What Can Be Sold, What Can Be Bought (8)

It's a famous story by now, known to everyone: art has come to be dominated by wealthy capitalists.

And honestly, if you sort it into categories, football is a kind of performance art.

Think about it. No matter how diligently you kick a ball with your feet, you can't bake bread with it or catch fish with it. It ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠produces nothing.

The fact that a capitalist's influence is what allows a man to make his living off such a game — well, frankly, no footballer alive could deny it.

So it's hardly strange that a footballer bows to his capitalists and strives to leave a good impression on them.

"True enough, but......."

We were in the car heading to the party.

Hitching a ride in Manager Manuel's car on the way to our destination, I'd shared this lofty insight of mine, and Niko, seated beside me, had nodded along in agreement with my noble wisdom.

Even so, the way he kept trying to poke holes in my argument told me this guy hated losing an argument just as much as anyone.

"But watching Doni's behavior, something feels....... hmm, how do I put it......."

"Mercenary?"

"Yes, that! Doni, you're way too mercenary."

Niko wore the satisfied look of a man whose itch had finally been scratched, and pressed on. He'd dropped out of high school, so I had to cut him some slack for his limited vocabulary.

"Until like an hour ago you looked like you didn't want to go to this party at all. Then the second you heard the host was a corporate chairman, you went and changed your clothes, and that was just... kind of hard to watch, you know?"

"Why?"

"Because....... it makes you look like you're obsessed with money."

"Hmm."

I didn't bother to argue. I just stared at Niko's face.

Wondering if he'd said something wrong, his pupils were flickering with anxiety.

"Wh-what? Did I say something bad?"

"No, it's not that......."

I'd been attached to this guy at the hip practically since arriving in Spain, and it genuinely startled me that I was only now realizing this about him.

I look like someone obsessed with money?

Of course I do. Because I am obsessed with money.

Don't tell me this guy actually thought I was some pure-hearted boy devoted to the beautiful game?

If so, what a pure ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠soul he was. While I was busy marveling at that, the voice of Manager Manuel, hands on the wheel, called back to us.

"Hey, you little rascals. I don't know what you're bickering about, but save it for somewhere other than the party."

"We weren't bickering."

"Good to hear. We're almost there, anyway."

As Manuel finished speaking, the car rolled to a stop. Niko and I both poked our heads up from the back seat to peer through the windshield.

A massive iron gate stood waiting to receive us.

Our destination was a grand estate.

A lush, immaculately kept green garden spread out before us. A fountain stood at its center, and tucked into one corner was a sprawling swimming pool.

The kind of true mansion you only saw in dramas and movies. The annual maintenance costs alone had to be eating a small fortune.

Put another way, it was a house so extraordinary that even its upkeep bill would be staggering.

"Woooow......."

One look at Niko — mouth hanging wide open as he drank in the garden — and there was no need for further explanation of how impressive this place was.

It was a bit gross that I could see all the way into his mouth, but I understood his reaction perfectly. If I were seeing a mansion like this for the first time, I probably would've looked the same.

My experience hunting through one property after another back when I was scouting real estate during my days playing in Saudi Arabia was doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.

"Manuel!"

As our manager led Niko and me up to the mansion's entrance, an elderly man greeted us warmly, calling out Manuel's name.

Two men in suits who looked like attendants and a middle-aged woman in a formal dress stood at the old man's side.

Given the circumstances, it wasn't hard to guess that this grandfather was the master of the estate.

Sure enough, Manager Manuel hurried forward to the old man.

"It's been far too long, Señor Javier. Thank you so much for inviting us to your home again this year."

The old man called Javier, cane in his right hand, shook Manuel's hand with the other and let out a hearty laugh.

"Nonsense, nonsense. I invite people because I enjoy it. What is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there to thank? I'm simply ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠glad we could see each other's faces again this year."

"I appreciate you thinking of us. Ah, the two behind me are......."

"I know, I know. The players called up from the C team this season, yes? I looked into it — they're about the same age as my granddaughter, it turns out."

Having finished the handshake, Javier's gaze turned to Niko and me. The old man, back slightly stooped, was someone who knew how to wear a smile as gentle as his years demanded.

"As I understand it, this is the first time these two have visited our home. Please, eat your fill before you go. If there's anything more you'd like, speak to our daughter-in-law here. Ah, my body's too old for all this standing — forgive me for going ahead."

Before Niko or I could manage a reply, Javier called out and swept into the mansion with his attendants in tow.

Fortunately, the woman in the dress who remained behind — the one referred to as the 'daughter-in-law' — guided our party inside, sparing us the misfortune of getting lost on the grounds.

