Away Day, and Anfield (1)
Adelia Myers, owner and chairwoman of Luton Town FC, felt her blood boil the instant she read the faxed reply.
"This has to be a conspiracy."
She had half a mind to rip the Football Association Premier League's official response to shreds. She had lodged a formal complaint against Luton Town's atrocious early-season schedule, only to be dismissed with bureaucratic indifference.
Just four matches into the league campaign, Luton Town's squad was on track to travel well over four hundred miles—logging nearly seven hundred kilometers on the road. While Matchday 1 against West Ham and Matchday 3 against Crystal Palace had been manageable London derbies, their away fixture against Everton and tomorrow's clash with Liverpool both demanded grueling trips north to Merseyside.
And even if one generously overlooked that stretch of travel, the fixtures immediately following Liverpool were Newcastle United and Middlesbrough. That meant trekking all the way to the northern reaches of England, practically kissing the Scottish border.
"Nothing we can do about it now," Manager Gordon Morton said with a dry chuckle. "It isn't the first time the league hierarchy has gotten on our nerves, and it certainly won't be the last."
Having lived through the dark era when the English FA declared the club bankrupt and drove it to the brink of dissolution, Gordon was immune to shock, no matter what absurdity the FAPL—the governing body operating the Premier League—dished out.
"What about the players' stamina?" Adelia pressed. "We played our very first Europa League group stage match just three days ago. No matter how carefully we manage their fitness, sheer travel fatigue isn't something you can just brush off."
"Managing that kind of strain is precisely why they pay me to be the manager."
"But it's Anfield. And after that, it's Newcastle and Middlesbrough..."
Anfield was universally known as the graveyard of visiting teams. From Adelia's perspective, the absolute least she wanted was for her players to fight on equal physical terms. To make matters worse, heading straight into Middlesbrough right after Newcastle was a recipe for disaster. Luton Town shared a bitter history with Middlesbrough from their Championship days, making victory non-negotiable. If they fell short on pure footballing merit, so be it, but she refused to watch her squad get tripped up by sheer physical exhaustion.
"Come now, Adelia. Don't work yourself into such a state," Gordon said gently. "The fixture list was finalized ages ago. You've lodged complaint after complaint, and not a single date has budged."
In fact, Gordon gave the FAPL a sliver of credit over the old FA, if only because they had bothered to draft a polite refusal.
"I already anticipated this kind of congestion, which is why I made early substitutions in our Europa League fixture," Gordon continued. "Granted, five substitutions weren't enough to rotate the entire starting eleven, but the defensive line has had plenty of breathing room since the winter window. As for the midfield, we can hold the fort with our new signings. Besides, Anderson told me that Han's conditioning has reached its absolute peak lately. We have every reason to be optimistic."
Pundits often praised Gordon for his tactical flexibility, but he rarely took such compliments to heart. A manager could draw up brilliant tactics until he was blue in the face; if the ball didn't cross the goal line, every scrap of theory was worthless. In that sense, while the players who brought his tactical blueprints to life on the pitch were indispensable, nobody compared to Han when it came to providing the decisive finishing touch. Especially given that Luton Town was still viewed as an underdog in the Premier League, possessing an all-around match-winner capable of flipping the game's momentum on his own was an invaluable luxury.
"Of course, don't set your expectations too high," Gordon added with a wry smile. "Players are only human, after all."
"Do you honestly think I'd blame you for losing, boss? I might grumble a bit as a fan, but as the club owner... well, five consecutive losses might sting, but three... no, even if we drop a couple in a row, I won't hold you responsible."
"...How reassuring," Gordon murmured.
Truly, the most terrifying thing in football was the passion of a dedicated supporter.
"Since things have come to this, maybe we really do need a private jet," Adelia muttered thoughtfully.
Her father and the true patriarch behind the club, Ernst Myers, was an industrial magnate who naturally owned his own private aircraft. Adelia caught on immediately to what Gordon had been hinting at.
"That was your real angle all along, wasn't it?"
"Ahem. Strictly for the squad's recovery and conditioning, of course."
"I've actually been looking into it," she admitted, tapping her pen against the desk. "Money isn't the hurdle here. It's the league's environmental impact assessments and carbon offset regulations..."
Gordon promptly downgraded his opinion of the FAPL right back down to the level of the FA—which was to say, absolute bottom-tier. For a manager whose top priority was keeping his squad fresh and healthy, environmental red tape, however valid in principle, was a constant headache.
