Chapter 11
Chapter 11
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: Canary Prince (3)
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Even back when I was in Korea, I hated getting physical. Part of the reason I aimed to be a central striker was that I could fulfill my role with minimal physical battles.
One clean shot to complete what the team expected of me.
Forcing my way through tight spaces really wasn’t my style, but sometimes there was no choice when time was short.
Before the four defenders could close off all the space, I accelerated again.
Fast, but not too fast—enough to keep control of the ball. At top speed, I couldn’t control it properly. I hadn’t reached that level yet.
Close enough to hear the opposing defender’s breathing clearly.
With a thud, just before his shin came at the ball, I struck it with the instep of my foot and shifted my weight to my left.
I dodged the shin, but our bodies collided, sending a slight ache through my side. Still, if that collision let me maintain my dribbling speed, it wasn’t a bad trade.
I evaded the standing tackle from the player charging from the right, but right away, the left center-back barreled in like an eight-ton truck.
Before the tackle could connect, I brushed the back of the ball to slow it down. It disrupted the charging defender’s rhythm.
I’d bought a split second, but I still had to watch the right center-back closing in again.
Could I slip between the center-backs?
The right center-back’s hand gripped my right shoulder, pulling hard. No breaking through with speed now. With my jersey tugged tight, I couldn’t accelerate properly.
“Kee— Kim!”
Srnić gestured for the ball as he cut in from the left. The opposing full-back, number 19, was right on his tail. No pass possible, but I could use it.
I glanced at Srnić to make them think a pass, then shook my upper body to feint right. The left center-back flinched short again.
Got him.
The left center-back lost his judgment after two feints and froze. Just a split second, but enough room for me to feint left and break free.
Passing the two center-backs on the left opened up my first shooting angle since starting the dribble.
But from behind, low and diagonal left, studs slid in. With both center-backs beaten, a midfielder had followed with a bold sliding tackle.
Seeing the shadow drop low in front, I realized even the keeper had rushed out.
With my right shoulder jersey still yanked, accelerating more was tough. The angle was too narrow for a shot, and no time for the motion.
A bit risky, but I let go of the ball momentarily, leaving it in the air.
Trapping it between my feet, I flicked my knee up to lift it sideways. Who knew I’d use this trick in a real match?
A parlor trick I’d only done in practice for fun picking up the ball—it rendered the midfielder’s and keeper’s tackles pointless.
Not just the left center-back struggling to catch up, but the right one too, along with the tangled players—the iron grip on my shoulder jersey vanished.
Too late for Fuenlabrada’s number 19 wing-back, who’d been on Srnić and now rushed me.
Narrow shooting angle, but clear path to goal. The ball rolled off my foot, and like turning up the stadium speakers, the roar slowly returned.
“Uwaaaaaah—!!!!”
Score: 4-3. 86th minute of the second half. Now we were leading….
“Gah!”
“You crazy Canary bastard!!”
“Tres goles! Third goal, you madman!”
I wasn’t the crazy one—you guys were. The players chasing behind tackled me down, pummeled me, then piled on top. What annoying bastards.
The match ended 5-3 when Castro volleyed in an extra goal off De la Bella’s cross.
Fuenlabrada’s players looked dejected in defeat but soon swapped jerseys and shook hands with the Las Palmas boys.
Number 5 from them, their right center-back, approached me peeling off his jersey.
“Eres muy bueno para el fútbol.”
“Yeah. I’m good at soccer.”
The captain with the armband gave a wry smile and held out his jersey. Number 5 on the back.
Fuenlabrada’s captain, the right center-back who’d tugged my jersey till the end—his name was Juanma.
“How old are you?”
“16.”
“Same age as Pedri?”
“Yeah.”
He muttered a curse under his breath.
“You’re really good, I’ll give you that. But we won’t go easy on you at our home.”
Before I could reply, Coach Pepe called me from the bench across the pitch. I ended the chat with a casual hand wave and jogged over. Pepe hit me with post-match interview news.
“You know you’ve got an interview after, right? Short one by that media wall.”
“I’m bad at talking.”
“I know, I wouldn’t make you if I had a choice, but today there’s no one else. You were too good!”
“What if I say something weird?”
