Always Clear Skies
Returning from Merseyside didn't mean the season was over.
The season was long, and we had only just crossed the starting line.
"Stop moving around so much, will you?"
"How else am I supposed to score?"
"Just don't score, then."
The player marking me outside the penalty box was Ullrich, our new defensive midfielder signed in the summer transfer window.
Having arrived at Luton Town from the Portuguese Primeira Liga, he was capable of operating in both a double pivot and as a lone holding midfielder. With his fundamental strength lying in shielding the back four, he was a shrewd acquisition for a newly promoted Luton side that often found itself pinned back in defense.
How much did we spend on him again?
Lia claimed it was a reasonable fee, but from what I’d overheard, bringing him in at the price of a semi-regular starter was certainly no small sum.
It was only natural to want to see if he was worth every penny.
Besides, Manager Gordon had given me a quiet heads-up before today's scrimmage.
"Han, Ullrich will be marking you today."
"I figured as much. And?"
"Don't go easy on him just because he's new. Crush him."
"...Uh... yes, boss."
It wasn't in my nature to pull punches in training anyway, but the manager usually expected even more.
Since he had come over from Portugal, Gordon clearly wanted to give him a proper taste of what the Premier League was really like.
For a fleeting second before the match kicked off, I wondered about Ullrich's mental fortitude, but knowing the manager, he wouldn't have given the order without factoring that in. So, from the opening whistle, I tore into him by the textbook.
He had already surrendered two goals to me, and if he managed to keep me from scoring on this final attack, I'd at least be willing to concede he was better than Liverpool's backline.
Granted, the entire scrimmage lasted only twenty minutes across both halves, but still.
"Nesto! Here!"
Given room to breathe thanks to the pocket of space I created by dragging Ullrich down with me, Dominic sprayed a pass out to Nesto, another one of our new summer signings.
A right winger who was brought in to compete for Emir's spot, he had been signed from Montpellier in Ligue 1.
Having honed his craft in Ligue 1—where any prolonged dribble was routinely met with a crunching tackle—he didn't possess flashy footwork, but he had one undeniable weapon: his crossing.
As a traditional winger playing on his natural foot, the wicked deliveries he whipped into the penalty box, as well as the curling rabona crosses he'd pull off when angles were tight, were remarkably accurate.
Today was no exception; eager to showcase his strengths, he delivered a pristine cross right over backup right-back Jozef, who was defending against him.
Inside the penalty box, there were three defenders and two attackers.
Walter, one of our veteran center-backs, had his hands full keeping an eye on Luke out wide and Anton—brought in as backup to Captain Teddy—meaning he couldn't stick tight to me.
The remaining two, however—Jackson and Ullrich—were glued to my side, radiating a fierce determination to stop my header by any means necessary.
I already had a plan mapped out in my head.
Rather than resorting to borderline fouls like grabbing an arm or checking him with my body, winning the duel fair and square would leave a far deeper psychological impression on Ullrich.
To that end, I discreetly nudged Jackson in the waist with my elbow.
Just gently enough to keep Coach Alexon, who was officiating as referee, from blowing his whistle.
"Guh!"
I didn't do it to Ullrich, so my play was completely clean.
Ignoring Jackson's dying gasp—which I may or may not have heard, though officially I definitely hadn't—I jumped at the exact same fraction of a second as Ullrich.
I was positioned behind him, but that hardly mattered.
From the very moment I took my stance to leap, I already possessed a crystal-clear picture of the ball's trajectory.
Even though Ullrich gave up very little in aerial contests against center-backs, I leaped high enough to gaze down directly onto the crown of his head.
The ball skimmed past a few stray strands of Ullrich's hair before crashing squarely onto my forehead.
—Crack!
Retaining its blistering velocity, the ball rocketed in the direction I swiveled my forehead, slamming directly into the top corner of the net.
"Alright! That's it for today's session!"
Glancing down at his stopwatch, the coach barked at those of us scattered across the pitch, and without exception, everyone slumped right where they stood.
"How is it so muggy when the sky is completely covered in clouds...?"
