The Man and the Woman's Circumstances: First vs. Second Team Evaluation Match (End)

Team Maxwell's locker-room talk wrapped up in a hurry.

Patrick sat waiting in the stands, wrestling with an electrolyte bottle whose cap refused to budge.

"This is bullshit—the whole damn design of the bottle is wrong."

Jobe found his brother's struggling pathetic.

"Gimme that."

He twisted the cap off in one smooth motion.

"Cheers, Jobe! By the way, your form's looking sharp as hell today."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. You said you'd half-ass it 'cause it's only a practice match—what happened? Properly motivated now, huh? Don't tell me Manager Han Shin's got you under his spell."

"Ah, I dunno~~ Why I got so fired up. Let's just coast the second half, yeah? We're winning anyway."

"True enough."

The salary gap between starters and subs was several times over, after all.

"Think you can still bag a hat-trick?"

"One more goal left, right? Gotta do it."

"Those guys are so pissed they won't even come close to mark me."

"I noticed that earlier. Looked like the manager ordered them not to mark you."

"Exactly—that's what's pissing me off. Stick close to me. Guaranteed chances will open up."

"Got it~"

They were still chatting idly about tactics when it happened.

"Waaaaaaaaaah!"

A thunderous roar erupted as Team Han Shin's players came charging out like a storm.

"Uwooooooooooaah!"

They glared at the first-team members—especially Maxwell—as if they meant to murder them on the spot.

"Uwaaah! Maxwell!!! Get out here!!!"

"What? 'Maxwell, get out here'?"

Calling someone by name was normal in foreign culture, but it was still a bit rude toward a coach, leaving the assistant speechless.

"Seriously, what's with those guys?"

Jobe could tell that whatever Manager Han had said to them, they were furious enough to blow their tops.

Competitive fire and fighting spirit.

Just like those bastards from their bitter rivals, Newcastle United.

What the hell did Manager Han do to them?

"If you're all rested, let's get this match going already!"

Abdullah Ba bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Han Shin walked out right behind him.

"Mr. Maxwell, they want it that badly—shall we start the second half right away?"

"Fine by me. Manager, everyone to your positions!"

Then he turned to Jobe.

"Ready for that hat-trick?"

"Yes!"

"Alright then—let's restart the match~~"

And so the second half began.

The completely transformed Team Han Shin pressed with such manic intensity that their opponents barely had room for a single loose, leisurely pass.

"Get that bastard!!!"

Bellingham, the team's linchpin, found the midfield numbers suddenly overwhelming.

It wasn't just more midfielders—it felt like the entire opposing side had twelve, no, thirteen players on the pitch.

That was because the three midfielders—Pierre, Adil, and Abdullah—were covering more than double the ground they had in the first half.

"What the actual hell?! Did someone on our team get sent off? There's nowhere to pass!"

"Me! Me!"

Patrick waved for the ball.

"Jobe! I'm free—pass it to me!"

"Got it! Take it!"

A high long ball found Patrick successfully.

But Pierre, who had declared he would log 12 km of running, was already glued to the ball.

Wasn't he over on that side just a second ago?

Pierre's tackle came instantly. Caught off guard, Patrick lost possession.

"Hey! What the—?! Weren't you not supposed to mark me?"

"I'm not marking!"

For a second Pierre looked just like Makelele.

"I'm going first~ Yo~!"

While Patrick stood dazed, Romain streaked past like the wind.

"Back! Patrick! Back!"

Hume screamed himself hoarse, demanding he recover defensively.

"Fuck!"

Patrick chased after him at once.

Romain, who had barely touched the attack in the first half, received the ball from Adil.

The hero is me~!

He whipped in an early cross aimed at Håkon.

"Block it!"

This time Håkon and Chris were up front as a two-man strike force.

Ballard, remembering the combination goal the duo had conjured in a single minute, kept his eyes locked on Chris instead of Håkon.

