Two Players in One Body
…Should I go to a hospital?
When I woke up, it was clearly morning, but the date glowing on the holographic alarm clock looked utterly wrong.
It hadn't skipped just one day. It had skipped two.
Once again, an entire day had vanished into thin air.
“I'm seriously losing my mind,” I muttered, scratching my head vigorously as I climbed out of bed. Fortunately, aside from the date, the room looked exactly as I remembered leaving it.
It was still a weekday regardless. Following my usual routine, I took a quick shower and got ready to head to the training ground.
“Why the long face today?”
“Does it show?”
“Did something rub you the wrong way? Want me to talk to the club?”
Even though he had signed several new players this preseason, Woosung-hyung still insisted on playing the part of my personal chauffeur. Of course, driving wasn't his only aim—his priority was looking after my overall well-being, which meant he was remarkably attuned to every subtle shift in my expression.
“Nothing's bothering me. I just didn't sleep well.”
“I told you to cut back on those crack-of-dawn workouts. Even the club's old groundskeeper has been asking me if you're doing all right.”
“……Yes, sir.”
Fortunately, my quiet murmur was swallowed by the rumble of the engine kicking to life.
“Anyway, if you're feeling that beat, take some rest.”
“…I will. Just not today.”
“Well, the team doctor says there's nothing wrong with you, so I can't really argue. Just know I'm nagging because I care. Right, let's get moving. Fasten your seatbelt.”
Assuming my half-hearted replies were merely the byproduct of morning drowsiness, Woosung stepped on the accelerator and pulled out into the street.
Something was definitely wrong with me. Terribly wrong.
Yet this wasn't the kind of conversation I could casually drop on the morning commute. I needed to investigate the situation a little more on my own first. As the car rolled onward, I headed toward the training ground without even a moment to sort through the chaotic mess inside my head.
Except for the usual handful of training fanatics, the training ground was still quiet and deserted when I arrived. After trading brief greetings with them, I threw on my training kit and ran like a madman, desperate to cool down my simmering, ready-to-burst brain.
After circling the pitch who knew how many times, I pulled up gasping for air and reached for some water. Just then, Mick strolled over.
“You're here?”
“Yeah, I'm here. Hard at work as always, Lee Han.”
Having clearly just stepped out onto the pitch, Mick looked as fresh and dry as could be.
“Why are you out here, then? You haven't even warmed up yet.”
Manager Gordon had meticulously structured the physical conditioning sessions, preseason or not. I had merely arrived early to jog aimlessly, but the formal drills required weaving through the cones set up on the far side.
“Did you have something to say?” I asked.
“…You said yesterday that you'd treat me to dinner and text me the place, but I never got a message. That's why I came over.”
The moment those words left his mouth, my expression froze, and without another word, I bolted straight for the locker room.
“Whoa, what's the rush?” Dominic asked as I brushed past him, a rare sight considering how early he had actually managed to show up. Lacking the bandwidth to offer an answer, I ignored him entirely, dug through my gear bag, and checked the messages on my phone.
Just as Mick had claimed, the conversation was right there.
Stamped clearly with yesterday's date and time—hours I had zero memory of living through.
“Are you sure you're okay, mate?” Dominic peered over my shoulder.
“No. I think I've completely lost my mind.”
And I meant every word.
I retained almost no recollection of how the training session started or ended. All I knew was that it wrapped up without any major incidents, and that Manager Gordon had stopped by to offer a few words of concern. And now, thanks to a bet I couldn't even remember making, I found myself footing the bill for Mick's dinner.
“And why are you tagging along, exactly?” I grumbled.
“What do you mean, why? I whipped in the cross! A man deserves his reward for honest labor.”
Dominic brazenly held down his seat at the restaurant table. If this hadn't been preseason, I would have reported his antics to Manager Gordon and dragged him straight off, but unfortunately, my hands were tied. Still, since Dominic had been there too, having him at the table wasn't the worst outcome. With nothing else to rely on, cross-referencing their stories was vital.
“Walk me through what happened yesterday again.”
“You want us to recap yesterday?”
“I haven't been feeling great, so there are a few blank spots in my memory.”
“Dementia already?”
“If you say one more word, Dominic, I will literally fold your spine in half.”
My pounding headache had doubled in intensity, entirely courtesy of Dominic.
“Hmm, is that why you got pushed off so easily…?” Mick looked slightly puzzled, but he dutifully began recounting the events of yesterday's scrimmage, with Dominic chiming in between mouthfuls of soup to embellish the story like a Greek chorus.
“I lost an aerial duel? To you?”
“…Look, Han, even if you're a bit out of it, completely erasing a loss from your memory feels like cause for concern.” Mick, finally sensing that my questions weren't a joke and that I genuinely didn't remember, gave me a worried look.
“Hey, competitive monsters do that all the time,” Dominic interjected, casually swallowing another bite of food as if he had shoveled all his concern straight into his stomach. “People only remember what they want to remember, right?”
“Is that so…? I didn't think it was that traumatic of an incident.” Mick tilted his head, though he seemed gradually swayed by Dominic's nonchalant reasoning. Once in a blue moon, Dominic actually proved useful.
“Haha! Come on, Han, why stress over it?” Dominic beamed, pouring non-alcoholic beer straight into my glass until the foam nearly spilled over. “You were clearly under the weather yesterday, that's all. Everyone has off days. Just like I have days where I can't buy an assist. Drink up and forget about it. Overthinking it will just give you a migraine like today.”
I didn't want to forget it—I wanted desperately to remember. But I couldn't lay everything bare before Mick and Dominic. Forcing the tension from my stiff face, I picked up my fork and began picking at my food.
