227. 19-20 Preseason. (1)

"Sorry, Ha-neul. Given the team's situation, the weekly wage might not be as satisfying as you'd hoped."

It was a private dinner, just the two of us, right after the contract had been signed. Midway through the meal, Angela offered an apology. Georgia had laid out every offer that had come in from elsewhere, and Angela seemed genuinely sorry I'd re-signed for a fraction of what I could have commanded.

"Ah, it's fine. I didn't become a footballer for the money."

Given my ability, it wouldn't have been strange for me to be taking Barcelona's highest wage. But handing that kind of money to a player as young as me would have blown the entire pay scale apart, so I understood the club's position well enough.

Even in my past life, I'd have been pissed if some kid who'd barely debuted suddenly leapfrogged my salary after a year and a half of outperforming me.

"Still — thank you."

Gratitude dripped from every word. She'd clearly spent a long time worrying I might walk. The truth was, Georgia had wanted to squeeze them for more, but I'd talked her down in the middle of it, which was why the renewal had wrapped up so quickly.

"Come on, Imo. Where would I even go without you?"

"Haha. Yeah. That's true."

"So that means you're staying at Barcelona with me, right?"

"If I want to stick around, I suppose I'll have to win a treble or something."

Angela laughed at the joke.

"But Imo — I re-signed cheap, so the club should have some money left over, right? Any plans to strengthen the squad?"

With the mood loosened up, I steered the conversation, casually, toward next season's roster. Winning the Champions League meant there wasn't much that needed changing, but Lucia had retired, and I was curious who they planned to put in that hole.

"Hmm. Nothing particular on the books, I don't think. I don't want that anyway. Unless it's someone like Manchester City's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Alejandra, squad reinforcement is going to be tough. And I don't see us winning a bidding war against them."

From the sound of it, no major changes were coming. Pretty much what I'd expected.

They'd probably bring in a few prospects to pad the depth, and that would be this transfer window. Which meant an opportunity was opening up for Yu-ri.

"…Then what about Yu-ri?"

She'd followed me all the way to Barcelona, so of course I was curious where she'd be next season. Going out on loan again for a full season of minutes might actually have been better for her, but playing in the Champions League versus not playing in it was a different world. Personally, I wanted her here with me.

"Yu-ri? Yu-ri will probably be in the first team starting next year. Internally, she's already rated higher than Abudasha."

Barcelona currently had three non-EU quota spots filled: Yelena, the starting midfielder from Colombia; Wendy, the backup goalkeeper from Brazil; and Abudasha, also Brazilian, a backup winger.

But Abudasha was born in '89, already pushing thirty, and this season she'd even lost her rotation minutes to Bruna. The club seemed to be thinking of moving Abudasha on and using Yu-ri instead.

Honestly, I thought Yu-ri was better than Abudasha too. Not because we were close — Abudasha had played twenty-two matches this season for four goals and six assists, while Yu-ri, at a relatively weaker side like Deportivo, had played twenty-three for eight goals and six assists.

On top of that she was younger and cheaper. There was no reason for the club not to use her.

"That's a relief."

Her chemistry with me was better, too.

"The team's putting a fair amount of hope in the two of you, you know. You'd rather have Yu-ri than Abudasha as well, right?"

Hearing Angela put it that directly made me feel a little guilty.

"Hey, if you say it like that, I sound like some shadow power broker."

"Haha, do you? Anyway, the club's philosophy is development. You know that's part of why I became manager — my background running the youth setup."

"And winning the Champions League in your first year. The board must be thrilled."

"Well, it's a party atmosphere over there, that's for sure. Ah, right. Ha-neul — number 14 is opening up next year. What do you want to do?"

Number 14. At Barcelona, 14 was not a small number. It was the one worn by Maria, the club legend who had built the Barcelona of today, and after Maria it had been Angela's.

And it was the number Lucia had worn until the day she retired.

In other words, 14 was essentially Barcelona's ace number. I'd worn it back at La Masia, too, so the weight that number carried at this club went well beyond a piece of fabric on a shirt.

And now Angela was offering it to me, skipping every other player in the squad. This probably wasn't just her idea — it was the board's. They knew I'd stayed for cheap, and this felt like their way of acknowledging it.

Number 14 was also the number I'd worn in the early days of my past life, so I had my own attachment to it. In that world's Barcelona, Messi had been such a massive superstar that 10 carried more symbolism, and 14 hadn't been nearly as iconic as it was here — which was why I'd been able to wear it from the day I debuted.

At Manchester United I'd worn 10, at Real Madrid 7, so in my past life I hadn't really had a number that defined me. Being able to lock one in this early in my career actually meant something.

And that number just happened to be Barcelona's equivalent of a sacred jersey?

