The Gift (1)
When most people think of a football stadium, their minds picture a verdant rectangle of grass ringed by tiers of spectator seats. In reality, the facilities tucked beneath and behind those stands were far more expansive and numerous than one might imagine.
Ever since football evolved beyond a simple game of wins and losses into a global spectacle of entertainment, stadiums had transformed into a breed of modern theme park. Luton Town had embraced this evolution whole-heartedly during their latest expansion.
By buying up the neighboring residential properties and undertaking massive redevelopment, Kenilworth Road had shed its quaint, three-sided heritage to emerge as a grand arena. Supporters no longer relied on local food trucks parked on the curbside; they now bought refreshments made inside the concourses. The idiosyncratic turnstiles, where one used to thread through the underbelly of terraced houses, had given way to an entrance that was vast, bold, and modern. The club shop, once a modest and weathered affair, now occupied an entire floor. Added to that were interactive fan booths and an indoor hall reserved for special club events. For lifelong Hatters and newfound supporters alike, the ground had become a sanctuary brimming with welcome improvements.
Yet this dramatic change in scale went far deeper than the public eye could see.
The administrative offices, strictly off-limits to visitors, had grown just as comfortably appointed. Following promotion to the Premier League, the club's staff had expanded steadily, yet the relentless avalanche of work never seemed to ease. The spacious offices and restful lounges offered staff a much-needed breath of tranquility amid the daily grind—the silent engine driving Luton Town's flawless day-to-day operations.
"You don't look too exhausted."
In the chairwoman's office, the crown jewel of that gleaming new expansion, Adelia welcomed me with an affectionate smile.
Through the sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows, the cozy rooftops of Luton and the distant glow of the London skyline shimmered in the evening dark. Mindful of any passing eyes, I clicked the heavy door shut behind me. It was no longer the creaky wooden slab of the old facility, but a thick, soundproof portal that brought home just how far Kenilworth Road had come.
Releasing the brass handle, I stepped across the plush carpet toward her.
"I'm in top shape, all thanks to an owner who looks out so well for her players."
My teasing retort drew a bright, delighted chuckle. She leaned back, perching lightly on the edge of the long conference table set before her executive desk. Two porcelain cups rested atop the surface: one half-emptied, and another trailing a delicate wisp of steam.
I took a seat opposite her and took a sip of the warm black tea. Her habit of offering tea had become second nature to both of us by now.
"So, how was the trip?" she asked.
"Infinitely better than rattling around on a coach. Made me wish we could fly everywhere."
"It was a scramble securing the charter and sorting the clearances in time, but hearing that makes every bit of paperwork worthwhile."
Pleased with my answer, Adelia slipped quietly over to sit beside me. Whenever we met in our formal capacities as chairwoman and player, the broad oak table had stood between us. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder like this, gazing directly into each other's eyes, always stirred a delightfully strange sensation in my chest.
"Going forward, you'll be flying for distant fixtures like Newcastle," she explained.
"What counts as distant, exactly?"
"Anything around Manchester or farther."
That was brilliant news. I had guessed as much when the parent company customized one of their corporate jets in Luton Town livery, but having a dedicated charter for squad travel was something else entirely.
...Back in League One, we couldn't even have dreamed of this.
Players truly had every reason in the world to fight tooth and nail for promotion.
"I still feel awful that our delays kept you from flying to Anfield for the Liverpool away match, though," she murmured softly.
"You're already doing more than enough for us," I replied, gently brushing away her lingering regret.
"In that case... since I've done so well, will you give me my reward?"
"...Ah."
My body froze for an instant.
It was no fluke that she had navigated several ruthless transfer windows so successfully. Her negotiating finesse was nothing short of extraordinary.
"I sent all the staff home early," she whispered, leaning close until her breath brushed my ear. "Told them they'd worked hard enough wrapping up the paperwork today."
Outside the glass, the London skyline burned remarkably bright.
The coming week held not just a weekend league clash, but also the second leg of our Europa League tie. With both fixtures away from home, absolute rest was paramount.
...So why does this body feel like it was run over by a steamroller?
Just how recklessly had Lee Han pushed our physical frame? Waking up, my muscles were stiff and aching. The clock informed me that the hour for any early-morning jog had long since passed. Seeing no point in lingering beneath the sheets, I dragged myself out of bed and rolled my shoulders back in a long, deliberate stretch.
I flexed my arms and legs, testing each muscle group with measured tension. Thankfully, apart from a dull ache of fatigue, there was no structural damage to worry about. With my morning diagnostic complete, I padded into the kitchen, poured a generous serving of wholesome cereal into a bowl, splashed in milk, and carried my breakfast to the living room.
Before heading out to the fan meet-and-greet later today, I needed to review the tape of the Newcastle match Lee Han had played. Tapping play on the match footage sent over by the technical staff, the first sound that burst from the new soundbar was the deafening roar of torrential rain.
Well... no wonder he was exhausted.
Even the covered grandstands on screen were swept by vicious gusts of wind-whipped rain. No matter how pristine a Premier League pitch was kept, no drainage system on earth could keep pace with that kind of deluge. Sure enough, the broadcast showed the ball skidding into dead stops inside standing puddles every few minutes, while long balls caught in the crosswinds veered wildly off course like unpredictable knuckleballs.
I had half a mind to scold Lee Han for not handing the body back to me immediately after the whistle, but I held my tongue. Grinding through ninety minutes in a biblical storm and walking away with nothing worse than stiff joints meant he had actually managed our conditioning with immense care.
I sat through the rest of the grueling, mud-soaked battle, followed by his post-match interview. True to his unflappable nature, his answers were cool, measured, and entirely unremarkable, sparing me the trouble of digging up any follow-up press coverage.
