"...Oh, sure. Thanks a bloody lot."
Dominic offered a wry smirk and wandered off toward the cold plunge pool. I had only said it to cheer him up, and I doubted missing out would crush his spirit for long. If anything, I hoped it would fuel a fire in him to grit his teeth through pre-season and sharpen his game under Manager Gordon Morton. That way, he'd be feeding me pinpoint assists once we kicked off in the Premier League.
Then again, running into Brazil wasn't as simple as 'facing them.' Because of our respective group seedings, the only scenario where South Korea could clash with Brazil was the final. And reaching the final would already guarantee a silver medal—the nation's second Olympic podium finish since the London 2012 bronze, and our highest football milestone in history.
Facing Brazil in that grand finale? I wasn't undermining my own team, but running out onto that pitch without crushing nerves was practically unthinkable. We weren't even a fully cohesive senior squad; we were an Olympic side brimming with young, inexperienced players. Realistically, having even a ten percent chance of winning would be a massive blessing.
Who knows.
At least there was solace in the fact that our wildcards had been picked shrewdly, headlined by Taeha, the senior national team's captain and an indispensable midfielder for Atlético Madrid. With veteran quality filling the vulnerable gaps in our Under-23 roster, maybe we could make something happen. An Olympic campaign carrying not just the weight of a medal, but mandatory military exemption—a tournament whose personal stakes eclipsed even yesterday's FA Cup glory. A heavy cloud of tactical contemplation settled over me.
What's there to brood over? We run until our lungs burst.
Fair point.
The town of Luton, modest though it usually was, was electric with sheer ecstasy.
"We are the famous!"
"Luton Town!"
"We're going to the Premier League!"
A sea of supporters clad in vibrant orange spilled over the residential pavements surrounding Kenilworth Road, choking the roads until vehicular traffic ground to a complete standstill.
"Woooaaaah!"
Stewards and local police officers formed a narrow cordon through the roaring masses, guiding the squad out from the stadium forecourt into the street. Around our necks hung the Championship winners' medals and FA Cup medals we had carefully set aside for today; in our hands rested the two gleaming trophies brought out from Kenilworth Road's display cabinet.
We high-fived the fans packing the barricades, scribbled autographs, and posed for quick selfies as we gradually boarded the bespoke open-top double-decker bus waiting for us.
"Hurry up, get on."
"I've never been on the top deck of one of these before!"
"You never took a double-decker on a London tour?"
"Hell no, too bloody high!"
Led by Dominic, a few of the boys whined about climbing up to the exposed roof, but Allen shoved them along from behind. Once upstairs, their nerves vanished in a heartbeat, and they leaned over the railings to wave and feed off the thunderous cheers of the crowd below.
With the entire squad and both pieces of silverware secured on the upper deck, the engine rumbled to life, and the bus crept forward into the sea of orange.
Deafening chants of Luton Town shook the air, punctuated by raw screams of unrestrained joy, the steady, rhythmic thrum of bass drums, and billowing plumes of bright orange smoke drifting across the rooftops. Supporters walked alongside the crawling bus, erupting every time one of us hoisted a trophy over the edge to showcase the silverware won through blood, sweat, and tears.
"Catch!"
As we rolled underneath a low road bridge, fans leaning over the railings tossed down traditional straw boater hats trimmed with bright orange ribbons. Grinning, we strapped the iconic hats onto our heads and raised the trophies once more, drawing another deafening roar from the pavement.
As the parade made its way through the central shopping high street—usually quiet and unhurried compared to the bustling thoroughfares of central London—the sheer spectacle hit home. The broad avenues were choked with banners, flags, and waving arms. Looking down at the boundless ocean of people, the true weight of the silverware in our hands sank deep into my chest.
Couples stood side by side in matching shirts; young children sat perched high on their fathers' shoulders, eyes wide with awe as they stared up at us. Elderly supporters with heads of pure white hair waved giant Luton Town flags with impossible vigor, their voices joined in full-throated, emotional anthems. Young and old, across generations, united in unadulterated happiness—this, truly, was why we kicked a ball.
After completing a grand circuit through the streets of Luton, the bus returned to Kenilworth Road's main square, where a festival stage resembling an outdoor concert venue had been erected.
There was no musical act booked; the stage belonged entirely to the team to share this milestone directly with the supporters. Stepping off the bus, we filed up the wooden stairs and onto the platform.
"To our players, our manager, the backroom staff standing behind us, and every single supporter standing in front of me right now," Captain Teddy began as he took the microphone, his voice already trembling with emotion.
"What you see before you today was built by all of you. Thank you for giving us the chance to write a brand-new chapter in Luton Town's history, and thank you for making this the most unforgettable season of our lives."
Overcome with feeling, Teddy couldn't even finish his closing words before passing the mic off to Allen, prompting warm, affectionate cheers from the crowd.
"A bit sickening to see my face again so soon after I retired, isn't it?"
Chuckles and whistles rippled across the square.
"Well, what can you do when our captain's such a soft-hearted crybaby? Guess that means as a coach next season, I'll just have to ride Teddy twice as hard."
With the effortless charm of a man who had spent decades sharing banter with these very terraces, Allen translated the squad's collective gratitude into words the fans loved.
"Right, I reckon I've said my piece. Time you heard from the lads who did the running."
Like a treasured trophy being handed along the line, the microphone passed from one player to the next.
"Our journey began all the way back down in League One, and now, here we are standing at the gates of the Premier League. We worked, and we worked, and we worked until we reached this summit—and we are not about to stop now."
Like the consummate defensive midfielder he was, storing every scrap of opposition data in his head, Giovanni pulled a neatly folded sheet of notes from his jacket pocket to deliver a methodical, heartfelt address.
"You lot mean everything to me. Every cheer, every bit of love along the way has brought me to this stage."
Mick, who had joined Luton Town as a wide-eyed boy and was now standing tall as a father, spoke straight from the heart.
"Err... if anyone spots me in Las Vegas next Wednesday, come say hello and I'll sign your shirt."
Walter's dry, holiday-ready joke drew a collective burst of laughter from the crowd.
"Next season, we're winning it all again!"
And true to form, Dominic delivered a boisterous, cheeky promise that set the whole square cheering.
One by one, every player shared their piece, offering thanks to the supporters who had journeyed to the square today and stood by us through every trial. When the speeches finally drew to a close, we gathered tightly at the center of the stage.
Only the final act remained.
For the faithful who had believed in us through the darkest depths, and whose unyielding voices had helped place this glory directly into our palms.
Together, beneath the roaring Luton sky, we hoisted the trophies high above our heads, lifting them higher and higher to the heavens.
It was the absolute, perfect conclusion to an unforgettable season.