Premier League (5)
The first half had been a comprehensive victory for Luton Town.
I had put away two goals, and Crystal Palace had looked utterly bewildered by our fluid, multifaceted attacking routes. Yet a side that had held its ground in the grueling Premier League for decades was never going to roll over quietly. As the whistle blew for the second half, they showed everyone why they remained a permanent fixture in the top flight's stubborn middle tier.
“Oh, Emir loses possession!”
“Crystal Palace on the counter! The space behind is wide open!”
Just as the second half settled in and our attacking sharpness began to dull, Palace finally played their hidden card. For the past several seasons, they had lived and died by a simple, ruthless formula: absorb pressure, then break at breakneck speed. Schooled in the craft until it was second nature, Palace did not miss our momentary lapse or the vast green acreage exposed behind our backline. We conceded, and our cushion shrank to a single goal.
“Attack meets attack! The tempo is relentless!”
“Luton Town are pouring forward, determined to leave no room for doubt! And Crystal Palace are hunting the backline with fierce resolve, refusing to go down quietly! Selhurst Park is boiling over!”
With Palace defending deep and our boys committing bodies forward, the midfield turned into a vacuum. The match devolved into end-to-end chaos—what people bluntly termed hoofball. Every minute, the ball bypassed the center circle multiple times. While the frantic, back-and-forth transitions kept both home and away supporters on their feet in a roar of excitement, it was hardly a comfortable state of affairs for those of us on the pitch.
‘If we can just snatch one more goal...’
Unlike our suffocating first-half siege, our momentum had flagged simply because the ball refused to cross the line. Conceding a goal on top of that only added to the psychological weight. It was the sort of juncture where ordinary squads inevitably tightened up, causing the offensive machinery—which needed boldness above all else—to sputter and squeak.
That meant the burden fell to me.
Setting up a teammate would be fine, but settling this with overwhelming authority was better. I had to etch an indelible truth into the minds of Palace, and every subsequent opponent waiting on our fixture list: that I could put the ball into the back of the net from any angle, at any moment, under any pressure. Only then would future backlines dedicate their entire game plan to shadowing me.
The greatest strength of Luton Town’s current setup was its tactical versatility. If we locked down the three points today, opposing managers would obsess over marking me in the matches to come. That shift would crack open channels for our wide midfielders—who had refrained from attacking the box today—to storm into the final third. For the sake of expanding our options across a long season, and for the young fan screaming his heart out somewhere in the stands, I needed to execute my role with cold, flawless precision.
Still, there was no reason to get frantic.
Palace’s latest counter had just broken down, and the ball was securely gathered into the safe, weathered palms of our veteran goalkeeper, Mathias. He chose to take the sting out of the game, slowing the tempo to settle a squad dominated by young blood.
“Pushing up is fine, but don’t get dragged into their trap!” Mathias bellowed, holding the ball before rolling it toward Mick, who had come on as a second-half substitute. “Stay composed! Just pick out the open spaces!”
“Captain!” Mick called out.
“Give it back!”
A pair of Palace forwards surged forward, unleashing a high press powered by stamina saved in the first half. But Captain Teddy, a master at escaping tight corners, shielded the ball with veteran guile, holding off his marker even as he stumbled under heavy contact.
“Now, move it forward!”
Manager Gordon’s booming shout sliced through the cauldron of stadium noise, reaching all the way to the center circle. It was both a confirmation that our reformed shape was ready to strike and an unambiguous tactical command: advance. The passes that had grown hesitant moments earlier regained their sharp, crisp bite. Hearing Gordon’s order, Teddy instantly nudged the ball into the stride of our center-back, Walter.
“Wait—Walter Lucarelli is stepping out!”
“In a flash, the Palace markers have lost their man!”
Walter ate up the ground with sweeping, confident strides. Teddy, gifted with good height, aerial prowess, and seasoned defensive instincts, had dropped deep to lure a Palace midfielder into our territory, boring a huge hole in their central spine. Walter glided directly into that pocket. Where the midfield had been completely empty seconds ago, Adlan and Giovanni had tucked inside from the flanks to offer passing angles. Walter slid the ball to Giovanni without a breath of hesitation, and Giovanni swept a sweeping, diagonal switch across the pitch.
The ball traced a majestic arc before dropping softly at the feet of Luke, hugging the touchline. Yet the danger wasn’t fully primed. Palace’s defensive line had been stretched out of shape, but it hadn’t shattered.
“Luke! Pass it!”
I yelled from the left half of the final third, just outside the penalty box.
A heartbeat later, the ball came rocketing toward me at a speed that left the opposing fullbacks glued to the turf. Any ordinary striker would have cursed a teammate for delivering a bullet with that much heat, but I wasn't an ordinary striker.
‘Perfect weight.’
It was drilled with the exact ferocity we had rehearsed on the training ground. At the end of the day, any pass controlled cleanly by the recipient is a great pass. I cushioned the delivery off my chest, and before the leather could even kiss the grass, I flicked it over to Emir on the far right flank. That rapid shift from center to wing finally pried open a decisive gap. A corridor appeared between the fullback dragged wide by Luke’s earlier run and the center-back scrambling out to block my shooting lane.
“Whip it in!”
Emir had spent the entire first half cutting the ball back along the turf. My sudden instruction caught him off guard, but his brief hesitation was nothing compared to the absolute panic seizing the Palace center-backs as a looping cross curled toward the danger zone. The muscle memory from our relentless training sessions held true; even when departing from our standard playbook, Emir delivered the ball on instinct.
