Suspiciously High-Level Early Morning Football (1)

The moment the Champions League final ended, I headed straight back to Korea with Jia.

There was a sense that we were rushing back, but the truth was I'd been putting off an absurd number of commercial and variety offers for far too long.

From what I heard, my market value had climbed even higher. League title, Best XI selection, EPL Golden Boot, Player of the Month — I'd collected an outrageous haul of awards, so it wasn't strange at all. If anything, the current valuation felt exactly right.

"Mom, I'm home."

"Oh my, Jia and Yujin are here? Come in, come in."

"It's been a while."

"Hello. It's been a while."

We went to see my mother and Jia's parents first, catching up on the five months we'd been apart. We'd called whenever we could, but sitting face-to-face somehow left us with far more to say than I'd expected.

"Um, would it be all right if I took this one?"

"Hmm... I'll check with Arsenal."

After that I met with Shin Hawon, talked through a pile of details, signed the contracts, and dove into a string of shoots.

We started with a soft-drink commercial. A simple spot: me trapping the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ball and flowing into a shot, all of it dressed in slow-motion CG, then taking a sip of the drink and holding it out toward the camera as if to say, your turn.

Thanks to the fans' feverish attention, the product posted staggering sales in a single day, and I only got busier.

Even the variety work I did was football-related only, and most of what I shot was commercials. Food commercials, specifically. I'd have to manage it later, but after a full season of diet control, being able to eat the things I'd been denied felt genuinely blissful. That was how I managed to film every ad with a real smile.

"You're not doing variety? There's a ton of offers."

"I'm not sure. Still thinking about it."

Making people laugh just wasn't my thing, so for now I only planned to appear on the talk show I was about to film with Seong Yumin.

Should I try something else?

Even if I did, now wasn't the time.

The next day.

After a scramble of schedule coordination, the talk-show shoot had been bumped up almost by accident — and today was the day.

"Oh. You made it?"

Seong Yumin greeted me from the waiting room.

"Yeah. You cleaned up nice."

I was dressed casually — jeans, a white tee, a light blue shirt thrown over it — while Yumin had gone full dandy look with a jacket.

"When else am I gonna dress clean if not now?"

"Fair."

This was a guy who claimed daily maintenance was too much work and lived in a side part and athletic wear, after all.

"Hey, are you any good at English?"

"Not really? Just the basics."

"You gonna be okay?"

This was fundamentally a talk show between Koreans, but the conversations were conducted in English. I'd seen a few episodes, so I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠knew the format — and only now did it hit me that Yumin wasn't strong in English.

"English is about confidence. Right?"

"Well... sure. We'll figure it out somehow."

We were still laughing when our call time arrived, and from outside we heard the introduction.

"Rising prospects!! Stars of Barcelona and Arsenal!! Heroes of the U20 World Cup victory!!! Yujin, and Yumin!!!"

We stepped through the curtain onto the set to a wave of applause. I'd half-worried about a cold reception, but that had been pure paranoia.

"Ohhh!!! Yujin!! Yumin!! The hottest stars around!!"

"Our hyung!!"

"I'm way younger than you?"

"If you're good, you're hyung. Automatically hyung."

"Haha."

After a quick round of greetings we took our seats, introduced ourselves to the camera, and the talk show was underway.

Somewhere in the middle of various stories, one of the hosts pointed at the glasses clipped to my shirt.

"Are those designer glasses?"

"Yeah. My girlfriend bought them for me."

"Schöne Brille."

German, out of nowhere. Last time Valiet had thrown German at me I'd been so startled I'd answered in English, but I knew a little of the basics myself. That meant the glasses were pretty.

"Danke."

I answered calmly in German, and the talk show rolled on without a hitch.

The talk show wrapped up without incident.

The past week or two had been busier than any stretch I could remember. Even the nights I'd spent with Jia mid-season hadn't worn me out like this — bouncing between locations for shoots and then still having nights with her left me properly exhausted.

"Yujin, I love you."

A soft kiss.

"...Yeah. Heh."

It hadn't felt much like a vacation, but I was in a good mood all the same. Just being with Jia was healing enough on its own.

"Yujin. Tonight too?"

"Mm-hmm..."

"I'll take care of everything."

"Mm... okay..."

"Hehe. I'll spoil you."

I answered half-asleep with my head on her lap, but it was probably something good.

And it was something good.

I'd finished every commercial with favorable terms and was spending happy days with Jia when the message came.

A message from the sitting national team manager.

I didn't talk at length with national team manager Park Jinho. He simply asked whether I was willing and available for a national team call-up, and I said yes.

Honestly, all I wanted was to play football joyfully, so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'd considered turning it down — but looking at the association and the manager as they stood now, there wasn't a single reason to refuse.

Not long after, the squad list for the June A-match friendlies was released.

"...Huh. So I'm on the national team."

It didn't hit me hard. Just a quiet so it happened.

I want to play already.

A-match or anything else — I didn't want my form to drop.

Come to think of it, that's tomorrow, isn't it?

The early-morning football session I'd booked during the break to keep my touch from going cold. Strictly speaking, it was less early-morning football and more a YouTube content piece where I'd play in disguise with my identity hidden.

Looking forward to it.

Would anyone recognize me? And how good was the local early-morning football scene, really? I was curious.

With that anticipation, the next day arrived.

I showed up near the pitch in makeup thick enough that you wouldn't know me unless you looked carefully. Just in case, I'd also put on a different pair of boots.

Spacious.

Smaller than a proper football stadium, of course, but plenty big enough. I was glancing around when the content host, who'd stepped away somewhere, came over.

"What name do you want to go by?"

"Name?"

"Yes. You have to hide your identity — you can't introduce yourself as Yujin."

"Hmm... then keep it simple. Woojin."

"Got it. Would it be all right if we went live?"

"Live?"

"Wouldn't it be nice to show the fans?"

"Hmm... I don't mind. Have the others agreed?"

"Of course. You can head over to the green-bib team now."

"Okay."

I slipped onto the pitch and approached the green-bib side.

...He's tall.

One of the players was nearly Kim Minjun's size — hard to miss.

"What's your name?"

"Just call me Woojin."

"All right, Woojin. And your position...?"

"Striker."

"Oh. Perfect. That's exactly what we had left."

Once positions were sorted and before kickoff, I warmed up with long balls to the team's midfielder — a guy named Sungu.

"Hmm..."

As the ball went back and forth, something felt familiar. The height just over 170, the way he set his body to pass, the shape of his first touch.

...And it's not just him.

Everyone around us had excellent passing too. At a glance, on a closer look, even under full focus — most of them looked like professional players.

I'd never been here before, but I knew.

This was not early-morning football level.

"Excuse me, are you—"

"We're kicking off!"

Before I could finish asking Sungu anything, the man acting as referee shouted and snapped the atmosphere into place.

Tweet—!

A quick handshake, then the opponents took the kickoff, and the match was on.

We pressed carefully, trying to find our chemistry, but a clean sequence of passes broke it down and the other side built an attack. The ball swung out to the flank as if it were nothing; the player who received it took a couple of soft touches, dribbling — and then suddenly he was through. Feinting as if he'd go wide again, he cut sharply inside and struck.

Clang—!

The angle must have been awkward; it cannoned off the post and fell into our keeper's arms.

...This is really familiar.

Genuinely — no joke — someone specific came to mind. Not just that one player. Everyone here. Strangely, every single one of them called someone to mind.

"...This is early-morning football?"

Something about it was deeply suspicious.