Whatever It Takes (3)
Back to everyday life. I led the team to a resounding 12-1 victory with seven goals of my own, but since it was just fourth-division ball, it didn't make much noise. Same story in Korea—no mentions of my name in articles or soccer forums anywhere.
I wasn't disappointed. It was just one game, in the fourth division no less. Expecting fame off that would've been greedy.
Still, it hadn't gone completely unnoticed here in Spain.
"A reporter's coming for an interview today?"
The day after the match, back at training, I sat down for one-on-ones with a few journalists from local papers. Nothing major league, but it was a novel experience—my first solo interview since college. Never done one as a pro.
"Alcorcon fans are gonna start flooding the restaurant now."
"Right? Maybe we hang up Theo's photo and jersey on the sign."
"Why not rename the place from Corear to Theo's?"
"Ooh, great idea. Our spot becomes a tourist trap for Alcorcon supporters. Ha ha!"
I just chuckled at their banter. Married couples need that kind of sync. Moments like this reminded me why Aunt Han Mi-ju and Uncle Adrian got along so well without kids—pure harmony.
"Sounds like a solid plan to me!"
Tiago chimed in too.
"Theo's gonna go pro in no time. Think about it—no starter on Alcorcon's first team could drop to B squad and bag seven in a game. Trust me, I know. None."
The guy's a social pro. Aunt beamed at the praise from a third party, and Uncle nodded, pleased.
"Coming from you, that's credible. Not many know La Liga and La Liga 2 better."
Tiago devoured soccer clips like I did, but he focused on the top two Spanish tiers. He had pro players' stats memorized cold. Corear staff sometimes hit him up for match predictions, and shockingly, he nailed them often.
But Tiago didn't love it. The asks weren't pure fandom—they were for sports betting. Soccer's purest when enjoyed straight-up. That was his creed.
"Alcorcon's desperate for strikers right now. A few more showings like this, and Theo could snag a pro deal quick."
"Oh ho? For real?"
"Yeah. Last game, they couldn't score and lost 0-1 to a weak side..."
Ting-a-ling!
A middle-aged couple walked in mid-break—thirty minutes left before reopening. Normally, staff would've politely asked them to wait.
But...
"Whoa?!"
Instead of turning them away, everyone greeted them warmly.
"Jose! What brings you?"
"Oh my! Come on in!"
Aunt and Uncle rushed over too, all smiles. They weren't flashy, but their clothes screamed class.
Uncle hurried up. "Here for dinner?"
"Yeah, had business nearby, figured I'd eat. Got space?"
"Always. We'd make it if not. Ha ha!"
"Place is empty. Dinner rush soon, though we are early..."
"Still break time."
"Ah, shoot. My bad. Come back later?"
"Nah, sit. Make yourselves comfy."
"Haven't been in ages—thought break ended an hour ago. We'll order when it does."
"No worries. Grateful you stopped by. Order whatever—I'll cook personally."
VIP treatment. I just stood there, eavesdropping.
"Camilla, how's your health?"
"Much better."
"Glad to hear. Back to work?"
"Taking it easy."
"Don't overdo it."
"I won't. Heh heh."
Seated at the best table, Uncle was about to take their order when he spotted me.
"Oh, Theo!"
He called me over. "Jose, Camilla—got someone to introduce."
I approached, and though we'd never met, they acted like old pals. The man spoke first.
"Ahh, so you're the nephew. Nice to finally meet you." He extended a hand. "Jose Bravo, Adrian's big brother."
Figured as much. I shook firmly. "Hello. Cha Tae-oh. Theo's fine."
"Heard plenty from Adrian and Vitolo. Legendary player who lit up one game for our club then vanished. Ha ha ha!"
Jose laughed heartily.
"They said you turned a key match with your play. Thanks."
"Jose, isn't that thanks a bit late?" Uncle teased.
"Ha ha, yeah."
Jose smiled kindly at me. "Sorry about that, Theo. If you ever need a favor, say the word. Gotta repay you at least once."
"No need. Just one game. Season's not over yet..."
"Nonsense. Vitolo said you boosted team morale. Beat the second-place side thanks to you, then two more wins—top of the league now. No one's arguing your impact."
Uncle nodded vigorously in agreement.
"Oh, right—this is my wife, Camilla."
We shook. Uncle added, "Camilla's a top lawyer. Handles legal for Coslada too. Any trouble, she's your go-to."
Husband a real estate mogul, wife a powerhouse attorney. Power couple alert.
"Won't happen, but if someone screws you over in Spain? Hand it to Camilla. They'll pick: leave the country or jail."
"...Wow."
Camilla didn't deny it—legit shark.
Jose asked, "Playing for Alcorcon now?"
"Yes. Semi-pro contract—not full pro yet."
"Ah, got it."
He nodded thoughtfully. "No sweat. Vitolo raves about you—you'll go pro soon. Guy's got a killer eye for talent."
Uncle chimed in. "Theo debuted last week—seven goals."
"Seven? No kidding?"
"Swear. Why else would he go pro in Korea?"
"Damn, better get a signed jersey now. Ha ha!"
Uncle beamed like I was his son. Chat wrapped there. He took their orders, whipped up dishes in the kitchen, served personally. Even tossed in premium wine on the house.
Seeing brothers that tight warmed me up too. Made me wish for a sibling of my own.
A few more days passed. Game day arrived.
Next foe: CD Guadalahara, third in the group. Mid-table a month ago, but three straight wins rocketed them up—now a powerhouse.
Slight worry. Like against UD Socuellamos, would our momentum dip early against real strength?
Unfounded, as it turned out.
"Pass it now! No hesitation!"
"Run more! Overwhelm with work rate!"
"We got this! Go at 'em hard!"
Teammates hit the pitch with sky-high confidence, matching CD Guadalahara blow for blow from kickoff. The opponents looked rattled by our fire.
Similar style to Socuellamos: bully with physicality, long balls, direct soccer. They edged in skill, but we held firm. Our attacks cut sharper.
They knew my seven-goal haul, so they swarmed me hard—no chances my way. Big mistake, just like last time.
I didn't force it—used teammates, turned their focus into gaps.
Thwack!
Those spaces became chances, and I shook their net first.
"Vamoos!!!"
They shifted: less man-marking, more zonal to cover holes. Minutes later, the shaken Guadalahara countered fiercely, steadying the vibe quick.
Makes sense—three-win streak doesn't vanish easy.
As teammates wobbled under pressure, I sensed the moment.
"Just thread it forward!"
Maybe they heard. We stole possession back; our defender lofted a long ball upfront instantly.
Tricky arc for me, but explosive sprint and perfect first touch controlled it clean.
Onrushing defenders tried bodying me off. I met them head-on, charging their box.
One, two, three defenders. No flair—just touches—and I was one-v-one with the keeper.
Thwack!
Cool finish into the corner. Second goal.
Celebrating with the lads on return, I overheard opponents bickering.
"You were supposed to stop him!"
"I was behind! You up front should've fouled—even if it meant a card!"
"Body him! What the hell, man?!"
"You try it, asshole!"
"Damn. Can't stop one dribble—what now?"
"What? Blaming me?"
"Who else? I marked fine—you didn't press right."
"Always someone else's fault, you prick."
"Prick? Wanna die?"
"Cut it out! Fighting helps who? Still only two up. We can chase."
"...Fuck."
Why fight? Self-reflection on weak skills would've been smarter.
Around the 30th minute.
Tweeeet!
Thwack!
"......"
"......"
Two more in ten minutes. Opponents finally went quiet—no blame, no rage, no chatter.
I watched contentedly. Felt good doing a public service.