Time to get moving.
Showing up late to an event hosted by our own PR department would be in terrible taste. I didn't care much if my antics on the pitch stirred controversy in the tabloids, but courting drama over basic professional conduct was out of the question.
Stepping into the bathroom, I noticed the tiles were still slightly damp from an uncharacteristically late shower. I rinsed off quickly, dried my hair, pulled on my kit beneath a clean tracksuit, and carefully styled my hair up into place. Lee Han couldn't care less about his hair because he spent half the match burying headers, but I had standards to maintain.
With my preparations finished, I hauled a cardboard box filled with signed shirts from the corner of my room down to the driveway, loaded it into the boot, and fired up the engine. Wooseung had flown to Seoul to hammer out endorsement contracts, leaving the driving to me today. Agents truly were an artful breed—their sense of timing when ditching chauffeur duty was nothing short of miraculous.
Inside the players' and officials' parking lot behind the North Gate of Kenilworth Road, several familiar vehicles were already lined up: staff runabouts, the brand-new SUV Dominic had bragged about for weeks, and a handful of other teammates' rides.
Thump, thump, thump!
Startled by a sudden rap on the passenger window, I glanced over to find Emir and Dominic grinning back at me.
Perfect timing.
I wasn't looking forward to lugging those heavy boxes by myself anyway.
I killed the ignition and stepped out onto the tarmac.
"Thought you'd roll in late, but look at you—early bird," Dominic called out.
"...Why would I be late?"
"Didn't you say yesterday you were swinging by here alone to sort something out? Figured you'd be up half the night and sleep through your alarm."
"......"
As Dominic gestured toward the stadium facade, the pieces clicked into place inside my head.
...I knew ninety minutes in the rain wasn't enough to make our body ache like that.
No wonder. The complete absence of any explanatory note left on our bedside table made it glaringly obvious what had transpired.
You owe me one, Lee Han. I just saved your skin.
Swallowing an inward sigh at my utterly shameless alter ego, I popped the boot open.
"Grab this."
"What's in it?"
"Stuff I took home from here yesterday."
"...Wait, these are shirts?"
"Yeah."
I had purchased them with my own money at the start of the campaign, though I saw no reason to mention that out loud.
"You signed all of these? This entire mountain?"
"Doesn't take that long."
Alongside the fresh carton from home, there was another box I had stashed in the boot earlier. It wasn't like signing autographs while taking selfies after a match; scribbling your name across a flat jersey went fast. Both boxes combined hadn't taken more than an hour.
"Look at you, always planning three steps ahead," Dominic muttered in awe.
"You should've told us, mate! I would've prepped some too," Emir groaned.
"You can always pop into the club shop and buy a stack of merchandise to hand out before the supporters leave."
The PR department had their own souvenir packs ready, of course, but receiving a signed kit straight from a first-team player carried an entirely different weight. Besides, a footballer had everything to gain and nothing to lose from generous fan service. Manager Gordon had drilled the lesson into our heads until it was second nature: when you hit a slump on the pitch, it was the supporters who loved you personally that shielded you from the wolves.
"Right then, I'm clearing out the shop shelves right now," Dominic declared.
"I'm getting them caps too!" Emir chimed in.
Watching two Premier League footballers eagerly reinvest their weekly wages straight back into the club's megastore was a genuinely heartwarming sight.
The renovated interior of Kenilworth Road was unrecognizable from what it had been just a few years ago.
Young Joel, who had won an exclusive stadium tour through a lucky draw held for junior season ticket holders, dashed through the polished lobby with unbound enthusiasm.
"Alright everyone, gather around please!"
Normally, getting a crowd of rambunctious children to freeze on cue was an impossible task. Yet the moment the coordinator's call rang out, every single child scuttled into formation without an ounce of hesitation.
The reason for their impeccable discipline stood right beside the staff member.
Though they were hardly quiet about it.
"It's Dominic!"
"Emir's here too!"
Unsurprisingly, the loudest roar of excitement was reserved for Lee Han—the lethal talisman whose goal-scoring feats had made him an idol across Bedfordshire.
"It's really him! It's Lee Han!"
"That's right, mate. It's really me," I replied with a grin.
"Sign my arm, please!"
"I'll sign whatever you like, but how about we take a tiny step back first?"
Faced with a thunderous reception that completely overshadowed their own, Dominic and Emir exchanged a weary look, glanced back at me, and let out a collective sigh. Children were brutally honest creatures in every sense of the word.
"We should just stick to playing football, mate..." Emir grumbled dryly.
"He's better at football than both of us anyway," Dominic muttered.
"......"
Their mock sulking lasted only a fleeting moment before both players broke into wide, radiant grins, welcoming the kids who rushed toward them.
"Dad! Take the picture! Quick!"
"R-Right, on it!"
The accompanying parents—predominantly fathers—stared slack-jawed, clearly caught off guard that three prominent first-team starters had shown up in person for a modest tour.
"...Loving the spotlight, aren't you?" Dominic teased under his breath.
"What can I say? Quality attracts a crowd."
"Oh, shove off."
Trading good-natured barbs, the three of us stepped into our element to manage the room. Having spent years climbing up from League One, directly engaging with supporters was second nature to us; calming down an excitable room full of youngsters was child's play.
We exchanged brief, cheerful greetings with each child, coaxed their buzzing energy down to a manageable level, and gently ushered them toward their assigned seats. Thanks to that practiced intervention, the overwhelmed event coordinator managed to regain control over both the kids and their shell-shocked parents.
And there, sitting quietly amid the settled crowd...
...Wait.
Lee Yeon's eyes locked onto an unmistakable, familiar face.