What Can Be Sold, What Can Be Bought (3)

June had arrived, and with it, the European football season drew to a close.

The Champions League final between Manchester City and Barcelona ended in a Barcelona victory, crowning them the undisputed heroes of European football that year.

La Liga. The Copa del Rey. The Champions League.

Having swept every major trophy on offer, Barcelona had completed the third treble in the club's history.

The world was hailing Barcelona as the revival of the 2010s side that once hoarded trophies year after year. And honestly, they'd earned the praise—a nineteen-year-old god from La Masia had filled the void Messi left behind so completely that no one felt it anymore, and on top of that, he'd delivered a treble.

Which was precisely why the treble stung Real Madrid's football director all the more.

"……"

A cocktail bar in downtown Madrid.

Santiago sat at the bar with a cocktail glass in one hand, yet his other hand held his phone, and his eyes refused to leave the article about Barcelona.

As a rival club man, it rankled.

And yet he envied the treble all the same.

But the strongest feeling, in the end, was regret. Sighing over a season already lost, Santiago took a slow sip of his cocktail.

It was exactly then that someone slid naturally into the seat beside him.

"We agreed to drink together, and you started without me."

"……Lucho."

"Look how red your face is. How many have you had?"

"Three, maybe……"

"Sheesh, that's plenty. Bartender—I'll order."

Lucho, manager of Real Madrid C, raised a hand and casually ordered a cocktail, then pulled two hundred-euro notes from his wallet and laid them in front of Santiago.

"What's this money? Two hundred euros, no less."

"Ha. You propose a bet and then don't even remember it. When we decided to promote Doni to the C team, you bet me, remember?"

"Ah."

Come to think of it, he had made some kind of wager over that sixteen-year-old striker. Something about returning the two hundred euros if the kid put in a good month with the C team.

The bet had been made in early April, and it was now mid-June……

"You're paying up awfully late. Shouldn't you have handed this over last month?"

"Damn it, what was I supposed to do? I was busy with the playoffs too, you know."

"A promise is a promise, though. So by rights, drinks are on you tonight."

Joder. Fine, fine."

Watching Lucho scowl, Santiago chuckled, and his gloomy mood felt a shade lighter.

"Now that I think of it—you pulled off the promotion, didn't you? Congratulations."

"What did I even do? It was all the players."

"How modest of you."

"I'm not being modest. The players really did everything. Doni especially."

Just then his ordered cocktail arrived, and Lucho took a sip before continuing.

"Even through the playoffs, the man scored two goals or more every single match. You couldn't lose even if you wanted to."

"See? I told you he'd do fine in the C team."

"At first I just thought you'd lost your mind. You stepped in crap all season, you know."

Considering that Real Madrid's first team had lifted exactly zero trophies this season, there was nothing to say in rebuttal.

The Real Madrid football director clicked his tongue—a long, weary tch—and the C-team manager stole a glance at him. Gone was the playful tone of a moment ago; his voice was now a little careful.

"So…… did you get the axe?"

Coming from anyone else, the question would have landed as a barb—'You ruined the team's season and you still haven't resigned?'—but fortunately, the man asking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had eaten from the same pot as Santiago back in their playing days. A friend of twenty years.

Because Santiago knew the question came from genuine concern for his livelihood, he let out a long breath.

A breath of relief.

"Thankfully, it seems the club's higher-ups decided this season was beyond anyone's help. Barcelona was simply that strong, so I suppose it's fair enough."

"Then you're not getting fired."

"Thankfully, no."

If he botched next season too, then he'd truly have to worry about his job—but that was a worry for later, and it wouldn't be too late then.

Just last week, the first-team manager, whose situation mirrored his own, had been shown the door. Surviving at all was a mercy.

Of course, relaxation only went so far—next season's results would decide a great deal.

Thinking of the work that would begin again tomorrow, Santiago furrowed his brow.

"Haah…… and we still need to appoint a new manager."

"What, the successor hasn't been decided yet?"

"We've narrowed it down to a few candidates, but one of them is heading to the World Cup right now. Another says he'll only give us an answer after the tournament."

"Well, fair enough—the World Cup does come first."