"Merseyside might be cutting it close under the current restrictions," Adelia said, "but we should be able to secure flight clearance for Newcastle and Middlesbrough. The deadline is tight, but I'll submit the formal application today."
Premier League powerhouses backed by endless petrodollars and institutional wealth navigated travel hurdles with ease, casually chartering jets and shrugging off the associated fines. Luton Town, however, still required time to build that level of infrastructure. While Myers Group provided generous financial backing, throwing money around recklessly wouldn't solve structural problems overnight. To build a truly modern and competitive club, investments had to be channeled precisely where they mattered, ironing out systemic shortcomings step by step. Replacing the dilapidated stadium seats, expanding the ground, and enlarging the matchday parking facilities had all been part of that deliberate process.
In countless ways, Luton Town was still a work in progress.
"Seems I've dumped extra paperwork on your desk for nothing," Gordon said with a contrite shrug.
"Don't worry about it. If it makes things easier on the lads, it's worth doing."
And more than anything, she wanted to ease the burden for one player in particular.
Once Gordon took his leave from the owner's office, Adelia picked up her phone and quickly typed out a text message.
With a quiet sigh, she buried herself beneath the towering stacks of paperwork once more.
Anfield.
The legendary fortress of Liverpool Football Club, famously dubbed the Graveyard of Visiting Teams. And today, the pitch where we would step out as the away side.
"Bloody hell, it's massive," someone murmured beside me.
"At a rough guess, it holds more than double our home ground's capacity..."
After a four-hour coach ride from Luton, the towering monolith of Anfield Stadium greeted us. The surrounding avenues were already drowned in a rolling sea of scarlet jerseys.
"Before the renovations, our matchday atmosphere wasn't something to sneeze at either," Captain Teddy Bennett remarked defensively.
"Boss, before the renovations, our entrance didn't have an atmosphere," Dominic Moss shot back. "It looked like a back alley in a slum."
"......"
Teddy clamped his mouth shut, unable to muster a counterargument. Truth be told, the old away turnstiles at Kenilworth Road resembled less of a professional stadium entrance and more of a dimly lit, sickly orange subterranean passageway straight into the underworld. Of course, Kenilworth Road was now spacious, modern, and gleaming, but nobody could erase the memory of what it used to be.
The team bus pulled to a halt right before the players' entrance beneath the Main Stand. We gathered our gear and prepared to disembark. The moment the hydraulic doors hissed open, the roaring anthems of tens of thousands of Liverpool supporters flooded the interior of the coach, vibrating straight through our ribs.
"Well, at least there's no reason to get cold feet," I remarked casually.
Compared to the suffocating bedlam of the old Kenilworth Road, the jeering mob outside the Main Stand felt almost polite.
"Speak for yourself," Teddy muttered. "Everyone else on this bus is terrified."
"Even you, Captain?"
"...A little."
"......"
I glanced around the cabin. Sure enough, my teammates were huddled near the heavily tinted windows, peering nervously out at the towering stands and the hostile wall of red-clad supporters.
...Can we really win here?
That silent anxiety hung thick in the air. So this was why Liverpool supporters never stopped raving about the Anfield aura. Shaking off the heavy atmosphere, I was the first to step off the bus, walking at an unhurried, measured pace into the belly of Anfield.
If you asked football fans across the globe to name the single most iconic feature inside Anfield, nine out of ten would point to the exact same thing.
A framed sign centered around the iconic Liverpool crest, mounted directly above the narrow stairway leading out to the pitch. It was really hanging there, just as legendary as the photographs made it seem.
"How does it feel?" a voice chimed in.
Standing beside me in the tunnel was Alan Shankly, Liverpool's captain and star midfielder, clad in his pristine red kit.
"Didn't realize the opposing captain offered complimentary counseling sessions," I drawled. "Is that part of Liverpool's hospitality package?"
"Haha. As if."
Despite my sarcastic bite, Alan maintained an unbothered smirk. He hadn't been handed that red armband for nothing. Chuckling softly, he leaned in a fraction closer.
"I just wanted to remind you: anyone who touches that sign is practically signing their contract with Liverpool. Ever thought about making the switch? A striker of your caliber would always be welcome here."
"I was thinking about touching the sign," I answered coolly, "not joining your club."