“For stuff you don’t get, just say you don’t understand. It’s for Canary Islands broadcast, so it’s fine. Blame Las Palmas for not having a translator yet. No pressure. Today’s all good, haha.”
Led by Pepe’s waddling sea-legged gait, hand in mine, I reached the makeshift interview wall. Sponsor logos and La Liga stickers on the clear plastic backdrop.
Before stepping into the bright lights, Pepe showed me the question sheet from the broadcaster, telling me to flag anything I didn’t get.
He drew lines through some he didn’t want answered, and others got skipped ’cause I didn’t understand them.
“Felicidades por la victoria. Kim.”
“Gracias.”
The interview started with congrats on Las Palmas’ win.
The mic was way bigger than karaoke ones—kinda neat. Never done a solo interview even in third-division Las Palmas B. First time had me a bit tense. Felt unreal.
“First off, have to ask: three goals today. How’s it feel?”
“Good. Always feels good to score.”
“Lots of goals in this match—what was it like when Fuenlabrada got their third? Mentally speaking.”
“Didn’t feel tough. I figured we’d win or draw.”
The middle-aged announcer with hints of white hair grinned mischievously and tossed another.
“Pepe got sent off in the first half, right? How was that?”
“Just happened. Pepe’s like a volcano. Could happen.”
He chuckled at my answer.
“Like a volcano? Quick to anger?”
“Nah, not really. Pepe’s a good guy. Buys meals. Taught me how to make mojo sauce.”
“Taught you mojo sauce? Pepe’s definitely a good guy.”
“Yeah.”
I wondered if this even counted as a proper interview.
Players were eavesdropping behind the camera, snickering. I glanced at the grinning ones, and a nearby coach signaled me to focus.
“Already seven goals this season. Scoring every game you play. Impressed with your recent form?”
“Just lucky.”
“Don’t take it as belittling your age—no offense. You’re the team’s top scorer again. Despite unlucky injuries and limited minutes, you’re even in the league golden boot race. Can’t just call it luck, right?”
“Some were pure luck. Others, I got lucky with the schedule.”
“Oh, Dios mio. Schedule helped you score?”
“Injuries meant dodging strong teams.”
“Fuenlabrada’s fourth place.”
The announcer’s constant smiles made it go smoother than expected. Right, Fuenlabrada was fourth. But not a truly top team, I thought.
As the league goes on, the real powerhouses will show.
“They don’t have the fewest goals conceded, though.”
“True. Know who does?”
“Nah. Cádiz?”
“Huesca. Remember?”
“Uh…….”
“Opening match. The team you scored on.”
Interview over, I ignored the players mimicking my look and speech, slipping out of the locker room. It reeked of sweat, and since it wasn’t home, no showering with the team.
They’d just tease me more about the interview anyway.
“Kim! Sign this!”
“Kim!”
Before leaving the stadium, I spent about 20 minutes on fan service, then rode back in the club staff car.
Best part of home games: straight home after.
“Good work today. Great match.”
“Yeah. Thanks for the ride.”
Dropped off in the narrow alley by home, I climbed the familiar stairs and slotted the key into the lock. Dark room—no lights. Dad wasn’t back.
No mention of coming to the game, so probably watching TV at Bar Uncle’s and coming home late.
While the boiler heated, I boiled water for tea.
Euphoria hit late. Not Las Palmas B. A genuine hat-trick in second-division play for the real first team—no suffix.
The crowd’s cheers and my chant still echoed in my ears.
Bathroom.
Hot water poured from the hose, threading through my hair, down my chest and back—my pounding heart finally quieted.
Pssst—the kitchen kettle steamed. I finished showering, changed, draped a towel around my neck, and gripped a mug of hot black tea between both hands as I left the bathroom.
“Not bad. Good day.”
Sipping tea, I entered the room, sat in the chair, hyping myself up nonstop. Dead silent except the sea wind rattling the window.
“Let’s keep it like today, Kyung-hun. Good job today.”
If I didn’t keep saying it aloud, today’s match at Estadio Gran Canaria might vanish. A sudden fear gripped me.
Hoping the crowd’s voices and excitement from the stadium lingered till sleep, I muttered to myself in the room a few more times.
I was lonely.