With June, the European season had ended, but the festival for football fans around the world was only just about to begin.

The FIFA World Cup.

Four years of waiting, and the time had come again.

His flush deepening as the alcohol crept up on him, Lucho murmured quietly.

"Hard to believe World Cup season's here again. Which country takes it this time, I wonder……"

"Going by the squads, Brazil look awfully strong this year."

"Look at this traitor. Santiago, come on—a Spaniard roots for Spain."

At that, Santiago broke into a sly grin and slid the two hundred-euro notes right back in front of Lucho.

"Then shall we bet on who wins?"

"No way!"

June.

Though European football was over, the fervor of football fans worldwide showed no sign of cooling.

The World Cup was about to kick off. Fans who had spent the season cheering for their clubs now turned to cheering for their national players.

But none of it had anything to do with me. My season had ended with the final playoff match, the one that sealed our promotion to the fourth division.

The club gave the C-team squad roughly a month of vacation. A few of the boys who lived in the dorms went home to their families—and Nico was one of them.

"You not going home, Doni?"

Nico, whose hometown lay northwest of Madrid in a region called Segovia, asked me as he packed his bags.

For a moment I almost answered, Where exactly would I even go?—then remembered he had no idea I'd come out of an orphanage, and changed my reply.

I had no intention of hiding it, but it wasn't exactly the kind of thing you went around bragging about either.

"I'm just going to prepare for next season. I want to play for the first team next year."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. I'll do some weight training too, put on some muscle."

My results in the fifth division hadn't been bad, but my performances weren't always perfect. The opponents got older, and there were times I simply got overpowered.

Besides, I'd already blown past my target height long ago. Raising the intensity of my lifting would be no problem.

"If I'd known, maybe I should've just stayed here instead of going home."

"The gym's literally right there for weights—just train in Segovia. And bring me back something when you come."

"Sure, I'll pick something up. How about cochinito asado?"

"No idea what that is, but if you're offering, I'll take it."

"Deal—I'll definitely bring it."

With that, he left the dorms.

Later, wondering what 'cochinillo asado' actually was, I looked it up—turns out it's a traditional dish of a whole suckling pig roasted. So I messaged him not to bother buying it.

Nothing against baby pigs, mind you. The dorms just have a strict no-outside-food policy.

Anyway.

I trained alone through the break.

Sharpening my touch on the ball, building muscle with weights, and sticking to flexibility work so that all that new muscle wouldn't wreck my body's balance.

There were moments when the absence of the loudmouth who usually chattered beside me left me feeling oddly empty—but then I'd remember how that same loudmouth snored every single night and ruined my precious sleep, and honestly? Not exactly a tragedy.

"Whoa, Kang Doin, at it with the weights again today."

"This guy lives life way too hard……"

Best of all, whenever I trained alone, the study-abroad kids from Korea would sidle up beside me and join in—so Nico's absence never really hit that hard.

Park Min-hyuk, the promising young midfielder. Kim Woo-sung, the promising young center-back.

Under normal circumstances I'd have written them off as money-pits not worth my time, but they weren't a nuisance to have around, so I let them be.

There was another reason too: watching kids struggle ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠through life in a foreign country at such a young age reminded me of myself, freshly grown, scraping by playing football in Saudi Arabia.

Playing football in a place where you can't speak the language, that young—it's no easy thing. When I first arrived, I didn't know a word of Arabic and nearly worked myself to death adapting through sheer gestures.

"Hey."

Watching those two kept dredging up old memories. So I went out of my way and gave them a bit of advice—something I normally never would have done.

They say when a man changes, his time has come to die. But I've already died once, so I figured it didn't apply to me.

"Weights are great, but keep up your flexibility training too."

"Huh?"

"And practice constantly checking your shoulders before you receive the ball."

Most injuries come from a body that isn't flexible enough, and wide vision comes from constantly turning your head here and there across the pitch.

I taught them a few of the training methods I'd used back in Saudi Arabia. I'd given them everything worth giving—whether they kept at it was on them.

In my past life, neither of those two ever made the national team.

