What Can Be Sold, What Can Be Bought (4)

June gave way to July, and Madrid's temperatures had begun oscillating around the 30-degree mark. Nicolas returned from his family home in Segovia thoroughly satisfied with his month of vacation.

He'd slept as much as he wanted, eaten well, caught up on the anime piling up on Netflix, and even watched the World Cup with his family. It was, in every sense, a hundred points out of a hundred.

Sure, it stung that his homeland of Spain had crashed out in the semifinals, but since Brazil—the team that had knocked Spain out—went on to win the whole thing, he could console himself with the notion that Spain was 'de facto runner-up.'

Besides, Nicolas had never been the type to care one way or the other about a team he wasn't playing for. What would it even mean if Spain won without him? Nobody was handing him money for it, and it wouldn't raise his name one bit.

So yes, losing the World Cup semifinal was a little disappointing—but he'd simply lead Spain's national team to a World Cup title himself, in the not-so-distant future. With that thought, Nicolas cheerfully pushed open the dorm room door.

"Doin! I'm baa—huh?"

The moment the door swung open, the alarming tableau before him drained the brightness from his face, replacing it bit by bit with bewilderment.

A desk strewn with pens and textbooks, exam papers raked across the floor in striped drifts, and sprawled face-down on top of it all, his roommate in a pose of utter defeat...!

Had a fainter-hearted soul walked in, they'd have shrieked at the top of their lungs, and the next scene would have shown police officers combing the crime scene—straight out of the opening chapter of a mystery novel.

Unfortunately, this was reality, not a whodunit. And it wasn't a murder, for that matter.

And so Nicolas—no Sherlock Holmes—regarded the victim with a look of profound pity, then prodded the corpse (not) with the toe of his shoe and interrogated it.

"Doin, what did you do to this room? And what's wrong with you?"

"...I'm not Doin anymore, Nico. I'm a wreck."

"Yeah, well, going by appearances, sure, I can see that. So what happened?"

"Well... you see..."

"AHAHAHAHAHA!"

Nicolas Becker.

I knew this man—the future captain of Real Madrid and commander of Spain's midfield—better than just about anyone.

Because when I was twenty-eight, we'd met at a World Cup and built up a grudge that was less a grudge than a full-blown blood feud. We'd crossed paths in the Round of Sixteen, slinging patricidal insults and racial jabs at each other in a running war of nerves, and the feud didn't end when the tournament did.

Saudi Arabia and Spain.

Different leagues, sure, but opportunities to meet were hardly scarce. Club World Cups, international friendlies, and so on. The guy had even, on the eve of his retirement, left Madrid and transferred to Saudi Arabia.

And so, just when we'd almost managed to forget each other, we'd find ourselves squared off across a pitch.

And we always fought.

...Reading that, you can probably tell our conversations were spectacularly vile and beyond the pale, and I won't bother denying it. To be fair, that era of our lives, for both Nicolas and me, was a stretch when personal misfortunes had stacked up and we were both quietly struggling inside.

Anyway. After our World Cup showdown, we fought like cats every single time we met on a pitch—to the point of doing advance reconnaissance on each other.

Looking back, I'd swear my Spanish improved in a torrential burst during exactly that period. Having a concrete goal does wonders for studying.

That said, neither of us ever breathed a word about the things we shouted at each other mid-match, so in that respect, I suppose we were remarkably grown-up.

We at least never dragged what ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠happened on the pitch off it, and no matter how filthily we went at each other during a game, we never once took shots at each other in interviews.

Of course, it helped that the moment either of us leaked one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of our exchanges, both our reputations as players would have plummeted straight into the abyss—so self-preservation played its part in the silence, too...

Well, anyway.

Watching a guy I once couldn't wait to strangle now rolling his eyes and cackling in the same room as me—an odd feeling creeps over me, and I can't help it.

"And here I thought something serious was wrong, what with that funeral face!"

"..."

"Hey, it's fine, it's fine. Repeating one year of school isn't going to kill you. A footballer just needs to be good at football, right? Am I wrong?"

Nico had laughed so hard when he heard the news that I'd failed the year that he'd had to wipe away tears, and now he clapped a hand on my shoulder. The comfort was not landing.

"Honestly, being good at school on top of football would be unfair to humanity. If anything, this whole affair has let me feel, deep in my heart, that God does exist."

"..."

"And besides, failing was basically inevitable. You only started attending around the end of the second semester, right? How were the grades supposed to be good?"

"..."

"Plus, you're Korean. If a guy whose native language isn't Spanish pulled good grades in a Spanish school, wouldn't that mean something was wrong with the world?"

I exercised my right to remain silent and listened to Nico's sermon in silence. His logic was, undeniably, airtight.

Think about it. Of course an ordinary Korean high schooler would struggle to keep up with classes at a faraway school in Spain. Different language, different curriculum.

Not to mention the school years don't even align. Come March—a Korean student is just starting the spring semester, while a Spanish one is wrapping up the second term.

That alone meant more than half the coursework had sailed past unheard. Obviously grades suffer when you never sat through the lessons.

On top of that, my school was a 'prestigious international academy' attended only by upper-class kids or genuinely gifted students. It operated on a different plane from your average humanities track.

Naturally, a lifelong ball-chaser couldn't possibly keep pace. Case in point: both of the other exchange students had failed the year right along with me.

So there was nothing strange about me—a seemingly ordinary sixteen-year-old striker—being held back a year.

Even if my mental age was past forty.

Even if I spoke Spanish flawlessly.

Even if I'd figured I'd fail either way and hadn't studied at all.

But anyway, that's how it was.

...That's how it was.

"Haah... shit."