"Cheers!"

But that was a misjudgment.

The one who collected Håkon's knockdown was Nazari, who had been lurking silently at the back.

That bastard Maxwell called me a fish head!!!

Hume had gone overlapping with Romain, Ballard was stuck to Chris—perfect chance created.

"Abdullah! I'm going first!!"

"Yeah!"

In the 56th minute, Nazari equalized.

Score: 2–2.

"Yes!!! Nazari!!"

Nazari sprinted full tilt straight at Maxwell.

What the—why's he coming at me after scoring?!

He sliced across the turf in a sliding celebration.

"See that? Did you see it?! Who you calling a fish head!"

"What are you talking about? Fish head?"

"Don't play dumb, Coach! I heard everything."

"No!"

Han Shin cut in with praise before Maxwell could dig himself deeper.

"Great work, Nazari—now go make the winner too!"

"Manager! You saw that, right? I did it!"

"Loved the run—keep doing exactly that!"

Nazari dusted himself off. His knees were stained green with grass.

"Mr. Maxwell! Watch carefully! I'll show you who's the real fish head."

"I keep asking—what are you even talking about~"

Just like that, Han Shin and Maxwell had become the good cop and bad cop of the afternoon.

All I can say is sorry.

By the 70th minute, second-half possession sat at roughly 70–30.

Every time Team Maxwell got the ball, hunting dogs appeared from nowhere and tore into them before they could even settle.

They finally realized this was no longer a practice match—these guys were going for the kill.

Both sides' competitive fire boiled over.

I have to win.

Yet the tactical gap left Team Han Shin penning them in like fish in a barrel and thrashing them.

Still, the goal refused to come.

"Adil!!!"

Han Shin called him over near the touchline.

"Huff... huff! Yes."

"What, already gassed? Want me to sub you for Liam?"

"No, sir! I can keep going!"

"New instructions. We're switching back to the first-half formation, but you and Abdullah swap positions. Pass it on."

"Understood!"

Adil relayed the shape and gave Abdullah the final word.

"Abdullah, the manager pushed you higher—he wants you to score."

"Yeah?"

"Make sure you get one."

"Got it!"

With six players flooding forward in the first-half shape, the already exhausted Team Maxwell could only scramble to defend.

Abdullah fired several shots, every one of them off target.

Damn it—just one goal...

Then came the 88th minute.

Abdullah's shot toward the corner was parried by Anthony, earning a corner in the 89th.

Goalkeeper Anthony adjusted his defensive line.

"If we clear this, we draw! Focus, everyone!"

No added time—this was truly the last chance.

Team Maxwell's corner defense agreed to prioritize the tall headers.

Mark Håkon, Nazari, and Jacob first. Abdullah... well...

While Chris prepared the corner, Abdullah scanned the area.

I'm free. No one expects me to score right now—I have to bury this.

He glanced once at Han Shin.

The manager pointed toward the far post.

Okay, got it. No one's marking me. And Chris knows I want this goal—he'll aim for my head. I just have to do my part. Just me.

Every player on Team Han Shin wanted Abdullah to score.

Chris delivered the corner.

Exactly as expected—a perfect trajectory aimed at Abdullah.

"Yes!"

Abdullah timed his jump.

"Abdullah!!!"

They thought no one was marking him—but Jobe had been hunting him all along.

"Jobe!!!"

"Abdullah!!!"

They leapt together.

Shrrrrrrrrk!

The net bulged.

Final score: 3–2.

The winner came from the head of Abdullah Ba.

"Congrats, Abdullah!"

"Not exactly a field goal, but still!"

"You little shit—you did great~!"

"Campione~ Campione~!"

Team Han Shin sang and celebrated the victory.

Maxwell accepted the defeat.

"Well done. Whoo—total thrashing. Complete thrashing. Second half we got completely dominated by the manager."

"Mr. Maxwell, have you ever thought about going into management yourself?"