Seeing visiting stars touch the plaque as a memento had crossed my mind once or twice. Of course, to make sure the tabloids didn't churn out ridiculous transfer rumors afterward, my plan was simply to bag a clean goal, secure three points, and clear things up during the post-match interview.
"Playing football in the countryside isn't really my style," I added.
"......Ha."
Anyone living in Merseyside would have taken serious offense, but objectively speaking, Merseyside was a long way from London. His clumsy attempt to rattle a newcomer was glaringly obvious. If he wanted to whisper petty mind games in my ear, he had to expect a barbed reply. I had weathered psychological warfare from veteran defenders far too many times to fold over something this amateurish.
Then again, backing down isn't in my nature either.
If Han were in control right now, he would have clamped his jaw shut, done his talking on the pitch, and casually dropped a subtle jab in the press conference afterward. But that wasn't how I, Lee Yeon, operated.
"Why don't you come over to Luton Town instead?" I said, offering a broad, mock-cordial smile. "With your pedigree, I reckon you could easily make vice-captain. We'll even pay you better wages than Liverpool."
"......"
As his surname made blindingly clear, Alan Shankly was a direct descendant of the legendary Bill Shankly, the founding father of modern Liverpool. It required zero imagination to picture how my words landed on his pride. Compared to his cheap little jab, mine was a tactical strike straight to his club heritage. You didn't need four-letter words to eviscerate someone's ego.
"Ha... let's see if you can run your mouth like that out on the pitch," Alan hissed, his smirk vanishing into a tight scowl.
Realizing he had traded a gentle provocation for a wholesale insult to his region, his club, and his personal ability, the Liverpool captain turned on his heel and stalked off without regaining an ounce of ground. Frankly, the fact that he hadn't raised his voice in a violent outburst meant his temper was almost as saintly as Teddy's.
"...What on earth did you just say to that bloke?" Hughes muttered, having wandered up just in time to catch Alan's stormy departure.
"All right, gather round. Listen up," I said, pitching my voice so that every Luton Town player lining up in the tunnel could hear loud and clear.
"What's going on?" someone asked.
"That guy just told me that Luton Town is a joke of a club," I said smoothly, letting my indignation show. "He said I ought to force a transfer to Liverpool so I can actually score decent goals."
"...He said what about Luton Town?"
"Has that bastard lost his bloody mind?!"
Perfect. The sparks are catching.
Half our squad consisted of academy graduates who had grown up wearing the Luton badge and made their senior debuts in our colors. Tossing a tiny spark into a powder keg like that was more than enough to trigger a collective explosion.
"He told me Merseyside is the true heart of English football," I continued, piling on the fiction without batting an eye. "Said clubs around London are just useless pretenders, and that if I want to play real football, I should beg Liverpool to sign me."
A little creative embellishment was essential to good agitation. Strictly speaking, Luton was merely in the London commuter belt rather than London proper, but when stirring the pot, bigger was always better.
"I'm going to smash a ball straight into his face!" Dominic bellowed, veins bulging in his neck. "Nobody serves up better assists than me! Nobody!"
"Oi! Grab Dom!"
"The match hasn't even kicked off yet, you lunatic!"
The agitation worked so well it was threatening to spill over. Any lingering dread about Anfield's terrifying reputation had vanished, swallowed whole by raw, burning fury on behalf of their insulted club.
"Is that really what he said?" Teddy asked, stepping beside me with his arms crossed.
"Close... enough," I answered with a shameless grin.
"...I don't even know why I bothered asking." Teddy gave a long, weary sigh, then reached out and ruffled my hair affectionately. "Still, nicely done. The lads needed that fire. This atmosphere is ten times better."
"Told you."
"Just make sure you don't cause an international incident in the post-match interview..."
Leaving me with that stern warning, the captain moved to the front to organize our lines. Glancing over my shoulder at the squad waiting in the tunnel, the timid apprehension from the bus was gone. In its place burned sharp, aggressive defiance.
A moment later, the match officials signaled for the walkout. The players began moving forward in single file toward the tunnel exit.
Positioned near the front, it didn't take long before I reached the base of the stairs.
—Tap.
Just as I had declared, as I passed beneath the framed sign, I reached upward and brushed my palm firmly against it. There was nothing mystical about it—just the cool, mundane texture of ordinary glass and polished wood.
Glancing back with a faint smirk, I caught sight of Alan Shankly staring at me with a face like thunder.
It was a glorious sight.
With that, I charged up the steps and threw myself straight into the deafening roar of Anfield.