Which means that if, in the far future, even one of them does make it—that will be entirely my doing.

Part of me wanted to charge them tuition, but how much money could study-abroad kids possibly have? All I could do was assume they'd repay the favor on their own someday.

If they had a conscience, they'd at least treat me to something expensive once.

At any rate, buried in training and weights, June flew by in a blink.

Somewhere in there, word came that Korea—just as I remembered it—had crashed out of the World Cup group stage with three straight losses. It was news that meant nothing to me.

Far more important than a Korean World Cup title was the June salary that had landed in my account, and I left behind only my bare living expenses and poured the rest into stocks.

What I was buying into now was quantum computing stock—give it five years, and the share price would soar more than twentyfold from today.

"Kang Doin's at it again, smiling at his phone all by himself."

"What is he even looking at?"

"Who smiles at that, you freak?"

Ignoring the brats' nonsense, I was staring at a stock chart when a message notification popped up.

It was Toni.

I replied that we were all training together at the moment, and the next message came flying straight back.

"Why the sudden free dinner?"

The address Toni had sent was a Korean restaurant in downtown Madrid. Seated across from him at a four-person table, I asked in Spanish, and he broke into a warm, good-natured smile.

"I heard you've been training nonstop even during the break. The players I scouted can't even go home and are out here grinding away—I wanted to buy them a meal. Scout's privilege."

"We're not the only ones you've scouted, you know."

"True, but right now you four are the ones I'm focused on."

It turned out that until the one-year study-abroad period ended, Toni was stepping back from scouting duties to focus on caring for the kids from Korea.

It was a little surprising that he bothered looking after me too, given I wasn't officially a study-abroad student—but when someone offers you a free meal, you don't refuse.

It may sound odd to say, but I do love Korean food.

"Come to think of it, there was a World Cup semifinal today."

With three Koreans and one Spaniard each picking a dish and finishing their orders, Toni's gaze drifted to the TV mounted inside the restaurant.

From the look of it, it was Spain ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠versus Brazil.

"Who do you think wins?"

"Brazil, probably."

"Hey, aren't you underestimating Spain a bit?"

Toni snorted at the words that left my mouth on reflex. Perish the thought that a Spaniard might be biased.

Well, no skin off my nose.

"If you're so sure Spain will win, put your money where your mouth is."

"Sure, why not. A generous fifty euros?"

"I'd do five hundred, honestly."

"What?"

Toni froze at my offer to raise the stakes tenfold. For reference, five hundred euros is just over 800,000 won—a sum that would hurt an ordinary office worker's wallet.

In the end, Toni chickened out. Apparently scouting isn't the most lucrative of professions, either.

"Hey, forget it. Not doing it. I'm already buying you all dinner—you want me to lose money on a bet too?"

"All you have to do is be right about Spain."

"If you're that convinced of a Brazil win, I suppose you have your reasons. You probably know football better than I do anyway."

Being good at football and correctly predicting match results have precious little to do with each other, if you ask me—but Toni's decision to abandon the bet was genuinely wise.

Because this World Cup was going to be won by Brazil.

Even if I couldn't remember every Champions League winner year by year, I remembered every single World Cup champion, once every four years.

As long as I couldn't recall where Spain got knocked out—but knew perfectly well that Brazil lifted the trophy—the winner of this semifinal being Brazil was already a settled matter.

And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so, regretting that I'd only let him off with fifty euros, I kept nodding along as Toni began asking about this and that in my daily life.

Which is to say, about my life at school.

"Now that you mention it, the third trimester's almost over. Are you ready for finals? You're not failing a year, are you?"

"No way. They said you only fail if you score below half."

"You haven't been studying, though?"

"Exams are meant to be crammed for, aren't they? You take them with the knowledge you've prepared."

It was at last semester's finals that I'd only just enrolled and known nothing, so I'd handed in a blank exam—but from the third trimester on, while I couldn't speak for the homework, I attended class diligently enough.

When I actually study, I don't fail—it's never been a question of intelligence.

Someone who can score a perfect score on the college entrance exam studying straight from the textbook was hardly going to fail to clear fifty points on some final.

……Or so I'd believed, back then.