He's got a good eye for players, uses solid tactics—he's decent.

"Hahaha, I'll stick around and get worked into the ground under you for one more year, Manager."

"Looking forward to it."

"Yes, Manager!"

"Ugh..."

Even in a practice match, these were men who hated losing more than anyone—men who lived for the contest. No one was willing to yield an inch of competitive fire, so the frustration brought tears.

Especially Bellingham, who had loudly promised a hat-trick only to be completely dismantled and left helpless in the second half. He was crushed.

I talked such a big game and did nothing after the break. If my brother had been in my place, would it have been different?

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Manager, I definitely ran over 12 km!"

"Yeah, Pierre—I don't even need to check."

"Me too!!"

Han Shin addressed the praise-hungry kids.

"Alright, everyone gather round! And you lot—stop crying."

He called the entire squad together.

"Today's teamsheet was drawn up by Assistant Coach Maxwell, not me."

"We know, sir!"

The Sunderland squad stood split in two.

Han Shin spoke to the defeated side.

"Maxwell rated you as our first-team players. Isn't that right, Assistant Coach?"

"That's correct."

"So what should first-team players do when they lose to the reserves?"

"Train harder so we never lose to any team again!"

"Good. Do that. No matter who shows up. But this match belongs to no one—neither victory nor defeat!"

"Sir?"

"Because we are Team Sunderland, and we are one. Right?"

"Yes! We are one!"

"Everyone form a circle!"

The divided group merged into a single ring.

"Now! We are! Sunderland!"

"We are Sunderland! We are Sunderland!"

The whole team chanted.

"Listen carefully. From this day forward, no player on this Sunderland team has a guaranteed starting spot. Not a single one."

"......"

"I will only take players who dedicate themselves to this club and bleed on the grass. Only those willing to give everything. Understood?"

"Understood!"

"I want you to raise your form on the training ground before the Zenit and Liverpool matches. Especially Dennis and Hume—what the hell was that?"

"Sorry, sir."

After that, Han Shin meticulously criticized the first-team members who had failed to manage their chronic injuries, as well as those who had been penned in and thrashed yet still failed to take their chances.

Faced with his precise assessment of their condition and the clear alternatives he offered for every poor decision and movement, the players could only answer that they would improve.

"Now look around you."

Every player turned a full circle as instructed.

"Right now these seats are empty. No one is cheering. But the reason you get to smile and call yourselves professional footballers is because fans give up their precious time to come watch you. Am I right?"

"Yes!"

"So become players who give everything so you never show the fans a shameful performance. Not for yourselves—for them."

"We won't show them anything shameful!"

"And I have no need for any player who doesn't want to fight for this club. Therefore, if anyone wants a transfer in the next week, come to my office. I'll let you go. Clear?!"

"Manager! None of us would do that!!"

"We'll always fight for the club!"

"Understood!"

"Sunderland til I die!"

Amid the personal vows, a few clueless players answered "Understood" like a macro, and the others whispered among themselves.

"Who just answered 'Understood' to that?"

"Yo~! Sorry, Coach!"

It was the free spirit himself—Romain Mings.

Clap clap clap—!

Kyril and Boardman came down together, applauding.

"Excellent. I told you, didn't I? Manager Han would win. Congratulations. Unofficial match, but a fine game."

"Thank you."

"Thanks to this, I can finally give the manager a proper gift. Right, Mr. Speakman?"

"Yes, I suppose so. No choice but to admit it."

Speakman removed his cap.

"Let's work well together this transfer window, Manager Han."

"Glad to hear it. Reassuring, Director."

"Even a few days of this and you'll be shitting blood."

"That's exactly what I want."

Should I buy a hemorrhoid cushion?

"Director, I'd like to withdraw my transfer request."

Creak—

Speakman leaned back into his plush chair.

"Mr. Jobe, changed your mind in a single day. Just yesterday you said you felt stagnant at the club."

