The Premier League (1)

Because the Olympic national team's official disbandment ceremony was scheduled to take place back home in South Korea, several players plying their trade in European leagues had to bid their farewells right there in Australia.

I was one of them.

"Did you pack the gold medal?"

"Of course. I didn't want to risk checking it into cargo, so I tucked it right into my carry-on bag."

Picturing the gold medal resting in the deepest pocket of my bag, I gave it a light pat as if telling Tae-ha hyung to set his mind at ease.

The medal was immensely important in its own right, but it was also indispensable because I had to bring it back to Luton Town to film promotional and congratulatory videos. Adelia had specifically reminded me about it, which made leaving it behind out of the question.

Maybe I should drape it around her neck once.

It would probably look quite nice against her blonde hair.

Musing over these idle thoughts, I strolled past the airport duty-free shops alongside the others.

"Anyway, you're traveling together with Seok-hyun, right?"

"Only as far as London. You're heading to Madrid, Tae-ha hyung?"

"Yeah. Sitting next to Il-won the whole way, though... I honestly doubt I'll be able to catch a wink of sleep."

Tae-ha hyung was boarding a flight bound for Madrid with Kim Il-won, while Seok-hyun hyung and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I were taking a flight to London.

"Come visit Madrid sometime."

"I'm not sure I'll have the time."

"You're in the Europa League this season, aren't you? If luck's on our side, we might have time to meet up briefly in Madrid."

We killed time exchanging light banter until it was finally time to part ways and head toward our respective boarding gates.

Seok-hyun hyung, who boarded the plane beside me, was visibly weighed down by exhaustion. He sank limp into his seat the moment he sat down.

"Wake me up when we touch down in Qatar..."

"Got it, hyung."

In my case, Luton was only about fifty kilometers outside London, which spared me a grueling commute. Seok-hyun hyung, however, faced another lengthy trek up to Liverpool, where Everton FC was based. Fortunately, we were traveling in first class and could recline completely flat to rest, but the sheer physical distance was nothing to sneeze at.

"Oh, but make sure to wake me up when the in-flight meal arrives."

"Will do."

Having delivered that earnest plea, he collapsed straight into slumber. I adjusted the recline of my own seat, settling in to make the long journey as comfortable as possible.

A few minutes slipped by.

Once the economy cabin had finished boarding, the captain's announcement concluded, and the aircraft began to taxi slowly along the tarmac. Soon, accompanied by a deep, rumbling roar, the plane took to the skies.

As we climbed higher into the sky, the setting sun glowed with a brilliant, golden light.

Having completed both the FA Community Shield and their Premier League opening fixture, the mood surrounding Luton Town was neither distinctly good nor particularly terrible.

In the Community Shield, which pitted FA Cup winners Luton Town against reigning Premier League champions Manchester City, Luton Town's defeat had been widely anticipated—and the outcome unfolded exactly as expected.

It would be a lie to say there was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠no disappointment, but no supporters felt unfairly wronged. In truth, feeling aggrieved after losing to the previous season's Premier League champions would have bordered on shameless.

Meanwhile, the Premier League season opener yielded a respectable result for a newly promoted club—even if none of Luton Town's players were entirely satisfied with the outcome on the pitch.

The media's verdict was split down the middle.

Traveling away to West Ham and walking away with a 1–1 draw was certainly an outcome worthy of praise. For a newly promoted side to avoid defeat in an away match—in their very first fixture of the campaign, no less—was an achievement with genuine merit.

Yet both fans and journalists alike couldn't help but lament ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the gaping absence of a single player.

"You have to actually shoot the ball to score a bloody goal!"

"Fren, it's only the first match of the season. How about you ease off the booze?"

"Because it's frustrating! Utterly agonizing!"

It wasn't as though Luton had lacked chances. Luton Town's defensive organization and control in the center of the park had been commendable, and the forwards' high press and defensive work rate had been impeccably coordinated.

Yet the moment they entered the penalty area, that composure vanished.

West Ham had rattled the woodwork four separate times due to sheer misfortune. Meanwhile, Kayden repeatedly squandered pinpoint crosses served up on a silver platter by Dominic, only managing to salvage a draw because he barely managed to poke one over the goal line with the tip of his boot in the dying minutes. Had the match ended in a crushing blowout defeat, nobody would have been surprised.

"Why stress over it so much? It was an away match anyway."

"A true supporter always wants to see their club win!"

"You think I don't feel the same? Stop cursing up a storm in my pub and save your breath for the next match. It's our home opener."

Because it had been Luton Town FC's first match in the Premier League, traveling supporters had flooded the away end against West Ham in droves. Even so, it could hardly hold a candle to the historic occasion awaiting them at Kenilworth Road—their very first top-flight home fixture.

Thanks to the continuous stadium expansions and structural overhauls that had finally wrapped up during the pre-season, Kenilworth Road could now accommodate several times more spectators than before. The sheer resonance of the home crowd's roars ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would be in an entirely different league.

"And another thing: why on earth are you sitting in my face whining in the middle of a weekday afternoon? Don't you have reporting to do?"

Malek, the pub landlord and Fren's longtime friend, slid another fresh pint across the counter with a look of exasperation.

Fren had stormed into the pub at the crack of dawn to drown his sorrows after missing out on an exclusive scoop before, so Malek thought nothing could surprise him anymore. Yet here the man was, planted firmly on a stool in broad daylight on a weekday, determined to loiter the hours away.

"Hey, hold on. This is journalism."

"...What kind of reporting involves drowning yourself in lager?"