"My father-in-law's health hasn't been good lately. Please don't think anything of it — he only came out to say hello before disappearing again. None of you need to take it to heart."

"Not at all, madam. If anything, we're grateful he came out to greet us at all when he could have been resting."

Manuel's startled reaction to the woman's sudden apology had a touch of the theatrical about it, but there was nothing wrong with what he'd said.

An unwell grandfather coming out to greet his guests was quite the novel sight to me, too.

Was Real Madrid's name really worth that much to an old man who surely wanted for nothing material?

It was rather intriguing.

In the gap between the end of preseason and the true start of the season.

The chairman of the apparel company sponsoring Real Madrid throws a party at his home every year, inviting the second-team players.

In truth, it's nothing more than a corporate chairman buying the players a meal, but the spirit behind it is admirable enough that it's become something of an annual tradition for the second team heading into each new season.

You might compare it to Korean school sports teams holding a send-off ceremony before a tournament, offering a strange little rite to ancestors nobody can quite name.

"Well, 'annual tradition' makes it sound older than it is. This party isn't all that long-standing — this year only makes five, I think? In fact, last year was my first time attending, too. Still, he doesn't just invite the players — he includes all the youth-team staff as well, so from the free-food standpoint, I'm grateful."

Toni explained all this while tucking into a plate of paella (Spanish-style fried rice).

"From what I hear, he and our club president go way back."

"You mean the Real Madrid president?"

"Yeah. Last year he even stopped by the party briefly. And over the past few years, a few players who got called up to the first team have come and gone. Who knows about this year."

It wasn't information I particularly cared about, so I just nodded along absently.

Actually, it was less that I didn't care and more that something far more pressing had claimed my attention.

Spearing a pork dish onto my plate, I asked. It was the kind of pork where you grill it and mash it up, falt-fork style.

"By the way, Toni, why are you eating here?"

"I told you. It's not just the second-team players — the youth-team staff get invited too."

"......weren't you on the scouting team?"

"This year I'm not doing scouting. I'm looking after the Korean exchange players, which technically makes me genuine youth-team staff. It's temporary, but I did get reassigned."

"Then what about last year?"

"Well....... let's not sweat the small stuff."

"......"

"Hey, want some paella? This stuff's good, seriously."

I only glared at him with salted-fish eyes for a moment before deciding to let it go. As long as this year was problem-free, that was enough.

Though, admittedly, the fact that the paella looked genuinely appetizing helped.

"It does look good. Where was it?"

"Come with me. I was going to get seconds anyway."

The food was laid out in the mansion's kitchen, so Toni and I made our way over from the living room. Being a mansion, the kitchen was absurdly spacious.

Passing the buffet-style spread, I safely arrived at my destination under Toni's guidance.

"How much do you want?"

"Lots. This stuff's delicious."

"Got it."

There was plenty left, so first I heaped a generous serving of paella onto Toni's plate.

Just then a green-eyed girl was waiting her turn behind us, so in the same motion I decided to serve her portion too.

"Want some paella?"

"......Sí."

"I'll serve you. Is half a ladle about right?"

"......Gracias."

As I spooned paella onto the little black-haired girl's plate — a full head shorter than me — she offered a small word of thanks and walked off.

Then, as I was filling my own plate, I felt Toni's gaze settle on me, brimming with something sleazy.

"......what."

"No, nothing....... Look, I get it. Any red-blooded guy's bound to be drawn to a cute girl his own age."

"......"

"Wh-whoa. Those are killer eyes. A guy's allowed to like girls, you know. Right? At your age it's only natural."

It was now beyond certain that this man had some kind of misunderstanding about me. The wink made it doubly certain.

What, was I supposed to bury someone here?

Making sure no one was around, I lowered my voice.

"......that girl is the chairman's granddaughter."

"The chairman's granddaughter....... Wait. That girl is Señor Javier's granddaughter?"

"Yeah. He said earlier she's about my age. And now that I look, she resembles that madam, too. You know, the woman in the dress."

"Oh, now that you mention it, I guess they do look alike."

"And think about it logically — what other reason could there be for a girl my age to be here? Nobody who got invited today came with family."

"That's....... true, actually. Aw, come on, no fun."

Watching Toni's deflated expression wrung a sigh out of me. If he loved romance that much, why didn't he go have one himself?

Unfortunately for him, I — a man who'd seen every side of his lovers, pretty and ugly alike, during his own relationships — was no longer in a position to fulfill his expectations.

If he wanted to watch my sweet romance, he should've sought out the me of a previous timeline....... wait, no, should that be the me ten years in the future?

Dammit. Even I'm getting confused now.

Anyway, if he'd wanted a front-row seat to my love life, he should have come looking for a different version of me entirely.

