Here to Watch (Part 3)

Canberra Stadium.

The first half of the Olympic Round of 16 clash between South Korea and Mexico was drawing to a close.

"Can't we sign a few of those lads?"

Manager Gordon Morton murmured as he watched the South Korean Olympic squad manufacture a go-ahead goal just before the interval, a lethal counter sparked by Lee Han's headed flick from an opposition corner.

"You know as well as I do, Boss, that no matter how messy things are at Atlético Madrid, Lee Tae-ha is completely out of reach. And the others are already at clubs bigger than ours."

"Still, you never know unless you knock on the door."

"We've already brought in the players you earmarked, Boss. We combed through the lower leagues and secured every single profile you asked for. If we make any more signings, our budget will completely implode."

Malik, Luton Town's chief talent scout tasked with tracking prospective gems at this tournament, wiped a bead of cold sweat from his forehead despite the mild Australian autumn air.

He had to admit that players like the blistering winger Ahn Jae-hyun, or Choi Seok-hyun, the holding ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠midfielder whose steady presence anchored Lee Tae-ha's play, possessed genuinely sharp skill sets. If brought into the squad, Gordon would undoubtedly find a way to mold them into effective pieces.

However, the incoming transfer list had already received final sign-off from Adelia Myers, who had assumed control of the club ahead of this preseason. Several new arrivals had already joined the team right here in Australia for their upcoming preseason friendly against Colchester United.

No matter how much their operating budget had expanded, Luton Town remained a newly promoted outfit. While their recent trajectory was nothing short of miraculous, the club's philosophy prioritized financial prudence and avoiding debt. They simply lacked the financial muscle to throw around astronomical transfer fees like the established European heavyweights.

"Don't take me so seriously. I'm well aware of our financial reality," Gordon said with a hearty chuckle.

"I'm relieved to hear that, Boss."

"Just take it as high praise for their performance." Gordon leaned close, pitching his voice into a conspiratorial whisper so only Malik could hear. "Besides, words like that are how we win over the hearts of the Korean public."

"...Ah. Right."

Luton Town and Gordon were already viewed with immense warmth in South Korea. After all, the manager had unearthed Lee Han and single-handedly brought an end to the national team's agonizing, decades-long striker drought. Nevertheless, in raw brand power, Luton couldn't compete with elite European giants like Lee Tae-ha's Atlético Madrid or top-flight clubs where other Korean stars had featured for years.

In an environment like this, if Gordon's praise happened to reach the ears of the Korean spectators sitting nearby, it would immediately become headline news. Especially considering several South Korean sports journalists were seated just a few rows away.

"We're a Premier League club now," Gordon added with a twinkle in his eye. "If Han brings home an Olympic medal, it'll naturally elevate his profile while sending Luton Town's stock through ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the roof across Asia, especially in Korea."

Gordon had stepped into management because he was, first and foremost, a lifelong supporter of Luton Town. He genuinely wished for football fans on the opposite side of the globe to follow the club with genuine affection.

"Understood, Boss. But speaking of medals... do you truly believe Han can win one here?"

"There's no doubt about that. The only question is what color it will be."

"...I suppose I really should have pushed harder to raise his release clause."

Malik frowned, wondering if they had set the bar too low. He had formally petitioned the board to bump Han's Buyout clause, and the club had acted decisively, agreeing to a four-year contract extension with a release clause set at a massive two hundred billion won—a valuation far above market rate that served as a de facto NFS (Not For Sale) declaration. Yet, watching Han dominate international stages, even that figure seemed dangerously accessible.

Luton had placed Han on wages well above the Premier League average, but for Europe's state-backed mega-clubs, the fee wouldn't be an insurmountable barrier. What worried Malik even more was that the deal would expire the moment Han turned twenty-five.

"Haha. You can't chain down a player like Han by force, Malik."

Spend enough decades in professional football, and players' true temperaments reveal themselves without effort. There were those who treated the sport strictly as a livelihood, and those who played out of sheer, unadulterated joy. Han was undeniably the latter.

Trying to hedge against him with excessive bureaucratic maneuvers or weaponizing the media would only backfire.

"Unless we mistreat him or our project completely stalls out, Han won't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠abandon us. Of course, it's our duty to reward his dedication in kind."

"Which is why we included those performance clauses," Malik conceded.

If Luton secured qualification for European competition this season, several core players—Han included—would see substantial wage bumps. Qualifying for the UEFA Champions League would nearly double Han's weekly salary.

"That should be more than enough," Gordon said. "He's been a bit mercurial in his demeanor lately... but he remains a lad we can trust implicitly."

