The Girl Who Returned, the Wicked Boy
Wednesday, April 1, 2020. 7 Palmas.
The morning classes finally let out. Weaving through the swell of students spilling into the hallway in chattering clusters, I made my way toward the lockers lining the corridor wall. I spun the dial on the round padlock, entered the combination, and the instant it unlatched, I threw my left palm flat against the opening. It was a defensive reflex I had developed ever since my locker took on the character of a public drop box, designed entirely to keep bundles of gifts from cascading straight onto the floor.
Today, there were three.
Two fist-sized gift boxes and… well, I had no idea what someone was thinking when they shoved a full bouquet of flowers in there. If I wanted to carry it home without crushing the petals, I would have to hold it in one hand. Factoring in the empty lunch container I would also need to lug back after midday, flowers were by far the worst possible cargo to transport.
Tap, tap.
A hand brushed against my shoulder, and my head whipped around on instinct.
"Kim, Ms. Julia told me to give you this."
A familiar face loomed in front of mine—a classmate in a black short-sleeved shirt with a single pierced earlobe. We shared a few social science classes together. I eyed the crisp white envelope he was extending toward my chest, trying to deduce its purpose.
"…What's this?"
"She's getting married next month, so odds are it's an invitation."
"An invitation for me?"
A thoroughly rational wave of suspicion washed over me. While Ms. Julia was indeed the only teacher at 7 Palmas who possessed the authority to call my father, that didn't mean she and I shared any special bond. If she hadn't handed these out to every student in her homeroom, was this some sort of scheme to collect a wedding gift envelope? But then, did people in Spain even give monetary wedding gifts?
Making a mental note to look that up online later, I opened the envelope. Beneath a photograph of a grand cathedral interior, a date and time were neatly printed. The whole thing gave off an intensely religious aura, which immediately told me my father wouldn't be caught dead attending.
"You're a famous footballer," the boy said with a shrug. "Just having you show up means something. Though it looked like she agonized quite a bit over whether to hand it to you or not."
"……."
"Haha. She told me to let you know that if you made that exact face, you shouldn't feel pressured at all. Anyway, my delivery duties are done. Enjoy your lunch."
"Right. Thanks."
The courier vanished into the sea of students before the words were fully out of my mouth. Not wanting to waste precious energy agonizing over choices a month away, I yanked out my massive lunchbox and slammed the locker door shut with a heavy thud. Things slated for more than thirty days from now could be sorted out then.
Today, my priority was to go see a certain stupid but good-natured returnee who had finally come back from her long journey.
Across from the entrance of the cafeteria, trays sat lined up along the serving counter. Beige tables were spaced out at rigid intervals, and the pale-green curtains by the windows had been drawn tightly to the edges to dodge the direct glare of the sun. As always, an amber beam of sunlight pointed out my usual seat.
Thunk.
Setting my lunchbox down, I looked across the table to inspect the person sitting opposite me. At a glance, her complexion had noticeably improved. While it was impressive that she had dressed up so smartly for her first day back in ages, what caught my eye most was her hair—the wild, tight curls had been straightened out into smooth, glossy tresses, making her look like a completely different person after just one month away.
"Looking good," I said.
Freckles merely shrugged and produced a compact lunchbox from beside her chair. Evidently, she had been cleared to eat school meals again.
"Anything happen while I was gone?" she asked.
I quietly traced through the past month's schedule in my head. Tedious classes, lonely… or rather, solitary meals just like old times, on repeat. If anything had truly changed—
"Ms. Julia is getting married. I got an invitation."
"…Is that it? Nothing else?"
"Nothing much."
All of a sudden, her brows knitted together into a sharp frown.
I could tell she was dissatisfied, but I had no earthly clue why. Had something occurred behind my back without my knowledge? Perhaps Young Aythami and his swine pack had started running amok again.
"I heard everything from Dana, you know."
"……?"
"She told me Regina confessed to you and asked you out."
Hearing her sullen, accusatory tone, the picture finally came into focus. I let out the loudest, most dismissive scoff I could muster. Freckles thrust out her lower lip in a sullen pout, but it was entirely wasted on me. For a novice player who was already buckling under sheer physical exhaustion before the season had even concluded, dating anyone was out of the question—an utter absurdity.
Besides, I had no clue who Regina or Dana even were.
"Sure. It's entirely possible that both the confession and the rejection happened," I said flatly. "The problem is, I don't know who Regina is, which means I don't remember when or how it happened either."
"……."
"So, if you're so offended on your friend's behalf that I turned her down… you're more than welcome to go eat at their table from now on."
