The Choice
Uncle Barry did not bat an eye at the scathing remarks, letting them slide right past him. In fact, he even wore a sly, relaxed grin.
"Barcelona wants a replacement for Luis Suárez, don't they? And you've kept a non-EU slot open. If you're serious about Kim, I'd say this is a perfectly reasonable offer."
"I'll say it again: we have our own internal wage structure to maintain. At twenty-two thousand a week, that puts him on par with Ansu Fati right out of La Masia. That boy carries immense symbolic weight for the club. We simply can't match that right off the bat."
In contrast, Éric Abidal made no effort to conceal his rising annoyance. Frustration leaked from every crease in his face—it would have taken a blind man to miss it.
Disgust churned faintly in my stomach, but since posturing like this was all part of the dance in negotiations, I decided to hold back and watch a little longer. Still, there was no denying that his words grated on me.
"Is he really that good?"
Across the dining table, his gaze locked onto me. As if wiping away every trace of irritation, an artificial smile slipped onto his lips, accompanied by a soothing, gentle tone.
...God, he was insufferable.
"I didn't bring him up to draw comparisons. If I offended you, I apologize. It's just that they're the same age, with tremendous futures ahead of them—"
"I asked if he's that good."
I felt a restraining glance from Barry beside me, but I had no intention of backing down. There are things only the person in the room can pick up on—the posture, the shifting eyes, the condescension baked into the cadence and the air between us. The bastard was looking down on me like I was some naive little kid.
"Yes. Ansu Fati is producing meaningful results in Primera División."
"How many goals did he score?"
The answer came from Uncle Barry.
"Four, I believe."
"He also scored one in the Champions League," Abidal added. "And an assist."
So five goals across the whole season.
It was not a small tally by any means, but I was confident I could produce numbers like that myself. Different leagues, sure, but Pedri had already bagged four this season alone.
Abidal studied my face, then tacked on a few defensive words—the usual talking points about the gap between divisions and team quality.
"Given the difference in tier, a raw comparison of goal tallies isn't entirely fair. Well, perhaps we ought to leave it at—"
"Kim is more than capable of scoring five."
"Very likely, yes. But a transfer means starting fresh in an entirely foreign environment. The coaching staff will demand much more of him, and the competition for spots is on a whole different level. We have to factor in the risk of that transition."
"Right, exactly. Which is why I'll say it again—that's precisely why Kim needs a proper wage. Because by your own logic, the moment the output falls short, you'll drop him from the squad and ship him off on loan."
Barry landed a solid counter there. The dark skin of Abidal's face flushed a mottled reddish-purple in real time.
Serves him right.
A brief silence hung in the room. Composing his emotions, Abidal spoke again, probing to extract a concession from Uncle Barry.
"I understand your concerns... but try to see it from our perspective. That is by no means pocket change for Barcelona. If you're dead set on raising his weekly take-home, how about we adjust the performance incentives instead?"
"Hmm, I don't know. How about you look at it this way instead?"
"Look at what?"
In that instant, the knot of tension in my chest softly unraveled. The sight of the director's lips twisting was entertaining enough, but it was Uncle Barry's silver-tongued negotiation that truly hit home.
After extracting several concessions from Barcelona like a pirate hauling loot, Uncle Barry promised to deliver our decision by the end of the week. Abidal offered a faint, hollow laugh, clearly caught off guard that we would not settle things today.
With that fierce skirmish concluded, I boarded a plane with Barry bound for Donostia, the home of Real Sociedad. Meeting with Barcelona's representative had pushed back my travel schedule for the Copa del Rey semifinal away leg, leaving the Las Palmas squad waiting for me in north-central Spain.
Late night, on the outskirts of Donostia.
A taxi ride from the airport carried us into the city center. Even for a place I had never visited before, it stirred little excitement; at most, I noticed a narrow river cutting through the streets. My mind was far more exhausted than my body, and all I wanted was to crawl into bed and pass out. After about fifteen minutes, we arrived at the hotel where the team had set up camp—an impressive building with a pristine white facade and tall, slender windows.
"Barry."
"Evening."
Fitness coach Juan Naranjo, who had come out to meet us after getting word of our arrival, exchanged an awkward greeting with Uncle Barry. Given that the coaching staff was vehemently opposed to my transfer, he undoubtedly had a mountain of questions he wanted to ask.
"Here's your keycard. Head up to Room 303."
"Got it."
Fortunately, Coach Naranjo let me go without any unnecessary grilling. Since Uncle Barry had booked a separate room, he would be staying elsewhere.
Click.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside, greeted by pitch darkness. The plush carpet beneath my sneakers seemed to summon an overpowering wave of exhaustion, and I did not even have the patience to wait for my eyes to adjust. Dumping my bag near the door, I shuffled blindly forward in search of the bed. The moment my shins struck the frame, I was ready to let my upper body collapse onto the mattress. I had zero energy left.