Back at my flat, I paced aimlessly across the living room. If anyone had been watching, they would have told me to sit down and stop making them dizzy, but I was entirely alone.
What the hell am I supposed to do about this?
The conversation with Mick and Dominic had revealed quite a bit. For starters, this wasn't somnambulism. I had never heard of sleepwalking that allowed someone to hold articulate conversations, execute complex drills, and make dinner wagers. The internet certainly didn't list anything of the sort, either.
So, what are my options…?
There were two paths forward: rush straight to the medical staff, or quietly investigate this on my own. But running to the club's doctors would effectively end my upcoming season on the spot. Following several high-profile incidents across the sport, league regulations regarding neurological symptoms had become ruthlessly strict. They would inevitably ban me from stepping onto the pitch until exhaustive testing produced a definitive verdict.
Given my playing style, which relied heavily on aerial duels and headers, even the slightest anomaly would trigger alarms. A massive, inexplicable anomaly like this would completely destroy any chance of clearance.
That was the last thing I wanted. My career was finally gaining serious momentum, and I didn't have years to waste sitting on the sidelines. Even if something strange had happened to my body, my ability to play football remained unaffected. Under no circumstances would I accept being barred from the pitch.
…In the end, this is all I can do.
I peeled a sticky note from the pad on my desk, scrawled a message, and stuck it firmly to my bedroom door. Praying that whatever mysterious entity shared this vessel possessed the willingness to communicate, I collapsed onto the bed. After running so hard all morning, sheer exhaustion pulled me under in seconds.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I dragged my feet toward the bedroom door. There, pressed against the wood, was a fresh note.
Who are you?
A surge of relief washed over me. Finally, we had established a line of communication. I reached out and peeled the note off the door.
Right at that moment—
“Hey! When are you coming out?! Manager Gordon's going to blow his top!”
Woosung's muffled shout echoed from outside the front door.
Oh, crap…
A glance at the clock told me I had slept well past my usual alarm. On top of that, a deep, throbbing ache radiated through my legs. Our body possessed an extraordinary level of physical conditioning that rarely succumbed to soreness, no matter what kind of routine we threw at it. Just how brutally had this guy run me through the wringer yesterday to leave my calves burning like this?
Letting out a ragged sigh, I splashed water on my face and scrambled out the door. The written reply would have to wait until after training.
Preseason flew by at breakneck speed. And by that, I mean literally, physically fast.
Between me and the other 'me'—the one who asked to be called Lee Yeon—alternating consciousness every other day, the weeks blurred past in half the time.
Not that I don't have my gripes, but…
After about three weeks, I simply learned to accept it. Wasting energy fighting an unchangeable reality was never my style. Besides, from his perspective, I was probably just as much of an unwelcome intruder.
The biggest reason we reached an accord so easily was our shared obsession with football. Both he and I were dead serious about the sport, even if our tactical interpretations couldn't have been further apart.
Watching match footage of him was surreal to the point of absurdity. I found myself questioning whether that agile, slippery figure on the screen was actually operating my own limbs. It also solved the lingering mystery behind those dazzling solo runs and the spectacular national team debut goal that had flooded the internet.
No wonder those clips looked unbelievable even to me.
At the time, I had assumed the memories were hazy because of the adrenaline and tunnel-vision focus. It turned out it hadn't been me at all.
Well… technically speaking, it was still my body, so I suppose it was me…
In any case, we found common ground through football, slowly establishing ground rules and hammering out compromises. Initially, our differing dietary habits and daily quirks required endless negotiation, but lately, our communication had settled into leaving concise logs in the smartphone memo app at the end of each day.
Except for the occasional note taped to the refrigerator.
I told you to stock apple juice in the fridge, not fresh orange juice.
— Lee Yeon
“Like hell I will. Blehh.”
I liked orange juice. As someone who touched neither fizzy sodas nor alcohol, cold orange juice was the only beverage that provided that refreshing, tangy kick, and I had no intention of giving it up. Naturally, my fridge was packed to the brim with orange juice, leaving zero shelf space for tasteless nonsense like apple extract.
“If you want it that badly, buy it yourself.”
All he had to do was stop by the nearby fruit stall on his way home from a match and ask them to crush a couple of apples before going to sleep. Blaming me for his laziness was ridiculous. Even if our personalities were polar opposites, couldn't our palates at least share some common ground?
Because of our little tug-of-war, Woosung-hyung was the one bearing the brunt of the chaos.
“…Well, it's not like he has anything better to do anyway.”
With the new signings squared away for the season, Woosung's focus had narrowed down almost exclusively to managing us. He would survive. And if not, too bad.
“I'm back,” a voice called out as the front door clicked open.
“Ah, hyung. Perfect timing.”
“……Now what?”
“What do you mean, 'now what'?”
“You only sound that welcoming when you're about to dump another errand on me.”
Only then did I properly look at him. I had wondered why he had taken so long to unlock the door, but the reason became immediately obvious: both of his arms were laden with grocery bags overflowing with ripe avocados.
“What are those for?”
“Are you blind? They're avocados.”
“I can see that. Why did you buy so many?”
“Because you told me to buy them! Did you eat crow meat or something? Where did your memory go?”
Just because I refused to buy apple juice, that bastard Lee Yeon had gone out of his way to order a mountain of the one fruit I detested most. If he gorged on those before going to sleep, the stench of mashed avocado would linger thick in my mouth the moment consciousness switched back to me. A truly horrifying prospect in every sense.
Nevertheless, whether we liked it or not, we were gradually settling into a strange rhythm of coexistence. With the opening match of the season looming just around the corner, we needed to pull together and squeeze every drop of value out of every single training session.