Having traded the sunny skies and pristine waters of Portugal for London, Ullrich looked thoroughly disenchanted with the bleak, suffocating humidity.
"Drink some water and take a breather."
Taking two bottles from the fitness coach, who was diligently handing them out, I kept one and offered the other to him.
"So, how was it?"
"...I feel like I'm going to die. What kind of body do you even have?"
During pre-season, I had been away competing in the Olympics, so we hadn't played any scrimmages together. Then, with the Premier League and Europa League fixtures coming in rapid succession, prioritized rest had taken precedence over prolonged tactical sessions.
Consequently, this was his first time actually facing off against me in a proper in-house scrimmage, even if only for a brief stretch, and the shock on his face was palpable.
Naturally, watching from the dugout and experiencing it firsthand were two entirely different magnitudes of shock.
"Are all Premier League strikers like you?"
He looked as though he was seriously contemplating packing his bags and catching the first flight back to Portugal.
"No need to take it to heart. You just have to treat him as a separate species."
Rubbing his ribs, Jackson strolled over to us.
"Didn't I tell you to stop shoving people in the ribs?!"
"As long as it didn't leave a bruise, we're good."
"I'm complaining because it feels like it will!"
Grumbling under his breath, Jackson slipped naturally into our conversation.
"Even Liverpool shipped three goals at Anfield. For someone still settling in, you performed well above average. What more do you expect? Honestly, your sanity will thank you if you just shrug him off and move on."
"Is that so?"
Ullrich nodded in swift agreement.
I often thought that anyone who played primarily in defense came equipped with an eraser inside their head.
Forgetting bad moments quickly was a vital talent in its own right.
In that regard, Ullrich seemed to possess the requisite mindset of a top-class holding midfielder.
Manager Gordon had probably told me not to hold back precisely because he understood that side of his character.
While my thoughts wandered, their banter continued.
Just as Ullrich had completely relaxed...
"Yeah. So just think of him as an occasional aerial sparring partner, a defensive test dummy, and an assist machine that pads your stats whenever you toss a ball in his general direction. It'll give you peace of mind."
"...Is that how you've been looking at me all this time?"
"How else should I treat... Ah, right, you're also handy for practicing dribble defense. Not today, obviously."
"......"
I had noticed him hanging out with Dominic an awful lot lately, and it seemed something foul had rubbed off on him.
As we stood chatting in a loose huddle, Nesto, who had been waiting for Jackson to finish, spoke up.
"Could we practice crosses together tomorrow and work on our chemistry?"
Despite racking up two assists in today's scrimmage alone, the hunger in his eyes—the sense that it still wasn't enough—was striking.
"Tomorrow probably won't work."
I had no idea why Lee Yeon insisted on taking over the body from the crack of dawn to run around all day, but with plenty of time remaining before the Newcastle fixture, and Lia being busy, I had nothing lined up anyway.
So I had decided to just let Lee Yeon have tomorrow.
Of course, I couldn't explain all those circumstances to him, so I quickly added to clear his confusion:
"Your crosses are already plenty good. How about we work on cutbacks today instead?"
Objectively speaking, his crossing was outstanding. However, having played for a Montpellier side in Ligue 1 that relied entirely on a target-man, cross-and-inshallah brand of football, his cutback timing today had been completely off.
Or maybe he's just plain bad at cutbacks.
Polishing his crossing even further wasn't a bad idea, but since he would be competing with Emir for minutes, developing at least above-average cutback proficiency was essential.
While all passes mattered, a cutback in particular needed to be delivered so that the recipient could turn it into a goal with a single touch, regardless of the angle.
Not that I'm saying this just because I usually skie them into the stands whenever I receive one.
Definitely not.
"True, I haven't practiced them much lately. There wasn't really any call for them in actual matches."
"Then this is perfect. Take this chance to work on it."
I could already vividly picture Lee Yeon berating him in the future, asking if he called that a cutback—just as he always did whenever watching footage of my passes—so I vigorously recommended the drill.