‘Then I have to finish it.’
Trust had to be repaid. Decency required delivering three points to the supporters, and an assist to the man who delivered the ball.
Twisting my frame, I tracked Emir’s inswinging cross as it dipped into the box. I brought it down cleanly with the inside of my right foot, using my body to shield the ball with my back to the goal. Unless the center-back and fullback were willing to give away a penalty, they couldn't touch me, and the goalkeeper's view was totally swallowed by the sea of orange and blue jerseys. But one fundamental truth never changed: the goalposts never moved.
“Emir delivers! Lee Han, Lee Han in the center—!”
Just like the earlier chest pass, I whipped my upper body around before the ball could bounce off the turf. Pivoting on my planted left foot, I tapped down the right foot I had used to trap the ball, then uncorked a savage strike an instant before leather met grass.
CRACK!
The ball grazed the crown of the late-charging right center-back and plummeted on a vicious, knifing trajectory. Struck with devastating power at a completely unpredictable tempo, the shot left the keeper rooted to his line. All he could do was swivel his neck in horror as the ball buried itself into the top-left corner of the net.
“GOOOAAALLL!! LEE HAN! WHAT A SUPER VOLLEY! AN ABSOLUTE SCREAMER!”
“How on earth did he pull off a turning volley from there?! In a space that tight! He sniffed out the one impossible angle and unleashed an unstoppable strike without a moment's hesitation!”
“That makes six league goals for Lee Han! Back-to-back hat-tricks in the Premier League!”
“A masterpiece of a turning volley, announcing his arrival to the English top flight in thunderous fashion!”
“Three to one! He throws a bucket of ice water over Crystal Palace’s revival!”
I wheeled away toward the corner flag, sprinting straight for the away section. Locking eyes on the patch of seats where I had spotted Joel during my second goal, I held up three fingers. Catching the meaning of the celebration, the boy went wild, brandishing his Luton Town jersey emblazoned with my signature. Beside him, his older sister and the rest of the traveling Luton supporters were in equal states of delirium, their collective roar raining down around me.
“Is that the fan you were talking about?” Dominic asked, trotting up beside me.
“Yeah.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“Not her, the kid next to her.”
“Ah, and here I thought you were running your lungs out for a completely different kind of motivation.”
“...”
I swiftly disciplined Dominic’s sly grin with a firm smack to the back of his head—tough love was always the most efficient medicine—before jogging to the sideline to make way for Kayden. As I walked off, a hush blanketed the home sections of Selhurst Park, replaced entirely by a standing ovation and deafening chants hailing my name.
When I finally cleared the mixed zone after the match, the fans I had greeted earlier were waiting in an orderly queue by the barrier.
“You able to ride back with the team?” Emir asked, pausing by the corridor.
“Figured it'd be like this, so I booked separate transport,” I replied. “I already cleared it with the gaffer and the staff, so head on out on the bus without me.”
Wooseung-hyung always drove me himself. Now that my profile had exploded, I could easily have hired him a personal chauffeur, but the man remained stubbornly set in his ways. Emir offered a thumbs-up and a brisk “Good shift, mate,” before stepping aboard the team coach.
“You were incredible today!”
Joel was practically panting, beads of sweat glistening across his forehead as if he had sprinted down from the stands the moment the whistle blew. Given the crisp autumn breeze settling over London, the sheer volume of sweat spoke volumes about how frantically he had scrambled to get here.
“Here, take this first.”
“...Wait, is this...?”
“Yeah. The hat-trick match ball.”
At my words, Joel took the leather into his trembling hands, holding it with the solemn reverence of a squire receiving a royal relic.
“Uh... ah...”
Joel’s older sister, trailing a few steps behind, froze dead in her tracks the moment her gaze met mine. Dressed head-to-toe in Luton's signature orange kits and caps, the siblings made quite the matching pair. Fortunately, she regained her composure far quicker than her brother, stepping forward to position him for a picture.
“Stand straight, Joel. Smile for the photo.”
“R-Right!”
We took three photos in total: one with Joel, one with his sister, Sienna, and a final one with the three of us together. Once the camera clicked, Joel reluctantly held the match ball back out toward me, looking adorably crestfallen at having to let it go.
“I need to keep that one for my display case at home, but I brought something else for you instead.”
Every player felt a natural urge to give back to supporters, especially the young ones. That was why I had secured an official team ball signed by the entire squad right after the final whistle.
“My signature’s the biggest one right on the front. And it’s hand-signed, not a stamp, so don’t you dare go selling it online.”
“I’m keeping it until the day I die!”
“...Alright, let’s not get dramatic...”
Joel looked so thrilled that a gentle breeze might have sent him floating into the clouds. Still, he took meticulous care as he zipped the prized possession into his backpack.
“Thank you so much,” Sienna said, offering a polite bow from the waist—a distinctly Korean gesture she had clearly practiced beforehand. “This will be a memory Joel treasures for the rest of his life.”
With a cheerful smile, she guided her beaming brother toward the exit. I stayed behind to sign autographs and take selfies with the remaining crowd, ultimately keeping Wooseung-hyung idling in the car for nearly three hours.
“...Next time, I’m just hiring you a driver,” Wooseung groaned as I finally slipped into the passenger seat.
“Nobody drives smoother than you, hyung. I sleep like a baby back here.”
“...Just put me out of my misery.”
Where do you think you’re running off to?
Not on my watch.