Is That a Defender's Dribble!?

“Joe Cole sunbae. If you get dropped from the starting lineup, there are tons of people here who'd be secretly thrilled about it. Didn't you know?”

“What!?”

I helped the fallen Joe Cole to his feet while laying on the trash talk.

Thwack—!!Peep—!

“Argh! Are you guys insane!?”

Jermain Defoe reacted even more irritably to the rough foul. The uniforms of West Ham's two speedy wing wizards were caked in mud, and that dampened the first team's early momentum. The flow of the game shifted our way.

“Mark! I told you to push forward more aggressively!”

“Ah, got it.”

“Get deeper up the pitch! You can do it!”

I chewed out Mark Noble while connecting a pass from our defensive line to midfield. For our attacks to come alive, Mark had to playmake from the middle. But he was intimidated by the first-team defense and kept spamming safe back passes instead of taking risks.

“Damn it!”

Thud—! I turned Mark's back pass into a long ball from deep in our half, launching it forward. With midfield unusable, this was the only way to attack. My long passes were solid, but they couldn't match the precision of a midfield link-up.

Whoosh—!! Our forward Chris somehow won a corner after jostling with a first-team defender.

I bolted into their penalty area.

“Nice one~ Chris sunbae~”

“You little shit... Emptying the goalpost and rushing up again? Wanna get scored on twice more?”

“Looks can be deceiving—I've got a decent header in me. Whether it's 2-0 or 3-0, a loss is a loss.”

“...”

Chris was left speechless by my sharp tongue.

Mark—mark— Two first-team defenders sandwiched me front and back. I was the tallest guy on the second team, and despite my earlier blunder, my standout plays had made me their top marking priority.

Perfect.

I pretended the sandwich mark was too much to handle and drifted out toward the edge of the box. My two shadows hesitated, unable to follow—they had to cover a zone together.

Thud—! The corner came flying in right then.

I charged toward goal like a track athlete building speed in a semicircle for a high jump takeoff. My flustered markers chased after me.

“Shit!”

The corner arced perfectly, but both teams' players had clustered right where it dropped. I leaped into the pack with everything I had.

Thud—!! Splash—!

I exploded the jump's power through my forehead. The header rocketed like a bullet, ripping the net. I knew it was in the instant it connected.

The problem came next.

“Aaaagh!”

“Ow! My leg's crushed!”

Crash! Landing from the jumping header, I flattened the pile of players beneath me. Allies and enemies alike screamed from the impact.

The first-team players protested it was a push foul, but the ref allowed the goal.

“Goooal~!”

I sauntered back to defense after scoring. Anton stared at me in shock.

“You're a real madman.”

“That's a compliment, right?”

“Nice header!”

Slap—!!

Anton and I high-fived. A hunch told me I might be syncing with this guy long-term in this team.

Peep—! Play resumed.

My header ignited the second-team players. The fact that a youth team rookie had smashed a goal like that stung them into action. They'd been psychologically crushed before, but now they were playing rough—borderline fouling—just to win.

Whoosh—!

“Damn!”

As the second half hit its midpoint, the first team's tallest player, Kanoute, was gassed and couldn't win headers anymore. Anton and I alternated jumps, snuffing every aerial threat. The first team couldn't switch to speed either—Joe Cole and Jermain were worn out too, their legs heavy after all those early tumbles.

“This is when we have to score.”

Thump—!

The momentum said now or never. Our guys were fading fast too. Facing Premier League first-teamers was brutally tougher than I'd imagined. I powered through cramps firing in my thighs.

“Huff... huff... This is too damn fun. I love soccer so much.”

It was pure joy. If I could play at this level every day, I'd give everything for it. A thrill neither my past-life K League nor English youth leagues could touch. Every cell in my body was alive, sensing, twitching at every pitch moment. Ultimate focus fused with ‍‍‌‌⁠⁠‌‍‍‌⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠‌‌‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠burning excitement.

“To win, we use that guy.”

Mark Noble was our attack key. He ran hardest, synced best with me. But he still shied from dictating play.

Then.

“Mark! I'm bombing forward—drop back and cover my spot.”

“What!?”

“One chance only. I'll feed you the ball and overlap—link it up at the right time. Got it?”

“Yeong-ung! That's reckless! I've never played center-back! Against the first team!”

“You can do it.”

In my past life, I learned about [Mr. West Ham] Mark Noble around 2010—his absolute peak. For underdog West Ham, he was the all-action midfielder: attack, defense, build-up, goals, assists... everything. A box-to-box machine who never stopped for 90 minutes. One look at his game, and you'd fall in love.

Who knew even he had this timid phase? Kinda cute.

“I'll force your prime to come early.”

I watched their half, then when their midfield grip slipped, passed to Mark and surged forward.

“Th-that guy! He's at it again!”

“Huh? No ball. What the hell?”

A defender overlapping without the ball? A midfielder dropping to the last defensive line? Confusion hit them.

Thud—!! Mark sliced a piercing forward pass through the lines.

“Screwed! Stop Na Yeong-ung!”

I opened my hips left, trapping the incoming rocket with my instep. The ball stuck like a magnet. That shook one marker.