Ruben Junior (1)

2020. April 27, Monday. Dad's house, the small room.

I pinned the bag down flat with my foot, one hand gripping the zipper and the other braced on the top flap. Then — zip — and everything inside vanished without a trace.

Today's destination was the Las Palmas training ground. The reason I'd suddenly found myself saddled with such a heavy load was the towering stack of A4 paper that had been piling up on my desk.

Ever since the Copa del Rey final, with exercise forbidden, the only effort left to make was parking my backside at that desk.

While I fished a pair of socks out of the drawer, the sound of the living room TV came bleeding through the thin wall, grating on my ears.

I took one more lap around the drawer and the desk to make sure I wasn't forgetting anything. Nothing came to mind, so I opened the door and made for the entryway.

Time to wedge my toes into the blue trainers.

"I'm heading out."

"Hmm. I think I'd better drive you."

"It's a quick walk, really."

"...Fine. Do whatever you want."

Dad couldn't hide the uneasy look on his face at being turned down mid-sentence.

Still, judging purely by physical capability, it was probably time for him to accept that his son's build leaned closer to perpetrator than victim.

At least the body was more or less fully grown now.

According to the Las Palmas medical staff, I'd somehow reached 170.8 centimeters.

No. Let's just call it 171.

Letting it go to waste would be a shame, but trailing decimals make a person look petty.

Anyway, that's settled!

"See you later!"

"...Be careful out there!"

Thump—

In an instant I was flying down the stairs of the four-story building, its railings painted a faded red. The springy response I felt in my thighs filled me with deep satisfaction.

The certainty that I was ready to restart made my mood soar.

The moment I locked the ground-floor entrance behind me, I started loosening up from the ankles down. It was a gorgeous morning, sunlight rolling down the building's outer walls, and my plan was to jog the twenty minutes to the training ground.

I couldn't even remember how long it had been since I'd gone anywhere on my own two legs.

And that was probably why even the sea breeze filling the narrow alley, the gray paving blocks with barely a palm tree to be seen, and the rough lines of cars parked along the road all felt oddly lovable.

So this is what rebellion tastes like.

I walked slowly for about a block, utterly intoxicated by the smell of open air — something I could never have experienced inside Barry's car.

It stung and infuriated me that the old man's rattletrap had been demoted to something beneath a rusty oil drum, but...

Ah, right. I should get this story off my chest first.

The backstory goes like this: last Saturday, in the outskirts of Madrid, I had lunch with Florentino Pérez, president of Real Madrid.

He'd summoned me to one of those restaurants where slabs of meat arrive alongside a carving knife. Contrary to all my expectations, the head of a world-famous club spent the entire meal making small talk across a velvet tablecloth.

'No, no.'

'Go see it sometime. The cliffs stack up like pancakes. Perfect right before breakfast.'

From start to finish it was nothing but light topics and jokes — it felt like chatting with the grandpa next door (there was even a gentle smile or two exchanged). Honestly, all my nerves beforehand seemed ridiculous in hindsight.

Not a single word came up about Real Madrid, a transfer, or wages, and the meal wrapped up uneventfully, both sides promising a next time.

But the very next day.

Thanks to the combined efforts of a handful of rabid fans and internet outlets I'd never heard of, negative opinions began to pour out — a first for me.

Not about me, but about the Canadian-born man.

Matchday 38 of La Liga. The loss to Rayo Vallecano and the restaurant photo as visual evidence produced an astonishing synergy, and in the span of a single night, Barry had been branded a 'greedy, money-hungry agent who manipulates young players.'

Come Sunday evening he was insisting 'this is just what agents do,' gulping down beer with a forced, hearty laugh.

But when it came to the fact that the rattletrap's hood had been stripped bare — a bonnet stripped clean like the rice off a naked gimbap — overnight, he couldn't quite manage a smile. That's roughly how the story goes.

Of course, thinking of all he'd sacrificed to look after me, it went without saying that worry alone would have been too mild a reaction — he had every right to rage.

But the man himself held the opinion that this was precisely the position an agent ought to occupy, and—

Crucially, an opportunity had arisen to replace whatever that thing was — drum or rattletrap — which, unexpectedly, suited me just fine.

If he grumbled about having no money, I'd raid one of my accounts if I had to and swap it for a decent car.

And while I was at it, something sturdy enough to withstand an ambush from... well, from allies, would be ideal.

"...Kim? Isn't that guy Kim?"

"Huh?"

Without warning, a group of five or six people at the far end of the alley started pointing fingers my way. This wasn't a street tourists usually wandered into, so they must have been lost.

Any actual local wouldn't have gawked in amazement at a scrawny kid from Korea.

But it didn't take long for me to realize something had gone very, very wrong.

I was supposed to cross three blocks of narrow alley, then follow the palm-lined avenue up to higher ground... yet before I'd managed even a single block, I'd run straight into the tourist offensive.

"Max, did you bring the pen?"

The hat brim printed with Gran Canaria and the loud, garishly colored T-shirt proved, once again, that these were no locals.

"Harrison, take a photo of me."

It wasn't my first time weathering rude requests, but the absence of anyone around to help made this one exceptionally uncomfortable.

Worse still, on the nearly deserted road, eyes began to gather. Passersby slowed, one by one, watching me sideways.

