Just a Sweet Dream (4)
The day after the match, Friday. University Hospital of Gran Canaria.
Just before dinner, Uncle Barry pulled his car into the hospital parking lot. With so many sick people coming and going, finding an empty space was an ordeal in itself.
The club's strict rule dictated complete rest on the day after returning from an away trip, but there was no turning down an urgent summons for one final visit before surgery.
"Fourth floor, right?"
"Yes."
We took the elevator up. At every floor, the hallways were teeming with patients dressed in hospital gowns. Once the doors slid open, Betsy was already waiting for us, having been notified in advance.
Ding—
Uncle Barry excused himself through the crowd to clear a path, and Betsy greeted us with a relieved smile.
"Barry, Kim. Thank you so much for coming."
"Of course."
"Congratulations on the transplant. Nothing left now but getting healthy."
I found myself wishing I had prepared a thoughtful greeting like Uncle Barry's. My lingering preconceptions about hospitals had blinded me to the simple fact that an organ transplant was something worth celebrating.
Once the formal pleasantries were out of the way, we followed her down the beige corridor. The inpatient ward remained immaculate, filled with the sharp sting of disinfectant and an uneasy quiet. It felt as if time had stood still, frozen in the exact state it had been when I underwent my own surgery at the start of the season.
Before long, our steps came to a halt in front of a pale green door.
"Before you go in, you have to put on a mask and use the hand sanitizer."
"Understood."
"I'll wait out here," Uncle Barry said. "Kyunghun, just you go in and see her."
Despite Betsy's polite protests, he adamantly refused to enter, insisting he would only get in the way. Stella wanted to see Kyunghun, he argued, not some potbellied old man. Freckles's mother then decided it was improper to leave a guest alone, practically fleeing down the hall with Uncle Barry in tow.
I wondered if leaving me alone with Freckles was considered proper manners either.
"……."
"'…Even though Kim didn't look in peak physical shape, they said he exuded an overwhelming sense of danger. What was most impressive was how he refused to blunt his sharp edge even after the match ended!'"
Meanwhile, the chatterbox was busy filling every corner of the room by reading newspaper clippings aloud.
I honestly had no idea what went through her head. Who in their right mind decides to read press scraps the day before major surgery? Shouldn't a normal person be talking about who the kidney donor was, what the postoperative care would look like, what worried them, or crying about how terrified they were?
"'Isak bagged a brace in the first leg of the Copa del Rey semifinals. That brings his total to nine goals, spicing up the race for top scorer. With only a one-goal gap separating him from Kim, pundits believe the second leg will decide who takes the crown'… You can't lose to him!"
"……."
"…I mean, it's only one goal!"
Maybe the nurses had given her the wrong medication. Swapped her IV bag with the patient next door, or something like that.
When I let out a soft sigh, she shrank back, nervously gauging my mood. Realizing there was no point in scolding someone who was sick, I shifted the conversation back toward sensible ground.
"Nice room."
"Right?! The nurse told me I had to have a private room. Do you have any idea how much this place costs a night?"
"How much?"
At her silent, wide-eyed demand to be amazed, I offered a reluctant nod. She immediately launched into an enthusiastic breakdown of how much public insurance covered and what her family's out-of-pocket share was. Just as the lecture began veering toward private insurance—pointing out that mine fell into that category—I raised a hand to cut her off. My conversational skills were far too unpolished to steer the topic smoothly without brute force.
"Should I read more of the scrap?"
"…No."
"Okay!"
In the sudden quiet, she stared back at me with clear, unblinking eyes. I fought the urge to look away toward the window. Since I had bothered to come, I might as well ask what needed asking.
"Aren't you worried about the surgery?"
"I was a little worried at first, but they said it'll be over before I know it."
"…Good. No need to make yourself scared."
"Did you look it up yourself?"
Why did it matter whether I had looked it up? Seeing her eyes widen in childish wonder was both exasperating and slightly pitiful, so I simply gave a quiet nod. The surgery would go well.
"Nothing else on your mind?"
"Oh, right! There is one thing!"
"What—"
"Are you transferring?!?"
"……."
"Heavens, how could I have forgotten to ask that?!"
This girl was going to make it big in life. No, she had to. If a person was going to live with several screws loose, they might as well do it under the thunderous applause of the public.
One day before her surgery, I felt a deep sense of relief in Freckles's everyday foolishness. For better or worse, she hadn't changed a bit.
The following day, UD Las Palmas Media Center.
I walked into the yellow building at the club's request for a promotional shoot. I had fully intended to refuse the moment they mentioned youth players would be involved, but an old debt—that cursed cafeteria tray incident—had caught up with me. The second I scowled, the media coordinator had brazenly brought up past history. Their brand of petty wickedness was quite impressive, honestly.
"Head up to the second floor."
"Right."