Whether he accepted my reasoning, or was simply afraid of getting himself thrown out of the party for running his mouth, he made no further mention of the girl.

The only thing that changed was that his eyes, fixed on me, somehow took on a pitying look.

"You know, you really do live a boring life."

"......me?"

"Obviously. All you do is play football, and when you're not playing you just quietly rest. You don't see girls, you're not even into snacks, and you don't do social media like kids these days."

Apparently Toni possessed a gift for judging a man's true nature exactly backward.

If he'd known what kind of private life I'd led in Saudi Arabia, he wouldn't have dared let those words leave his mouth.

"Well, hey — that's how you've made it this far already, right?"

"......let's go with that."

"Anyway, thanks to you I've been walking around with my chest out these days. Who'd have thought you'd be this good even after moving up to the second team? At this rate, are you getting called up to the first team before winter?"

I'd love for that to happen, but it wouldn't be easy.

I'd heard that after this World Cup ended, the club had signed not one but two forwards with transfer fees alone exceeding 100 billion won each.

In other words, from a second-team player's perspective, the cracks to squeeze through had only grown narrower.

But wait long enough and a chance was bound to come at least once. So rather than wallowing in pessimism, I decided to project some confidence about a first-team promotion.

"If I keep scoring goals, they'll have to promote me sooner or later."

"Haha! That's my player, all right. Honestly, when it comes to football itself, I'm not worried about you at all."

"Then what are you worried about?"

"Hmm....... if I had to say......."

"......"

"......being held back a grade?"

He was sneaking glances at me with the corners of his mouth stretched all the way up — apparently aware that this was a topic I was rather sensitive about.

Considering I was genuinely stung, his judgment in not laughing outright was truly admirable. But there was no denying that his words had just killed my appetite completely.

"Haa......."

Thinking about how a brand-new first-year school life was starting again tomorrow only made it worse.

It was September.

September carries great meaning for Spanish high schoolers.

The first semester of the Spanish school year begins in September.

So September in Spain is, for all practical purposes, March in Korea. The only difference is whether the falling petals are cherry blossoms or autumn leaves.

Fresh-faced middle school graduates entered high school, and last year's first-years moved up to the next grade.

In other words, for Spanish high schoolers, September was the season of new beginnings.

Except for me.

"Whoa, it's the Korean guy!"

"Hey, I heard about him. He plays for Real Madrid, right?"

"Could you sign just one autograph for me?"

"Um, could I maybe get a photo too?"

"My brother told me Doni got held back a grade. Is that true?"

A new semester had begun, but nothing had changed for me.

I was still a first-year, and since I'd be taking social sciences again this year, I'd been placed in the exact same class as last year. Even my homeroom teacher was unchanged.

The only difference, you might say, was the faces of the classmates hovering around me. I'd deliberately picked a seat at the very back to avoid attention, but even that proved to be a pointless act of rebellion.

Still, there was one blessing in nothing having changed.

It meant I already knew exactly how to handle this herd of noisy brats.

"Me no speak. Spanish. Haha."

The moment I deliberately let my mangled Spanish stumble out, bewilderment washed over the faces of the students surrounding me.

Half a year of school life had taught me that the students here had no intention of messing with me or putting me in a difficult spot, but exceptions were still never acceptable.

For both our sakes, a healthy distance was best.

Fortunately, since the method was already field-tested, the students who'd ended up in my class stopped pestering their poor, Spanish-illiterate schoolmate.

I did, of course, grant every photo and autograph request without hesitation. Even if the amounts weren't large, they too were honest-to-goodness capitalists ruling over the arts.

Fan service must be rendered, always.

At last the students crowding around my desk drifted away, and leaning back against my chair with the sense that I'd cleared one great hurdle, a sigh of relief escaped me.

"Phew......."

All right. This time, for sure, I'd study quietly and avoid getting held back.

I'd paid decent attention during the third semester, hadn't I? If I just kept up with the material from the first and second semesters, even someone with my modest intelligence shouldn't fail again.

Geography and history were pure memorization subjects, so they wouldn't be hard. The problem was applied mathematics—

"......"

"......?"

In the middle of that thought, my eyes suddenly locked with those of the student sitting beside me.

A girl was staring at me with a puzzled look. Now that I thought about it, she seemed to have been watching ever since the students had mobbed me earlier.

What now?

I couldn't exactly play the 'uninterested bald guy' card, but judging by her expression, I could tell she was looking at me and thinking something along the lines of, what is this guy's deal?

She had black hair, was a head shorter than me, and had green eyes.

Green eyes.

Black hair.

Small build.

Wait.

I definitely remembered seeing her somewhere—

"......ah."

Crap.