I laced the tail end of my reply with a chilly tone, sending a clear message of irritation and warning. My mind barely had enough bandwidth to stay focused on football; being cross-examined over trivial nonsense was the last thing I was willing to entertain.
"No, I didn't mean I was mad or anything…"
"Then what?"
"…Never mind, hehe."
Freckles attempted to smooth over the awkwardness with a goofy grin, but an irritated mood doesn't just flip back at the flip of a switch. I was already suffering enough headaches from Pedri and Íñigo being sidelined; having Stella foul my temper on top of that was hardly welcome. Unsurprisingly, she clearly wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to the fact that her father, Flores, and Assistant Coach Roberto Ríos were practically tearing their hair out back at the club.
This was no time to be giggling like a fool.
"Oh, right, I'm going to watch the Copa del Rey final in person," she piped up. "Dad managed to get tickets through the club—"
I pulled the lid off my lunchbox with a rather rough tug. Since she had returned after such a long absence, my original plan had been to congratulate her, even if in some roundabout way. But as it turned out, hiding my sour mood proved unexpectedly difficult.
To make matters worse, the soup bowl inside was brim-full of mushroom soup. The bottom tier of the box was crammed edge-to-edge with oranges, grapes, and bananas, while the upper tier held over ten thick cuts of meat and fish steaks combined.
Nothing was going my way today.
There was just way too much food!
"And did you hear that Barcelona picked up some injuries too?" she added eagerly. "Apparently their central midfielder and right-back both went down!"
"……."
"……."
"…Who?"
Dammit.
Try as I might to stay grumpy… that piece of news was simply too tantalizing to ignore.
True to his word, Dr. Bolaños, the chief medical officer of Las Palmas, showed zero mercy. My name was completely scrubbed from the matchday squad for Round 37 of La Liga.
And having received an invitation—which felt far more like a thinly veiled royal summons—from Miguel in lieu of being on the team sheet, I found myself planting my backside in the VIP seats alongside Uncle Bari. It was a subtly uncomfortable arrangement, with Uncle Bari seated to my right and Miguel perched to my left.
"Well? How is it?"
"Hm?"
"How does it feel to watch the match from outside the pitch?"
The clock was nudging past the thirty-minute mark of the first half. My eyes tracked the players from both sides darting across the turf. Zero to zero. The match was a sluggish, disjointed affair with very little to praise, and considering my interrogator was Miguel, whatever shred of willingness I had to craft an answer evaporated into nothingness.
"It's fine."
"First time in the VIP lounge, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Comfortable?"
"…I told you, it's fine."
Despite the parade of clipped, curt replies, a smirk spread through the creases of Miguel's aging face. He was unmistakably playing to the broadcast cameras, which had already swept past our section twice. All the while, I chewed on a quiet sense of disappointment regarding the so-called VIP experience. Hearing 'VIP box,' I had imagined a proper private room sealed behind glass panels, but in reality, all they had done was wrap standard stadium seats in high-grade leather.
"Get in there!"
"Skewer those island bastards on a spit!"
"Olabe! Pass the damn ball, you maniac!!"
To be fair, there was a certain novelty to it that I couldn't experience down on the grass. Down on the pitch, a unified, suffocating wall of roars pressed down on your shoulders; up in the stands, you were treated to an intimate, brutally vivid symphony of profanity.
"Uh-oh, that doesn't look good," Uncle Bari muttered to himself on my right as Las Palmas's right-back coughed up possession during a counterattack.
The culprit was Curbelo. But then again, our right flank being defensively vulnerable was hardly breaking news, so it wasn't much of a shock.
"Nono! Whip the cross in, you idiot!"
"There's nobody marking you, what are you hesitating for?!"
We were sitting over fifty meters away from the pitch. Any shout was virtually guaranteed to dissolve before reaching down there, yet the Oviedo supporters hurled out guttural screeches that sat somewhere between tactical demands and desperate prayers.
An instant later, Oviedo's left winger looped a cross toward the near post. In response, Las Palmas's center-back stepped up to claim the space in front of the striker.
A reckless calculation.
To clear that trajectory, he would have needed to be a full palm's width taller.
The opposing center-forward flicked a header toward the right side of the frame. Even at a glance, the ball traced an immaculate arc, dodging the outstretched palm of our goalkeeper before slamming viciously into the netting.
"Yaaargh!!"
"Alegría!! Alegría!"
Sitting just to the left of Miguel, the club president of Oviedo leapt clean out of his seat, pumping his fists frantically into the air.
"Bwahaha! We're on fire today!!"
His sagging jowls and a beard resembling a diseased owl wobbled endlessly with every cheer.
The whistle blew, sealing the first half at zero to one.