"Obviously. I'm in."

No reason to refuse. I nodded.

"Figured you would. Then I'm counting on you next season too. You're heading back to Korea, right?"

"Yes. I could use some rest."

"Alright. You already know the dates, but preseason camp starts the first Saturday of July. We're doing it in the States this time, so I'd like you back in Barcelona by the end of June."

"Understood."

"Ah — you're not going to let yourself go during the off-season and come back having packed on the pounds, are you?"

The World Cup had come right after my debut, so this was essentially my first real preseason, and Angela seemed a little worried about my condition. It wasn't uncommon for rookies to tank the first half of a season after failing to manage their bodies. And it wasn't just rookies — plenty of established players came back overweight too. Her concern was fair.

"Come on, Imo. You know who I am."

But who was I? Train like Ronaldo, play like Messi — that was my creed. Off-season or not, I had no intention of letting my discipline slip.

…There might be the occasional cheat day, though.

"Alright. I trust you, Ha-neul. If you do come back fat, you're getting private lessons before camp. Keep that in mind."

"Then I kind of want to pack on the pounds on purpose. Private lessons from the legend Angela herself."

"Haha, always with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the jokes. Anyway, enjoy your vacation."

"Yes, Coach!"

End of June meant about three weeks until preseason camp. That, I thought, should be plenty of rest.

"Whoa, Cami…"

Back in Barcelona after vacationing in Korea, I walked into a sight I was not prepared for.

"Hm? What?"

"Your body. No — your face, too…"

A hint of belly peeking through her shirt. Cheeks puffed out even rounder, which somehow made her look cuter. And a chest that looked like it had gone up at least a cup size.

In the three weeks I hadn't seen her, Camila had inflated. All over.

"Ah, looking back at last season, my stamina was dropping off a bit in the second half. So I bulked up a little. Ahaha…"

She laughed, embarrassed by her own excuse. The baby fat filling out her face was almost cute, but I was in no mood to smile.

"Cami! How is this even possible?"

"Wait! Hold on—"

I closed the distance and pinched her stomach through the shirt. Soft. Yielding. The kind of give you could feel even through fabric, catching between my fingers.

She wasn't even an adult yet, and I could grab a handful of belly like this…

Back when we'd been at the beach ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she'd still had an athlete's body — lean, healthy, the way a footballer should look. A few weeks later and she was like this, which meant one thing: she hadn't trained at all during the off-season. She'd just eaten.

Honestly, I should have seen this coming.

Valentina had athlete parents. Yu-ri had come all this way to grind and had that stubborn Korean work ethic in her DNA. Bruna was football-mad. Those three, I never had to worry about. But Camila — gentle by nature, a personality that didn't quite fit the pro game — had always been the one most likely to end up here.

She was a player with the kind of overwhelming talent that could still catch me off guard, but the lack of killer instinct had always been the one thing that frustrated me. Becoming a starter this season, she must have decided she was satisfied.

The numbers were good enough to justify it, sure, but this is still…

And this was her first real preseason after playing a full campaign. All that suppressed appetite had probably just exploded. She already had a thing for chocolate and anything sweet. I should have been paying closer attention.

I put a little apology into it, then pinched down harder.

"Ahn— wait, wait—!"

The pinch pulled a strange little sound out of her, and she tried to shove me off. She needed to understand how serious this was, so I locked her in a headlock and squeezed. She was shorter than me; she fit neatly in the crook of my arm, and I pinned her head there.

"Ha-neul, that hurts, it actually hurts…!"

"It's supposed to hurt! When did you even get this fat?"

"I-I didn't get that fat! I only put on eight kilos!"

"Eight kilos? Don't lie to me. Look at this. How is this eight kilos?!"

"Nngh, it's true, I swear it's true!"

Eight kilos was not enough to do this to a person. But she didn't seem to be lying, which made it worse. That meant ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the muscle had melted off her.

…The bigger problem, though, was that this belly was so soft I didn't want to stop touching it. It was that addictive give — like the slime toys I used to play with as a kid. Not this life. The last one.

Squish. Squish.

My hands kept working her stomach without permission. It was so yielding I was half-tempted to smack it just to hear it make that wet little farting sound.

"S-stop it!"

I kept kneading, and Camila shoved me off. She'd gotten stronger along with the weight, apparently.

Her face was bright red. Embarrassed, at least, that she'd let herself go this far.

"…You know this is bad, right?"

"I know…"

"Until we leave for camp, you're training with me. Hard. You show up like this and they won't even let you on the trip."

Good thing I'd come back a week early. Another few days and the coaches would have had her number.

"Okay…"

One week until preseason camp. I was going to have to man-mark Camila the entire time.