"If you can feed it to him so he actually puts it in the back of the net today, call it a success. I'll be the sole defender on Han, and all you have to do is beat Dominic and whip in the cutback."
"...Come on, that sounds a little too easy."
Nesto chuckled at Jackson's proposition.
Yet Jackson, who had made the offer, and Dominic, who had drifted over while sipping his water, wore expressions of absolute gravity.
"When Han uses his head, he's beyond imagination."
"Spot on. Crazy in an entirely different way."
"......"
Still, I couldn't help thinking they were selling me a bit short. These days, I took occasional shots with my feet, chipped in with long-range efforts, and even tucked away cutbacks every now and then.
Giving me no room to argue, however, they dragged Nesto and me straight back out onto the training pitch.
Where on earth these guys found the energy after being dead on their feet from the scrimmage just moments ago was anyone's guess.
By the time the sky had begun to dim...
"One last time!"
"...Aaargh!"
Beneath the glaring floodlights of the training ground, Nesto let out a desperate, guttural roar as he blew past Dominic, who was doing his best impression of a defender.
Just before crossing the byline, he drove a cutback into the penalty area with noticeably sharper precision than his earlier attempts.
Hold for a half-beat here...!
I surged forward.
Jackson, desperately trying to keep me in his line of sight, possessed exceptional physicality, as expected of a center-back. His strength was upper-tier even by Premier League standards, which said all that needed to be said.
Rather than clashing bodies head-on, I executed an off-the-ball movement designed to throw his center of gravity off balance, snapping my foot down a split-second quicker.
Scraping by Jackson's challenge, I made contact—cautious, not hitting it too hard—and watched the ball roll smoothly into the empty net.
"Alright! That's a wrap!"
Shortly after we began the drill, Coach Allen, who had been sitting nearby watching us, shouted the call that officially brought our cutback session to a close.
"Nesto, I'm genuinely moved."
"...Huh?"
"Han's conversion rate on turning cutbacks into shots just crossed thirty percent. That's an all-time personal best! You're the real deal, kid."
Nesto beamed, clearly thrilled by the praise from Coach Allen.
And I was feeling pretty pleased myself.
When I had practiced with Coach Allen, the figure hovered around fifteen percent, so this conversion rate was practically a career high for me.
Especially considering there hadn't been a single defender on me back then.
Lee Yeon's specialized tutoring had definitely paid dividends.
Guess he comes in handy once in a while.
Remembering his post-match interview against Liverpool still made my hair stand on end, but reflecting on it now, I figured I could cut him a little slack.
Of course, there was still a long road ahead.
Compared to proper footballers, my cutback-to-shot conversion rate was still scraping the absolute bottom of the barrel.
And considering this drill featured no goalkeeper and a completely vacant box without other players cluttering it, the real figure would likely be even lower.
Flipping that perspective, however, meant my footwork had finally reached a level where it could at least be compared to that of an actual footballer. For that reason alone, it was a thoroughly satisfying milestone.
"Though honestly, Coach Allen's cutbacks always felt a bit too fast."
Nesto's cutbacks were distinctly higher in quality.
"Right? I thought the exact same thing when we were running drills back then!"
"Coach Allen's the only one who won't admit it."
Dominic and Emir chimed in.
"...I can hear every word, you know."
Naturally, Coach Allen wasn't the type to take that lying down.
He came tearing across the training ground to grab us as we gossiped, triggering an impromptu game of tag.
"Come on, you're retired!"
"And so what?!"
"Why are you still so fast?! Go down to the pub and down a few pints like a normal pensioner, will you?!"
"You think muscle deflates like a balloon just because I took a little time off after hanging up my boots?! My short-distance burst is still intact! And I didn't become a coach just for show!"
"Aaaagh!"
Having run his mouth the most, Dominic was the first to be nabbed, releasing a bloodcurdling shriek.
It was the kind of scream that made you definitely not want to look back.
"...Coach Allen, how about coming out of retirement?"
"Shut your traps, the lot of you!"
Only after we sprinted around the pitch for another ten minutes did today's training finally conclude.
All in all, it had been a remarkably rewarding day.