Han had always been quiet and intensely focused, but lately, Gordon had noticed fleeting moments where the boy showed a brasher, far more swaggering streak. It wasn't arrogance; if anything, that fiery competitive edge was a welcome trait in a world-class striker. Still, the contrast was noticeable.

A manager couldn't peel open a player's skull to inspect their inner thoughts, so Gordon simply chose to respect whichever side of Han stepped onto the pitch.

A sharp blast from the referee's whistle echoed across the stadium, bringing an end to the first forty-five minutes. Just as Han had boldly promised, South Korea held the lead.

Out on the pitch, a sudden realization struck me.

Do I even need to bother dropping back to defend?

During the first half, López had demonstrated exactly why he was Mexico's marquee Wildcard and a first-choice striker for Atlético Madrid. In the second half, however, he was illustrating why he routinely gave Tae-ha and Atlético supporters crippling migraines.

Rattled by the deficit, López had grown increasingly desperate since the restart, firing off absurd, low-percentage shots from impossible angles. Calling them shots was generous. His latest attempt had soared so high it nearly rattled against the electronic scoreboard above the stands.

"Tae-ha hyung."

"I know," Tae-ha replied, grimacing with resignation. "He's completely lost his head today."

Even as an opponent, it was almost painful to watch. Yet seeing Tae-ha look considerably more relaxed now that his club teammate was having a meltdown was a stark reminder of just how cruel football could be.

Regardless, that wasn't what mattered right now.

"We need another goal. If this drags into extra time, things get messy."

We had emptied our tanks in the first two group matches precisely to bank energy for the knockout stages. Getting dragged into an additional thirty minutes of grueling extra time here would be a disaster for our tournament stamina.

"You sound like you've already got an idea," Tae-ha said, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course I do."

To an outside observer, Korea's defensive block might have looked pinned deep in our own half. In reality, both of our wingers and fullbacks had quietly pushed quite high. In their frantic bid to feed López, Mexico had committed the tactical blunder of repeatedly forcing direct, vertical balls right through the middle, meaning our flanks were under far less pressure than they had been in the first half.

"We should exploit that space."

"I see that time you spent fiddling with your phone in the dressing room wasn't wasted," Tae-ha chuckled.

"Come on. I was just checking a few messages."

"Right, sure you were."

I gave a subtle wave toward Gordon in the VIP box, while Tae-ha signaled toward the technical area, gesturing to Manager Kim Shin-tae that we were adjusting our tactical shape. Manager Kim was known for granting his senior players substantial tactical autonomy on the pitch. The green light came immediately.

When López sent his twenty-somethingth effort sailing harmlessly into the sky, we relayed the tactical shift across the squad.

Play restarted with a goal kick from our keeper, Won-woo. Without hesitation, Won-woo rolled the ball toward our left fullback. Having spent the entire second half hyper-focused on feeding López through the center, Mexico's congested midfield pivot failed to react in time as our fullback accelerated along the touchline.

Carrying the ball across the halfway line unimpeded, the fullback swung his right foot, pinging a crisp pass inward to Choi Seok-hyun.

"Close him down! Win it back!"

Mexico's central midfielders swarmed toward him in a frantic pack. On the surface, bypassing the wide-open center just to pass directly into Choi Seok-hyun's contested zone seemed baffling. But Seok-hyun's greatest weapon was his one-touch distribution.

Thump.

With a single cushioned touch, he sent the rushing Mexican midfielders stumbling off-balance against their momentum, floating the ball effortlessly back out into the vacant wide channel.

Had our fullback simply sprinted in a straight line, he would have been cornered by the covering fullback and tracking midfielder. But because of Seok-hyun's clever pivot, the Mexican midfield remained hopelessly tangled in the center.

Collecting the ball in acres of unoccupied green, our winger, Ahn Jae-hyun, feinted with an aggressive drop of his shoulder, baiting Mexico's burly fullback into anticipating a sprint to the byline. The moment the defender's weight shifted forward, Jae-hyun dragged the ball back with the sole of his boot, slipping an incisive pass inside to Lee Tae-ha.

The midfield had collapsed inward around Choi Seok-hyun. The fullback assigned to track Tae-ha on the left had been thoroughly duped by Jae-hyun's dummy run. Mexico's final third was suddenly cleaved wide open—a catastrophic defensive breakdown.

"Take it!" Tae-ha roared.

There was no need to ask who the delivery was intended for. Conjuring the ideal trajectory forged over countless shared training sessions and matches, I launched myself into the air.

BOOM!

You don't need to overcomplicate it. You just have to put your head exactly where the ball is meant to be.

Just like this.