"Yes. I did."

"Why? May I ask what changed your heart?"

Obviously because of Manager Han. Only one goal in it, but it was incredible. First half and second half were completely different worlds.

Still, saying it out loud felt awkward. Jobe scratched his head sheepishly.

"Let's just say... magic happened."

"Magic, huh. Heh. Jobe, do you have a scar on your forehead?"

Did I start bleeding? Jobe checked his brow.

"No? Abdullah's tackle scraped my knee, but otherwise I'm fine."

"You said 'magic' out of nowhere—I thought maybe a lightning bolt had been etched on your forehead."

"What? I have no plans for any tattoos."

"I mean, are you Harry Potter or something?"

".....?"

"Joke. It's a joke."

"Ah... right."

This is our director?

This is our player? Well, as long as he can play football.

Speakman closed a yellow office file.

It was the report assessing Jobe's current transfer-market value.

"Well, you staying is good news for the club. I won't press further. You're free to go."

"Thank you."

"But didn't he really look like a wizard? Even I was shocked in the second half."

"Ha... yeah. His outfit alone makes him a wizard for sure."

"What do you mean?"

Jobe pointed with his index finger, looking thoroughly done, at the muted television.

Speakman turned. The screen was introducing Sunderland as a team to watch in the transfer market.

The representative photo showed Han Shin dressed in a gat and durumagi, holding a massive staff.

Beneath it read: Wizard of Sunderland.

"Ah~ that distinctive gat really does look like something a wizard would wear. And the clothes look like a proper robe... right?"

"...."

"He's gone?"

Jobe, thoroughly exhausted by the director's humor, had already left.

"Yeah. As long as he can play football."

At the same moment Jobe was speaking with Speakman, Ballard appeared at Han Shin's office.

"Ballard, what brings you? Want some coffee? Or these cookies? They're good—eat as many as you like."

Han Shin pushed the chocolate-chip cookies toward him.

"Thank you for the cookies, but I'll pass. I'll keep this as straightforward as possible."

"Alright."

"I want a transfer."

"Is this another hidden-camera prank like Jobe's? You wearing a body cam or something?"

Looking at that resolute face, this is no joke. But I wish it were. He's our only rock-solid center-back—our comfort food.

"I'm not joking."

"Alright. I'll arrange the transfer."

"What?"

The usually composed captain swayed in shock.

"You're not a child. I'm sure you've thought this through carefully. We'll hold a transfer meeting, and when a club comes with an offer good enough for you to accept, I'll share it and we can talk."

"Understood. Are you really okay with this? I thought I'd have to persuade you."

Even though the manager said those words earlier, I expected him to beg me to stay. What is this...

"If I grabbed your pant leg and pleaded, maybe you'd stay. But like I said earlier—if you don't want to remain at this club, I'll let you go."

"...... That's surprising. Even without me."

"If the captain leaves, the team will be a bit chaotic for a while. But only for a while."

It won't be simple, but the hole isn't unfillable.

"I'm actually grateful you handled it so professionally and stayed quiet all day. Keep that attitude until you leave."

"Of course. I don't want the transfer becoming a circus either. I'll do that."

"In return, I want to hear the reason from your own mouth."

Ballard is an Arsenal academy product—a homegrown asset Premier League clubs will target. He wants to swim in bigger waters. I get it. He's in his mid-twenties. But that's only a guess. I need to hear it myself for the experience.

"I want a new chapter in my career to open."

"Because you don't think we'll get promoted next year?"

"No. I felt it in the second half. Under your leadership, Sunderland can definitely go up this season."

"Then why?"

"Even if we get promoted next year, we'll probably bounce around the relegation zone for a few seasons, won't we? And reaching the Champions League—hell, even Europa or Conference League—is mathematically almost impossible."

England has roughly twenty tiers and seven thousand football clubs.

The Premier League has twenty teams—only the chosen 0.2 percent ever experience the top flight.