"This pub sits closest to the training ground."

"Sure it does. And what's your point?"

"Today is the day Lee returns from Australia to solve all our finishing woes. Staking out the location he's most likely to pass by is basic investigative instincts."

Faced with that unexpectedly reasonable justification, Malek came close to nodding along—until his gaze drifted to the clutter of empty bottles lining the counter, and he abandoned all effort to understand.

"An Olympic gold medal, was it?"

After the Great Britain squad suffered an utterly hollow elimination in the Round of 16, Malek had paid virtually no attention to the Olympic football tournament. His pub had broadcast pre-season club friendlies rather than bother screening Olympic matches.

Even so, he knew Lee Han had clinched the gold medal thanks to the celebratory posts across the club's official social media channels.

"Spot on. That means he'll definitely show up at the training ground carrying that medal with him. The club's official photographer drove through the gates thirty minutes ago, which means Lee is due to arrive any second now."

A reporter remained a reporter, it seemed; even while nursing his drinks, Fren hadn't let a single passing vehicle escape his notice through the front window.

After he spent a few more minutes nursing his bottle, the vehicle he had been waiting for so desperately slowed along the road outside and banked smoothly toward the entrance.

"I'm off!"

"Right. Watch your footing out there, it's slick—"

"Put the tab on my credit!"

"Hey!"

Darting out the door before Malek could even settle the bill, Fren bolted toward the training ground gates where the car had just disappeared.

No other media vehicles in sight.

Perhaps out of consideration for Lee Han's travel fatigue, Luton Town didn't appear to have invited any external press corps. Of course, that didn't mean he could simply thrust a camera or microphone into the player's face without warning. The professional course of action was to wait quietly outside the perimeter and capture what he could.

Focusing his lens on the parking lot visible through the perimeter fencing, Fren pressed down on the shutter the moment Lee Han stepped out of the vehicle.

Dressed in casual civilian clothes and smiling brightly, the player stood with the Olympic gold medal draped proudly around his neck—captured in pristine, razor-sharp clarity on the camera sensor.

That single photograph made every minute spent staking out the pub worth it.

Countless journalists had tried to force their way into the training grounds in the past, only to be promptly kicked out. Having secured his prize, Fren had no intention of prying any further inside. Attempting to gatecrash an uninvited gathering would only sour his relationship with the club, and he wasn't reckless enough to play such a foolish card.

They'll post the rest on the club's official channels anyway.

Satisfied with the simple fact that Lee Han was back, Fren hummed a merry tune under his breath, already drafting headlines in his head.

Through the car window, the training ground looked completely transformed.

"They must have spent an absolute fortune."

"How did they wrap up the construction work so fast?"

"Money talks. If you're willing to pay double the transfer fee, is there any player you couldn't sign?"

"...True enough."

True to his profession as an agent, Wooseung hyung placed absolute, unyielding faith in the power of capital.

"All right, you can hop out now. Go soak in the grand welcome."

Wooseung hyung brought the car to a halt in a parking bay. Unbuckling my seatbelt the moment he finished speaking, I stepped out into the crisp English air.

With pre-season drawing to its final curtain, the coaching staff, the manager, and virtually all the first-team players had their vehicles lined up in the lot. Strolling forward, I took in the newly erected facilities peeking over the fence.

Word had it that the club had poured over two hundred billion won into upgrading the facilities alone, and the results clearly reflected that investment. Having state-of-the-art facilities didn't automatically make a footballer play better, of course, but morale and environment were half the battle.

As I walked across the lot and pushed through the doors of the main training complex, a shower of colorful confetti fluttered down from above.

Hung right before my eyes was a massive banner featuring a picture of me holding the medal, beneath bold lettering honoring my achievement. It had clearly been put together with genuine care and affection.

"Is that the real gold medal?"

"It's bigger than I thought."

"Keep clapping, you lot!"

I shook hands with the teammates and staff who had formed a loose circle around the lobby.

"Mind if I touch it?"

When I stepped in front of him, Dominic eyed the medal with undisguised fascination. I gave him a nod, and he carefully lifted the medal as if handling a sacred relic before setting it gently back down against my chest.

"Maybe I should aim to play as an overage wildcard someday..."

"Go for it. I put in a good word for you, so it's not entirely out of the question."

After Lee Yeon ran wild on the pitch, I had done my best to smooth things over during the Olympic Final MVP press conference—at least, that was how I saw it—which had surely raised Dominic's international profile by a fair margin.

They might just call him up for the next international break.

With the World Cup only a few years away, giving him a chance wouldn't be a bad option for a Brazil side in desperate need of a generational transition. Having injected a bit of encouragement into Dominic, I continued making the rounds, greeting everyone who had gathered to congratulate me.

"Manager Gordon."

"How about shearing off ten percent of that gold medal for your old gaffer, eh?"

"Take as much as you like, Boss."

"Hahaha! I'm only pulling your leg. Keep it safe and cherish it. Congratulations, my boy."

Having contributed immensely to the tactical blueprint of our Olympic squad—serving as nothing short of a mentor to both of us—Gordon laughed heartily and wrapped me in a warm, paternal embrace.

"Here's a bouquet prepared by the club."

Adelia, our club owner, stepped forward and handed me an enormous bouquet of vibrant, multi-colored flowers. It was considerably larger than the golden wattle bouquet I had received on the podium in Australia.

"Thank you very much."

"Congratulations, Lee Han."

With the flower presentation and a squad commemorative photograph, my homecoming welcome drew to a heartwarming close.