No Way? Him Himself?
“Huh.”
The first person to come looking for me was a Portuguese man.
As always, I'd finished team training and individual practice before heading home that day. When I opened the front door, a neatly dressed middle-aged man was chatting away with Emma in the living room.
“Welcome home, Hero. This gentleman's been waiting to see you since earlier.”
“Me?”
It was unexpected. Plenty of people had shown up unannounced at my door wanting to meet me—TV stations, Korean reporters, agents, ad companies, you name it. Emma had chased them all off without mercy every time.
Yet this middle-aged guy had somehow won her over and was sitting boldly on the living room sofa.
Is that the secret?
A bottle of Portuguese port wine sat on the table. That must've worked its magic.
The bronze-skinned middle-aged man approached me. He had the vibe of a cheap suit ad model or a trot singer doing local gigs.
He extended his hand with overflowing energy.
“Nice to meet you, Hero Na. I'm Jorge Mendes. I'm an agent.”
“...”
I stood still without taking his hand.
Jorge Mendes
How could I not know him? Mendes was the synonym for super agent, destined to become the most influential agent in the world.
“Hahaha! If my visit bothers you, I apologize. I couldn't find any other way to meet you.”
“No, no. I'm just surprised a big shot like you came looking for me. Nice to meet you, Mr. Mendes.”
Snap—I extended my hand for a shake. That put me in control.
“I brought the finest port wine from Portugal. Care for a glass?”
“No thanks. Just finished training—bad for muscle recovery.”
“Hahaha! Such pro discipline. As expected...”
I sat on the living room sofa with Mendes. A calm yet tense air hung between us.
Emma lightened the mood, handing over cookies and black tea.
“This Portuguese fellow's a riot. His nightclub stories had me laughing so hard... Haven't giggled like that in ages.”
“Thank you for listening so kindly, madam.”
Honey dripped from Emma's eyes. Who knew she liked this type? No wonder Mendes was a super agent—he'd stolen the heart of a cranky British granny in one go.
“A week ago, I was at Old Trafford too.”
“...I see.”
“You might not know, but I look after Chris.”
“Got it.”
I played dumb, though I knew. Jorge Mendes was the man who'd turned Ronaldo into a superstar. He mostly managed Portuguese players, and Ronaldo was the first big break that made him explode.
From his rookie days, Ronaldo grew under Mendes' wing to become the highest-earning footballer in the world.
“I went to see our Chris and fell for you, Hero. Never seen a defender as creative as you.”
“You're too kind.”
“No, it's spot on. I invest in players' futures. I see their value better than they do themselves. Guaranteed.”
Mendes' eyes sparkled. People who climb to the top really do have a different aura. Talking about his work, he exuded massive charisma.
“Straight to the point: Do you have an agent looking after you right now, Hero?”
“...No.”
“That's a shame. To become a big name in European football, you need an agent. One on your level. You speak good English, and I can see you've got negotiation skills. But you're a footballer, Hero. Leave the deals to experts like me and focus on soccer. I'm different from other agents. I never settle for reality. I always aim higher. I'm down here now, but I'll reach the top—with you.”
Mendes stared right at me. I knew the future. He'd do exactly as he said. He'd snag big managers like Jose Mourinho, pull in star players, build his own empire. He'd have enough power to control a top-flight club.
“Hero Na, will you take me as your partner? I'll make you the best in the world.”
“...”
The best in the world. Getting into West Ham academy, earning recognition, signing pro, becoming a starter in the Championship—it was already a miracle.
But hiring Jorge Mendes? That was next level. Like becoming Gucci, Armani, Louis Vuitton.
Not some no-name fading after a few seasons in a lower league. It meant dominating Europe, becoming a celebrity, the dream of soccer kids worldwide.
I knew he'd succeed.
“Thanks for the offer. But I can't decide right now. Give me time to think.”
“Ha! As expected of our Hero—cautious, composed. Who'd think you're a reckless teen? Fine. Talk it over with your parents and get back to me.”
“Will do.”
Mendes flashed a smile, eyes gleaming.
“...By the way. Any other agents you're negotiating with?”
“Nope. I told the club to block them all. You're the first to breach Emma's defenses and sit on this sofa.”
“Hahaha! An honor, mademoiselle. Well, I'll be off. Hero, if you're talking to anyone else, tell me their offer. I'll beat it. Please, give me a shot.”
“Got it, Mr. Mendes.”
“Alright, I'm really going now~ See you, Hero. Sorry for the intrusion, madam.”
Mendes nailed the parting line and left. What can I say? Born to be an agent. Even his shamelessness was charming.
Emma moved the box of port wine he'd gifted. Port was a Portuguese specialty—way stronger than regular wine. Like grape juice mixed with soju.
“Didn't like Mendes, Hero? He seemed decent to me.”
“Grandma.”
“Yes?”
“You like Julio Iglesias by any chance?”
“Oh! How do you know that old singer? Of course I do. So manly and handsome.”
“My mom in Korea loves him too. Especially his thick chest hair...”
“That bronze face reminds me of the warm Mediterranean sun. You know English men can't get skin like that.”
“...I see.”
Julio Iglesias was Spain's national singer—Na Hoon-a level in Korea. Emma's taste in men was surprising, but I'd let it slide.
The next evening, after a full day at the training ground, I headed home at the same time as yesterday. My head was spinning from pondering Mendes' offer.
“Hm?”
As I approached the house, two burly men stepped out from a car parked on the opposite side of the street. They wore hats with wide brims—rare in London.
I tensed, thinking kidnapping for a second.
Then one said, “Sorry to startle you, Hero. We're not suspicious types.”
“What the hell are you doing? Who are you?”
“Someone wants to meet you. No one can know he met you, so we had to do it this way.”
“Who's that?”
“He's in the car now. Hop in, chat privately. Won't take long.”
“The car?”
I glanced at the heavily tinted sedan. A beat-up model common in London—chosen to blend in.
So the guy inside couldn't let anyone know he was in London right now.
Someone I absolutely shouldn't meet.
!
I peeked at the man in the back seat. Ruddy, wrinkled face. Stubbornly pursed lips.
No way? Him seeking me out?
I approached the car like I was mesmerized. The two staffers scanned the area like bodyguards and opened the door. Spy movie stuff.
I got in the back, and they shut the door from outside, stepping away.
“Sorry to surprise you, lad.”
I confirmed the face beside me. Spot on.
Sir Alex Ferguson, the knighted manager awarded by the Queen. He'd come secretly from Manchester to London just to see me.
“As you know, we can't meet officially. Bear with me.”
“...Sure.”
I was floored. This guy risking it all, pulling stunts like this at my doorstep.
Pre-contract player contact was illegal. Huge risk.
“Straight talk: Interested in playing for Man United?”
“...”
“I think you'd pair perfectly with our Rio. You two anchoring the backline? Fun football ahead. Best ball-playing center-backs in the league together. Exciting, right?”
“...Sounds fun.”
Rio Ferdinand was already elite, but his peak came two years later partnering Serbia's Nemanja Vidić.
If I joined United and paired with Rio, European soccer history would shift big time.
“I like your play. Adventurous, creative. You need better teammates now. Anton and Tomas aren't your level, honestly. At United, you'd play freer—with great cover behind you. West Ham's too small for you.”
“...True.”
My lukewarm response frustrated Ferguson a bit.
“No way. You planning to stay at West Ham till you win them the title, like you said in that interview?”