And the Champions League usually takes four spots. Overall, 0.05 percent.

Mathematically, it's like finding a needle on a beach.

Wanting to play in the Champions League or World Cup is every footballer's dream—and a realistic worry.

"You're probably right. Even after promotion we could go straight back down."

"Honestly, your speech about dreams moved me. It woke up the little kid inside me that I'd been trying to ignore. I'm twenty-six. If I sign a new four-year deal with the club, I'll be thirty. Maybe one or two more extensions after that? Then retirement."

Little kid... half a backstab. Reminds me of Hong X-bo. Did the captains coordinate their lines?

"True. A few more contracts and a player's career is over."

"But never winning a trophy—never even stepping over the threshold of Europa or the Champions League—that would be too empty. I'd regret it until the day I die."

The word "trophy" made Han Shin think of the trophy-less ghost, Harry Kane's career.

In the end Kane finally lifted his first career trophy in the 2025 Bundesliga, but still.

"Alright. Then maybe we'll face each other in the Premier League next year."

"Probably."

"Whichever team you're on, we'll beat you."

"Hahaha!"

"Thanks for telling me what's in your heart."

"No, thank you. I didn't expect you to accept the request so readily. It feels... weird. Like a dream."

"Simple logic. I only keep people who want to fight for this club. Warriors."

No player above the manager. No player above the club.

"I hope your future career turns out exactly the way you want, Ballard. Even though we've only spent two days together, I'll wish you well for the dedication you've shown this club."

"I won't forget Sunderland either. I'll support the team and you from afar."

"See you as enemies next year."

"Yes—as enemies. But before I leave, I'd like to have a drink with you, Manager. Do you drink?"

"Whiskey would be perfect for an occasion like this."

Leaving a promise to treat him at a fine bar, the team's captain departed.

The two men crossed paths and went their separate ways.

Late evening—pre-season, so most people had already gone home.

Han Shin sat in his private office, staring hard at a pair of 32-inch dual monitors while his right hand flicked the mouse around.

The blue light from the screen reflected off his glass.

"A player like that would be nice... crunch crunch."

Han Shin stuffed a chocolate-chip cookie into his mouth with his left hand.

They were the cookies Emily, the Costa Coffee barista, had baked herself.

In fact, the ones he had offered Ballard earlier were her gift.

Beside him lay an unfolded pastel-pink letter.

"Does he even speak English? He wouldn't come anyway."

What he was actually studying wasn't the untouchable cake that was Wirtz, but the opposing center-back, Mahrdi.

I said all that, but maybe I should have tried a little harder to keep him? No. Ballard's homegrown—we'll get a fat transfer fee. We can fill the hole with that.

Knock—knock!

Slide—

He tucked Emily's letter, written with heavy fountain-pen pressure, into the drawer.

"Come in."

"Man.a.ger~~!"

A honeyed voice—Emily, the head of media.

"Ah, Ms. Emily. Let's do dinner another time. More importantly..."

"More importantly, do I look different?"

She spun in a flourish. Han Shin looked her up and down.

"Save that for a boyfriend or a friend. This is still a workplace."

"What, Manager? You're no fun. Is that what we are?"

"That's exactly what we are."

"Oh my! What kind of 'what we are'?!"

"Sigh... I'd love to play along, but as you can see, I'm a bit busy."

"You do look it."

"So I'll answer quickly. What's different from this morning is the shoes and the bag, right? The flashy look suits you."

"....? Thanks...."

"And not a speck of dust or dirt, so brand-new for sure. No big department stores around here, and everything shuts at five, so you went shopping in Newcastle."

"What the—Manager, have you been watching me on CCTV? That gave me chills. Yes, the new bag shopping is one thing, but... Newcastle? Unbelievable!"

"If you're done showing off, head home. I'm working."