Thump!
"Agh!"
"...What the hell?!"
In the pitch-black room, a tangled mess of limbs collided on the bed in a disastrous ambush. How could my luck be this rotten? As I scrambled back down onto the carpet, a sharp click sounded beside the headboard, and the bedside lamp flickered to life. With disheveled hair and a look of pure exasperation, Castro glared at me. He let out a low sigh and grumbled.
"Look before you flop, will you?"
"...I always take the inside bed."
"So what, I'm doomed to sleep by the door for the rest of my life?"
Fair enough.
"No respect for your elders."
"..."
"Here I was, trying to turn in early for once because I'm actually starting tomorrow."
"You're starting?"
He only chuckled in response.
"...Good for you."
"I'll bag a brace while you're resting. When you come on as a sub, just focus on tracking back and defending."
Without bothering to retort, I perched on the edge of the outer bed. I had already been told in advance that I would not be in the starting eleven, but knowing it beforehand did not stop a strange, hollow sense of loss from creeping in. My head was a mess, my limbs heavy. Maybe my brain was just running on fumes. Sleep was definitely the best remedy.
"...So, how did it go with the Barcelona guy?"
"Not bad."
"Hmm. Usually, people only say 'not bad' when it went terribly."
Castro poured himself a glass of water from the table and returned, his eyes much sharper than before. When he settled on the edge of his mattress, an impromptu face-to-face opened between us.
"Something weighing on your mind?"
I looked into his eyes, not entirely sure what he was getting at.
"I'm not asking about contract terms," he clarified. "I'm asking if there's a reason you don't want to go."
"...You think I should go?"
"Tough question, haha. Selfishly, thinking about my future coaching career, I'd rather you stay. You're the sharpest weapon Las Palmas has."
"..."
"But speaking as a friend... it's an opportunity you can't easily turn down."
I nodded in quiet agreement. The soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp coaxed out the honest feelings I had kept buried deep. An offer like this rarely comes knocking twice. That was the real reason I had not snapped back at Abidal despite how much his patronizing tone stung. The money was incredible, sure, but above all, there was pure ambition. I wanted to step onto a bigger stage and experience a far more advanced footballing system.
"Back in Korea, I went to an unremarkable school."
"Hm?"
"Before I came to Spain, I mean."
"Ah, right."
"I couldn't even make the pitch. I was glued to the bench, and every time we played against a powerhouse, I used to wonder: what does it feel like to play for the best team in the country?"
That was how I had survived those grueling years—drowning in private daydreams. Memories I had never shared with anyone: a broken home, the quiet misery of being ostracized and left behind.
"Of course, I've never thought Las Palmas was weak."
"..."
"And honestly, I've loved being here. Everyone takes their jokes a bit too far sometimes, but nobody means any harm. It's been really good. And when I say that, I mean really good."
Castro merely tugged up the corner of his mouth in response.
"At the same time, I'm greedy. The team hailed as the best in the world is reaching out to me. It's like I can't even see anything else. I'm shaking like an idiot who forgot his place."
"Don't talk about yourself like that."
I nodded, then pressed on. I wanted to spill just a few more words without being too much of a burden to him, as if something inside me were possessed.
"I think my dad wants me to go to Barcelona."
"Any parent would."
It would have been nicer if he was talking about a father, rather than generic parents.
"The thing is, Barcelona won't put a guaranteed playing-time clause in the contract. And that terrifies me when I think about his expectations. If I end up rotting on the bench again, he'll spend every single day staring at the TV, tearing himself apart with guilt."
"That's not your burden to carry."
Then there was another problem.
"Besides... I threw around all kinds of reckless promises to Miguel and Laios."
"What?"
"I told them we'd win the league, that we'd become like Barcelona. I despise people who toss around empty words more than anything, but I ended up spitting straight into my own face. I even had a nightmare yesterday. Miguel was standing there, telling me that countless kids just like me have walked out on the club..."
Castro chuckled softly, reached out, and ruffled my hair into a mess.
"Kid, that happens every single day in football."
"...It still eats at me. Anyway, that's where I'm at. I want to go, but I don't want to go. I'm just a mess."
"I told you to stop running yourself down. Go to sleep."
Right. I had even promised to help Castro score. I had managed to forget that too.
Pulling the blanket up to my chin, I counted the tangled contradictions warring in my head. Ambition and affection, the hunger to rise and the terror of failure. It felt like I had changed too much. Or maybe, as always, I was just struggling to keep my footing as the world shifted beneath me.
"Overthinking again. Go to sleep, I said!"
With a playful mock headlock from Castro, the back of my head settled softly into the pillow. The dim lamp casting shadows against the wall clicked off, and the darkness returned to veil the truth in my heart. Come tomorrow, I would be able to put on a brave face and act as if none of this had ever crossed my mind.