I sat there, staring blankly ahead, when I suddenly caught Miguel's gaze boring into my profile from the left. Whatever his angle was, having his eyes drill into the side of my head was profoundly uncomfortable. Fearing he might spout some fresh nonsense, I spent a few moments scanning the surrounding rows to see if anyone wanted an autograph.
Chuckle.
My neck betrayed me by twitching toward the faint sound of laughter, and I instantly cursed myself. Rather than asking why he was laughing, I locked my gaze entirely onto Miguel's white hair. Given the recent exercises of his silver tongue, striking up a conversation on my own initiative was decidedly unwise.
"Heheh. Do you really hate me that much?"
"…I think it's a bit late for me to say no."
The elderly club president erupted into hearty guffaws, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab away the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.
"Ah, yes. You truly are a wicked little devil. It's like looking into a mirror of my own youth."
Without question, that was the most insulting and outrageous thing anyone had uttered to me all year.
Whatever he found so hilarious, the president burst out into another round of manic cackling, carrying on like a deranged old—ahem, like an absolute madman.
"Cough, cough—good heavens. Now I finally see why Pepe shields you so fiercely. That was a joke, by the way, so don't take it to heart."
"…Sure."
He unscrewed a plastic bottle, chugged several mouthfuls of water, and then abruptly rearranged his features into a deadpan, serious mask.
"You were irritated that I essentially dragged you here today against your will, weren't you?"
"……."
"For that, I offer my polite apologies. Kim, I simply wanted to have a chat with you. Rather than doing it in some stiff, awkward office, I thought it best to discuss things in a setting suited to the topic."
"What topic—"
"I underestimated you."
Severing all surrounding context before speaking seemed rather rude in itself. I had no clue what kind of conversation he was angling for, nor what he had supposedly underestimated. Miguel kept his eyes fixed on the distant stands across the pitch, speaking with the measured bluntness typical of a team owner.
"Do you remember the day you signed your contract renewal at the Christmas party?"
"Yeah."
"……."
"I didn't expect the bids to roll in quite so fast in the winter window, but… yes. In short, I viewed you as a lucrative cash cow. And in truth, half of that calculation was spot on."
I knew Spain was deeply rooted in Catholic tradition, but conducting a private confession right here in a football stadium seemed like an express ticket to an inquisition. Still, since the sinner in question was Miguel, I opted to turn a blind eye and let it pass.
"The part I failed to anticipate, however… was that you wouldn't leave. Frankly, I still have a hard time wrapping my head around it. Why didn't you go?"
"……."
"Well, I suppose that hardly matters now. Either way, once the transfer window slammed shut, it gave me a great deal to ponder. He really didn't leave."
He crossed his right leg over his left knee. Whether it was due to his portly build or the awkward angle, the posture was rather grotesque to behold.
"Haha, don't worry, I'm not here to offer some pathetic, insincere apology."
"Right."
That certainly sounded much more like him.
"The core of the matter is… the modernized training complex. I pushed it through the board."
"…Really?"
"Yes. We're scheduled to break ground this October. It was a decision made after looking at the board from every conceivable angle."
"That's good."
"Because under the assumption that you might leave during the summer window, October happens to be the absolute best window to pull the plug. I intend to slip clauses into the construction contract to keep our cancellation penalties to a bare minimum."
Of course. Typical.
"I can see every foul word in the dictionary hanging in your eyes right now."
"You're not wrong."
"Hahaha! I like that venom, Kim. Over the entire Christmas holiday, you forced me to chew on the bitter taste of shame. If at all possible, I'd like the chance to experience that sensation one more time."
"…We're going to win the final."
Miguel slowly shook his head from side to side.
"Lifting the Copa del Rey trophy is priceless, that much is true. But someone whose job is running a football club naturally has to look at what comes after. For an institution like Las Palmas… whether you stay or leave, Kim, matters far more than silverware. As I told you before, Las Palmas once had its own glory days. The only problem was that the 'glory' never lasted."
"Mm."
"Can I assume you've properly grasped what this conversation is about? I've placed the modernized facility on the scales of your decision, and for the time being… I intend to wait quietly for your choice."
As Uncle Bari's footsteps and voice drew nearer from behind us, I offered a subtle nod of understanding.
Of course, I couldn't resist tacking on a few entirely unnecessary words.
After all, the president of Las Palmas was a merchant to the core.
"So, how much is this training facility going to cost?"
"What?"
"…It's considerably more expensive. The construction costs are paid out in installments, and—"
I let out a tiny, pointed snort through my nose, doing my part to spike Miguel's blood pressure.
Regardless of the facts, I simply wanted to see him squirm in irritation.
What can I say?
Just like he said, I really was a wicked boy.