It appeared they had assembled only the players selected for today's shoot. Among the portraits lining the wall, mine was planted dead center. While it was surely a courtesy from the staff, I couldn't say it left a pleasant impression. The moment my transfer was announced, fans would probably claw the eyes right out of that picture.
"Oh, you're here."
At the entrance to the lounge, Kirian Rodríguez waved, broadcasting my arrival to everyone in the room. I furrowed my brow instead of answering.
The layout of the room was bizarre beyond belief. Rather than a relaxed roundtable, the first-team players were seated along one wall like an interview panel. Across from them, the academy prospects were packed shoulder to shoulder against the opposite wall. There was really no need to emphasize the divide between the senior squad and the reserves in an environment like this. Then again, this might have been Miguel's handiwork, given the smug look on his face from the corner desk. Wicked old man.
"Haha, welcome!"
"…Hello."
Reality, however, was a cruel master. Belatedly returning his greeting, I deferred to his social standing. Much as Miguel's presence grated on my nerves, he was still the businessman who owned Las Palmas.
A moment later, as I accepted a cup of tea between Castro and Pedri, a white-haired grandfather standing near the window began muttering something under his breath.
"Has it started?"
"Yeah," Pedri replied. "He always does that. He'll walk inside in a second."
A peculiar routine, to say the least.
"'…And now, it's time to meet the members of the Yellow Royalty in person. Let's head right in.'"
While I settled into my seat between Pedri and Castro, sipping tea, familiar faces across the room introduced themselves one by one. José Luis, Alejandro, and Matías from Juvenil B. There was the gentle Gabriel, and Moller, with whom I had been fairly close—at least, in my own estimation.
I had shared plenty of messy memories with Moller since our days in Juvenil C. Thanks to his short curly hair and dark skin, there was a time when he and I had drifted along the fringes of the locker room together.
It gave me a strange sense of how much time had passed. To think that struggling among that group was just a year and a half ago. For the first time, it sank in just how far I had fought my way up.
"You know Kim and Pedri, right?"
"Yes. It's really great to see them again."
Right on cue with the familiar faces, the ones who provoked pure irritation appeared. The ringleaders who had stoked all the trouble early last year. Most belonged to the Juvenil de Honor squad—the highest tier of the youth ranks—including González, Néstor Reyes, Ortega, Andy Villar, and the rest.
"My name is Quintero. Please cheer for me."
And the biggest piece of filth among them was that guy.
Gabri Quintero.
The main culprit who had formed cliques on and off the pitch, picking at my rough temper and freezing me out.
"Ease up on the glare," Castro muttered.
"……."
"Did your family's sworn enemy just walk in or something?"
I let out a dry smirk at Castro's banter. He had a point; Quintero wasn't worth looking grim over.
The director of UD TV, who introduced himself as Paco García, directed an overwhelming share of questions at Pedri and me. What were the biggest differences between youth football and the senior squad? How should players manage their physical conditioning? The atmosphere stiffened every time Miguel chimed in, but overall, the recording progressed on a warm, cordial note.
The host turned the microphone toward the academy prospects once more.
"Anyone else have a question? Something you've always wanted to ask is fine too. Opportunities like this don't come around often."
"What if they say something weird?"
"Haha, if it's inappropriate, we'll just edit it all out."
Before the laughter fully died down, a hand went up from the corner.
"Quintero! Stepping up to save the broadcast, are you?"
"I have a question for Kim."
"Oh, wonderful."
"Compared to your time in the academy, your goal tally and performance have exploded. What exactly changed?"
Quintero hid sharp barbs behind an innocent smile. As if him intentionally cutting off my passes was ancient history.
I didn't rush to answer. I had no intention of playing into his cheap emotional trap.
"Kim?"
"…Like Pedri said earlier, you need at least one weapon of your own. That's the only way you gain the respect of your teammates when you reach the first team and find your place in the squad."
"Mm."
"Looking back, scoring early in the season was the turning point. Pepe gave me multiple opportunities to play, which allowed me to develop my strengths in new ways."
"Oh."
"And in the process, I was able to earn the trust of the other players."
"[Achoo—campo!]"
"[…Avío!]"
Right in the middle of the interview, Castro disguised a pair of mocking jabs as sneezes—referencing the parking lot and the lunchbox. Only Pedri and Rodríguez understood the inside joke, snickering like idiots. Three fools, the lot of them.
"Momentum built from there. Confidence grew, and my skills improved. The starting point is completely different from the youth ranks."
"Well, I'm sure Quintero will find a great opportunity just like Kim did."
"That won't be easy," I said flatly.
The laughter on either side of me died instantly.
"He has to make it through the B team first."
"…Haha. Right. Making the B team comes first, of course."
Even without an elaboration, everyone in the room seemed to catch the chill beneath my words. My phrasing had been restrained enough, but I made no effort to mask the cold edge radiating from my posture.
That was the most polite warning I was willing to offer. I was already stressed enough with my own problems without some pest trying to pick a fight.