"I was going to leave anyway. But one more thing—I'm curious. Can you guess this too? Why I bothered stopping by instead of going ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠straight home?"

As Emily slowly approached, a floral perfume tickled Han Shin's nose.

"You had no one else to show off the new bag to... no, there was a clear, special reason you wanted to show me."

Click, click—she deliberately swayed her hips more as she came closer.

A manicured hand slid onto the spot where the letter had been.

"Hmm... the reasonable conclusion is that it has something to do with me. Because of me... no, thanks to me you could buy it, so you're showing off to the person responsible?"

"Almost there."

She leaned against the desk, tilting her chest forward, and fumbled open one button of her shirt.

"You got a bonus. Congratulations."

"Yes! Correct!"

"And since I'm a brand-new manager who would never leave early, you came straight here without even texting."

"Yes, yes! All correct. So! Since you got it right... I'll give you a reward."

Her eyes half-lidded, she closed the distance until their breath almost mingled.

"I don't smell alcohol—do you always seduce people like this?"

"Oh my, did it feel like seduction?"

Their eyes locked.

"Manager, you are so. damn. handsome!"

"We're going to see each other tomorrow and the day after—let's not do this."

"Do what? Hmm? Hehe! I'm curious~"

Emily studied Han Shin's unwavering eyes.

"Black hair, but blue eyes—are you mixed? Half-blood prince, maybe?"

"Hmm... that's private. Keep this up and tomorrow's dinner is cancelled."

"Oh my! Are you training me right now?"

"Ms. Emily, are you a puppy for me to train?"

She cupped her cheeks with both hands and mimicked a dog.

"Woof! Woof! Ever seen such a pretty puppy?"

"Pretty flashy for a puppy."

"That's marketing. Anyway, I'll wait until you finish ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠work, so instead of dinner..."

Han Shin cut her off.

"There's a guest behind you."

"Ahem!"

The sudden third voice made Emily—who had been acting like a tree-climbing leopardess—jump.

"The door was open... sorry for interrupting."

"No, no. Our Jobe~!! Wahahaha~ So cool! Yes..."

She blurted whatever came to mind.

"I was just going to walk past, but maybe I was too oblivious. Should I come back later?"

Twenty-year-old Jobe couldn't find a safe place to look—her skirt-straining hips and the volume of her backside were too much.

"Oh my~ No. Manager, may I have one of these cookies?"

"Just one. They were a gift from a fan, so no more than that."

Fan? Cookies? No wonder the packaging... homemade cookies? A woman? I'm not eating that.

"I'm fine. Jobe has business with the manager, right?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be going~~!!!"

"Ms. Emily!"

Jobe called her back.

"Yes?"

"Uh... your shirt. Shirt!"

He pointed out that three buttons were undone.

"Ah... ah! This is fashion. Fashion."

"Then I'll see you next time."

"Bye~"

Bang!

Emily strutted out with forced dignity.

Embarrassing! Embarrassing! I want to hide!!!

Cheeks flaming, she closed the door, confirmed the hallway was empty, kicked off her heels, and sprinted down the corridor.

"So what's up?"

Jobe trains earlier and leaves later than anyone, right? The mix of perfume and sweat means he's been training until now.

"Want to do a crossbar challenge with me?"

He wants to talk. No choice. I'll look for a replacement center-back tomorrow.

"Sure."

Indoor training pitch.

They stood side by side near the penalty box.

Ting—!

Jobe's shot kissed the crossbar.

"Nice hit."

Han Shin set up for a free kick.

Just before he struck, Jobe confessed.

"Manager, the transfer request I made this morning... I was serious."

"What?"

The sudden confession threw his posture off.

You too? I'm going crazy.

Tiiiiing—!

Yet the ball still found the same spot.

"Hoo... so you still want to leave?"

"How about this—we each take ten shots. If I hit more, you let me transfer. If you win, I stay?!"

Ting—ting!

"You can't decide your life like it's a game!"