At my self-loathing sigh, Nico smacked his lips, apparently registering the gravity of the situation at last, and offered some earnest consolation.

"Look, let's keep it simple. We both knew from the start we weren't going to make our living off schoolwork."

"How'd your finals go, anyway?"

"Huh? I don't go to school."

"...?"

I stared at him, blank. My gaze, laden with the question what the hell are you?, bounced right off him as he shrugged.

"Anyways, what I'm saying is: the most important thing for a footballer is football. Being good at school doesn't make you a successful player, no matter how you slice it."

"That's... true."

"And right now, you and I are good at football. Do you agree with this statement?"

"...Sí."

"Then case closed. Let's go kick a ball."

Clap!

Having concluded my counseling session with a single clap, Nico grabbed his boots and headed out without waiting so much as a syllable of reply from me.

The dorm room door clicked shut.

"..."

Alone in the room, I stared at the closed door for a long, long while.

Then I chewed over what Nico had said, and eventually grabbed my boots and left too.

"Gotta do what's gotta do..."

And not long after, when it turned out that among all the under-eighteen players, only Nico and I were called up to join the second team—well, Nico's advice hadn't been wrong at all.

"Alright, bring them up."

The football world always hungers for young stars.

Truthfully, it wasn't only football. A young genius. The world had always gone mad for those two words. Sport didn't matter—athletes, novelists, pianists, singers, you name it.

Being merely brilliant at studying was enough. The moment someone displayed extraordinary talent at an early age, the world's eyes would roll back and it would lose all composure.

Manuel, manager of Real Madrid's second team—popularly known as 'Castilla'—was no exception. So unbothered was his reply, delivered legs crossed on the sofa, that Santiago, the one who'd proposed the promotion, found himself thrown off balance.

"...That was an awfully crisp answer."

"Why, did you expect me to say no? Oh, right—you're saying Lucho pushed back hard when the kids went up to the C team?"

"He did."

"Ugh, that guy just can't read a player, I swear. That's why he's still managing in the fifth division—wait, is it the fourth now?"

Manuel clicked his tongue—tch—and kept up his tirade against the C-team manager, but Santiago didn't bother stopping him.

However illustrious Real Madrid's name as the world's greatest club, it was still a place where people were people. Favoritism for the familiar ran deep.

And if the world had blood ties, hometown ties, and school ties, Real Madrid had the 'Madrid Old Boys Network'—an unwritten rule that those who had worn the white shirt as players were treated preferentially.

Proof enough: setting aside the senior executives of advanced years, nearly everyone holding a seat of power at Real Madrid had once played for the club.

Heck, the man appointed just the other day as first-team manager—a former Brazil national team boss—was a Real Madrid alumnus himself, so any further explanation would be redundant.

In any case, both men in this room had once been Real Madrid players. Lucho of the C team, likewise.

Deep friendships breed blunt words, and these men, who had once hoarded every honor there was together on the same squad, spared each other nothing.

"On that note, Santiago, you've always had a good eye for players. Smarter than the rest of us too, probably."

"Flattery appreciated, but you're not saying you'd bring Doin and Nicolas up to Castilla purely on my word, are you?"

"As if."

Manuel wagged an index finger side to side and kept going.

"The stats alone tell the whole story. Just look at Doin—fourteen goals in five league matches, twelve in five ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠playoff matches. Do the math."

"Twenty-six goals in ten games."

"Right, and same for Nicolas. Not quite Doin's level, but his attacking output per match is absurd. If we're not calling up players like these, who exactly are we supposed to call up?"

Manuel wore a smug see? simple, right? expression that grated on Santiago's nerves considerably—but the man knew how to keep a football director's dignity in a professional setting.

Leisurely sipping the coffee in his cup, Santiago composed himself and spoke with careful restraint.

"I get that you're excited, but young players need to be handled with care. Nicolas has been with the club long enough that it probably doesn't matter much—but Doin hasn't even been here six months."

"Don't worry about it. It's not like I've only ever handled one or two youngsters."

"I'm only saying it because not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a single one of the kids you've managed has ever established himself in the first team."

"Hey, how is that my fault? Frankly, the ones who left over it? Every one of them carved out a place at another La Liga club."

Santiago waved off Manuel's indignant protest and offered a polite warning.

"Regardless—give Doin a little extra attention. He's a prospect the club is keeping a close eye on."

"What's this, singling him out for kid gloves? Is what I heard from Lucho true after all?"

"Heard what?"

"That he's a prospect the President has taken a particular shine to."

"Enough."

Cutting the conversation short in a hurry, Santiago cleared his throat and wrapped up the meeting.

"Don't go spouting weird rumors to the players. It could sour the whole squad's mood for no reason."

"Yeah, yeah. That everything you wanted?"

"It is. You can go."

"Then I'm off. Grab a drink sometime this week when you're free."

Manuel unfolded his crossed legs, rose from his seat, and left the office, the door clicking shut behind him.

It was the moment Kang Doin and Nicolás Becker's promotion to the second team became official.

"Dios mío..."

A training pitch at Ciudad Real Madrid. Nico's terse verdict after we'd collided in a one-on-one drill.

Like a tragic heroine, he lay sprawled on the grass, gazing up at me.

"What is that strength... don't tell me you drugged me or something?"

"And how would I have done that?"

Nico's reaction was laced with a generous dose of theatrical exaggeration, but it was true that after feeling the full force of my body directly, he'd found the physical duel easier than usual.

Falling short of my professional days, sure—but given what I'd managed to accomplish in a single month, the results were more than satisfying, and a smile crept onto my face without my noticing.

My preparations for the new season were complete.