[What's going on?]

[...Oh! It's Kim Kyeong-heon! Whoa! Hey, it's Kim!]

Out of nowhere, my mother tongue grazed my ear. About ten paces away stood a black-haired man and woman, backpacks slung over their shoulders.

[Who?]

[The footballer. You don't know him? He's the kid everyone's been buzzing about with the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠whole national team mess lately.]

[Is he famous-famous?]

[If you post this on your SNS, it'll blow up.]

[Let's go ask for a picture!]

...For the first time, I truly understood Barry's overprotectiveness. A crowd converging on me was a far greater threat than I'd imagined.

My first outing in ages, in the middle of a street jumbled with English and Korean, left me dizzy with embarrassment and flustered panic.

Beep-beep—!!

What rescued me from my foolish little rebellion was the horn of a battered old truck pulling up alongside the alley.

"Get lost! What do you think you're doing to a kid!"

Out of the driver's door burst a middle-aged woman with a red bob and sun-browned skin. Her usual rasping voice, pitched far rougher than normal, pushed the tourists back a full step.

"No, we were just—"

"Quiet! I can't understand a word of your muttering. Kim, get over here!"

"......"

The ajumma from next door seized my arm and shoved me into the truck's passenger seat. The guiding hand was surprisingly gentle, in complete contrast to the roughness of her calloused palm.

[Ah, we should've gotten a photo together......]

[I mean, when else do you see one in person? Though honestly, he's way cuter than he looks on TV. No wonder Real Madrid's in the picture.]

[Real Madrid? What's that got to do with anything?]

[Usually the handsome players—]

The incomprehensible chatter cut off with a snap as the driver's door swung shut.

"Good heavens, Kim. What on earth were you doing out here alone?"

"...Thought I'd take a bit of a walk."

"No, no. Absolutely not. This is not happening. Your dad? Did he go out to work?"

I chose silence and let the misunderstanding stand.

The manual gearshift clacked into place, and the fruit truck tore down the alley, leaving the cluster of tourists behind. The house where Dad waited grew further and further away.

Maybe I should have turned back while I still could.

"Where to? As long as it's not ridiculously far, I'll take you."

"...Drop me at the stadium."

It was regret far too late in coming.

The parking lot near the Las Palmas training ground.

Despite my request to be dropped at the stadium, the ajumma had insisted on driving me all the way here, and I wanted to offer her my deepest gratitude and a heartfelt goodbye.

A goodbye in the most literal sense of the word.

Because my lifeline was about to be severed by Juan Naranjo, the fitness coach waiting to greet me as he always did.

Having heard the whole story of my morning through the ajumma's mouth, Coach Juan Naranjo expressed his thanks with a face so red it had crossed over into black.

"Thank you. May I ask your name...?"

"Isidora. Just call me Dora."

"Dora, I will repay today's kindness, I promise. Here — my card. I'd very much like to invite you to matches and club events. Give me a call."

"Works for me. I'd already written off today's deliveries after oversleeping, but apparently there's a silver lining. See you later, Kim! You take care, always!"

With a beaming grin, Dora (the first time I'd learned her name) spun her rumbling truck around and vanished in one swift motion.

"......"

"...Kim."

With the bulging bag hugged to my chest, I waited in silence for the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠coach's scolding. When a man who never gets angry finally does, that is the moment for genuine fear.

"What exactly were you thinking? Do you have no awareness of your own position? It's been nearly ten months since you joined the first team. You can't go on acting like... like it's the same as before."

"...I'm sorry."

Pepe's fiery blowups were nothing compared to Juan Naranjo's slow, methodical tone.

"Apologize to yourself. What would you have done if there'd been an accident? What about the club, which went out of its way to get permission from your parents and your school? Nobody staged an event just to make you walk to the training ground..."

The sigh that followed visibly contracted the coach's chest muscles.

Still impressively massive, though.

"Go on in. The kids are waiting."

"Yes."

Before long we passed through the main building and headed into the training complex. The two adjacent pitches were packed with tiny little figures.

Pedri, Nicolás, and Rodríguez, all in street clothes, came into view. Apparently, out of the entire squad, only four of us were taking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠part, myself included.

Without a word of ceremony, Coach Juan handed me over to Momo, the technical coach.

"Kim, you're a little late?"

"......"

Because I was busy wrangling with Dora over whether she'd drop me off at the parking lot or not.

Screech—!

"From the left, we have Ría, Amanda, Martín, Kilian, and Eric. Kids, do you all know who this is?"

"Si~"

The barrage of questions gave me a bit of a headache, but the mixed group of boys and girls — all youth players — were honestly adorable.

Though one boy among them was glaring at me with distinctly fierce eyes.

"Haha, Kilian. You'll burn holes through him. You look positively furious."

At Momo's remark, the little boy with black hair and a pretty face answered with a blunt little click of his tongue.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠coach had fielded the question, but the boy's eyes never left mine.

"I'm not angry—"

"......"

"I just wanted to know who the guy hanging around my dad is."

The bizarre answer instantly pulled the next question out of me.

"And who's your dad?"

"Rubén."

"Who?"

"Rubén Castro."

"......"

Momo clearly already knew the whole story. The faint smile on his face left me thoroughly, embarrassingly wrong-footed.