The two of them kept hammering the crossbar without pause.

"If you win, that's it, right? I'll follow without a word."

"You clearly don't know me—you'd better be ready."

"Deal? That's one for me already! Hahaha!"

"No way—start over from the beginning!"

"Yes, sir!"

Final score: 10–9.

Deadly accurate, Han Shin lost to Jobe by a hair.

"Jobe! One more round. My ankle's been killing me since the early-morning filming."

"Hahaha! You could start in place of Nazari, Manager!"

The two of them sat on the grass.

"Jobe, this might be private, but can I ask?"

"Ask me anything."

"Do you want to surpass your brother?"

"Yes!"

"Then why did you choose the number 7, and why don't you put 'Bellingham' on the back of your shirt?"

"Ah, that... we're both from Birmingham. But whenever people see the name Bellingham, they think of my brother first. I hated living in that shadow. Same reason I didn't take the number 10."

And my brother left as a club legend with his number retired... so different from me.

"I actually worried that you were so conscious of him that you avoided the challenge before you even tried to catch up."

"Absolutely not."

"There are two Ronaldos in this world, but everyone can tell them apart clearly, right? If you really want to surpass your brother, put Bellingham on your back. You're still you, and he's still him. So play your own game. How about facing it head-on this time? 'I am the real Bellingham.'"

"Can that really work, Manager? Unlike me, my brother's one of the best midfielders in the world."

"And you're not? You said you want to surpass him—shouldn't your goal be to become the best in the world?"

"I don't know. It feels so far away that I got impatient. Maybe, like you said, I've just been chasing his shadow while pretending I wasn't, and running away."

"Jobe. My goal is to become the best manager in the world. You can laugh."

"......"

"And that me is going to make you the best in the world. How about it?"

Sniff!

Jobe blew his nose.

Or rather, he was only blowing his nose.

"Best in the world? Hahaha—did you do this at half-time too?"

"Do what?"

Jobe stood and bowed at a perfect ninety degrees.

"Manager! I heard this is how ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you greet people in Korea! Please take good care of me this year!"

Han Shin rose with him.

"Uh? Uh. The greeting is right, but 'take good care of me this year'—what about the transfer?"

"I want to learn and grow under you this season."

"Thanks for saying that. But can I ask why you changed your mind after wanting to leave?"

"Whatever magic you worked at half-time... I've never seen our team play with that kind of unity! I couldn't breathe—I couldn't do a thing. It felt exactly like facing those Newcastle bastards. All thanks to you."

"......"

"And just like you said, I want to give the fans the joy of promotion and leave my mark on Sunderland as a legend!"

"Thank you for the honest reason. Let's write that legend together—carve a page into this club's history. Then I'll take good care of you this season too. And raise your head, Jobe. The blood's rushing."

Jobe lifted his head.

"I'll trust and follow every single one of your instructions. But if we don't make the Premier League this season, you know what happens, right?"

"No. We are going to the Premier League no matter what. Clear?"

"Yes!"

If we don't make the Premier League, my contract ends too...

"I'm giving you the number 10. And on the kit, we'll print Bellingham instead of Jobe. How about it? You become Sunderland's greatest number 10."

Han Shin pulled Jobe into a hug and thumped his back.

"Yes! Sniff... I'll do it."

"Let's win the league together. My goal is the best in the world, so first I'll take the Premier League Manager of the Year."

"Then I'll take League MVP?"

"Plus the Golden Boy. Deal?"

"Sniff... Perfect! I couldn't keep the hat-trick promise, but I'll keep this one for sure."

"I believe you. But listen—when the press is that intense, you have to start turning your body before you even receive the pass."

"Like this?"

Jobe copied the stance.

"One touch to beat a man. And stop eating up the tempo with too many tricks."

"Yes."

At first Bellingham was happy just to correct his posture and talk tactics. Later he would claim he had been held hostage for hours.

I want to go home.