The Second Chance
The press conference for Grayson Lee’s retirement concluded with a flat announcement. “······That concludes the retirement press conference for Grayson Lee. Thank you to all the officials who attended.” The empty press room offered no camera flashes, no barrage of questions from reporters reluctant to let the moment end. The farewell arranged by a mid-to-lower table Saudi Pro League club felt not merely perfunctory but pitiful. For a man who had once been king of Old Trafford, the setting was far too shabby.
Grayson Lee—known to Korean fans by his birth name, Lee Sung-yoon—was a player who had been born in Korea, naturalized in England during his youth, and become the first East Asian world-class talent in the cradle of football. A Manchester United academy graduate who had worn the number 7 from his debut, he had been hailed as the second coming of George Best, an ultra-elite prospect. Those glittering epithets now belonged only to faded records that old fans in football communities occasionally recalled.
In a luxury apartment in Riyadh, Grayson stood before a window overlooking the glittering night skyline and drained a bottle of whiskey straight from the neck. The raw spirit burned down his throat, yet the pain was nothing compared to the emptiness rising in his chest.
With a crackle, an 85-inch television screen came to life. The search term typed into the video-sharing service was his own name: Grayson Lee’s Insane Dribbling and Goal Compilation – Manchester United Era. The man on screen was far more agile than he was now, his eyes brimming with the arrogance of someone who believed he owned the world. A twenty-something Grayson used a single upper-body feint in tight space to make a Manchester City world-class defender look foolish, then destroyed the flank with explosive acceleration before finishing with a delicate chip that left the goalkeeper helpless.
“······Back then I thought that would last forever.”
Grayson let out a hollow laugh. The moment his wages soared and stardom arrived, he had begun haunting the night streets. Diet discipline had seemed like a luxury; when managers demanded tactical defensive work, he had snorted in disdain. If teammates failed to deliver passes at his preferred moment, he had openly sulked on the pitch and abandoned counter-attacks. The results had been disastrous. From age twenty-four onward, minor injuries piled up. Alcohol and neglect had dulled his body; clashes with the manager saw him pushed out of Manchester United. He had become the living proof of the old saying that talent alone could never reach the summit—only ruthless effort could complete it.
His subsequent career had followed the textbook path of decline. At twenty-six he moved to Toulouse FC in Ligue 1, but instead of waking up he had acted as though a lower-table French side had no right to manage him, and everything had collapsed. By twenty-eight at Hull City, not even half of his prime form remained. At thirty he had drifted to Saudi Arabia to scrape by, and today, at thirty-two, he had announced his retirement.
The radiant twenty-one-year-old on screen bore no resemblance to the thirty-two-year-old retiree with a gut and ruined knees reflected in the darkened television. Only then did regret finally reach Grayson.
“Just once······ if I could really, truly wake up and do it all again.”
If only he could return to the days when a football had been his entire world. If only he could crush his own pride and fully ignite the talent he had wasted. The drunken Grayson collapsed onto the living-room sofa. Deep darkness swallowed him.
A jarring vibration. Then an unfamiliar language struck his ears after a long absence.
—On prévoit du soleil aujourd’hui, sans pluie······
French. Grayson opened his eyes, brow furrowed at the rapid French pouring from the radio. His head should have been splitting from a vicious hangover, yet it felt strangely clear. More surprising still, the familiar sour ache in his right knee that had tormented him every morning was completely gone.
“Oi, Grayson. Snap out of it.”
He turned toward the familiar voice. It was David, his agent of more than ten years. Yet something was wrong. David looked far too young; the streaks of gray that had begun to appear were nowhere to be seen.
“······David? What are you doing here? How did you even get into my house?”
“What the hell are you on about? You slept through the entire flight—did you get heatstroke? We’re in France. Toulouse, to be exact.”
David rummaged through his briefcase with an exasperated expression and pulled out a stack of contracts.
“Here. Fresh off the club office signature. Check the wages. Exactly one-sixth of what you were earning at Manchester United.”
“What······?”
“Grayson, listen carefully. Don’t look down on a lower-table Ligue 1 side. They’re the only ones who reached out after you were practically kicked out of United. If you keep your old habits here—chasing nightlife or clashing with the manager—your career really is finished. Understand?”
Grayson stared blankly out the window. Beyond the battered taxi glass, the familiar streets of Toulouse slid past. He hurriedly checked his reflection on his smartphone. The crow’s feet that had etched themselves around his eyes had vanished. His jawline was sharp again; the gut that had sagged during his Saudi years was gone.
I’m back.
Returned to the past. He knew the notion sounded like something out of a cartoon—absurd, impossible. Yet his body’s senses confirmed it.
“Are you listening, Grayson? This time you really have to wake up. You’re not Manchester United’s number 7 anymore.”
David’s nagging rang in his ears. In that moment, the old habit from his previous life surged up instinctively. His burning pride flared.
“Who the hell are you calling finished?! I······!”
Grayson was about to lunge at David with blazing eyes when memories flashed through his mind: the empty Saudi bench, the pitiful retirement ceremony with barely a dozen spectators offering applause, the miserable night spent alone in his living room watching highlight reels through tears.
······No.
If he acted the same way now, the ending would be identical. If he raised his head in defiance, fought with the manager, and poisoned the team atmosphere, he would once again retire from a Saudi bench. He swallowed the words that had risen to his tongue.
“······Mm.”
Grayson forced his body deeper into the taxi seat and clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. He drew several ragged breaths, then spoke in a cold, sunken voice, eyes wide.
“······I know.”
“Huh?”
“I said I know, you bastard. So shut that damn mouth, David.”
David felt a chill run down his spine. The Grayson he knew would have demanded the car stop or torn the contract to shreds. Yet this version, eyes bloodshot and radiating venom, simply endured. David could only stare.
Toulouse FC’s training ground was respectable for a Ligue 1 facility, but it could not compare to Manchester United’s. Grayson’s brow tightened at the shabby clubhouse and the somewhat rough pitch, yet he said nothing.
Well, I already knew the training ground was second-rate. No point getting angry about it now.
When he entered the locker room, the smell of sweat hit him along with cold stares. Players of various skin tones and nationalities whispered in French, laughing among themselves. Thanks to two years spent in France in his previous life, Grayson could understand the basics.
“That bastard—the washed-up star who got kicked out of the Premier League?”
“Look at his face, all puffy from neglect. And he’s the highest-paid player on our team······ seriously?”
They made no effort to hide their mockery. The old Grayson Lee would have fired back in French—“What the hell did you just say, you bastards?”—and turned the locker room into chaos before marching to the manager to declare he refused to train with such low-level players. But the current Grayson merely swept his gaze over them. His hands moved with icy calm as he changed.
Yeah. You’re right about everything. I really was a bastard in my past life, a washed-up star who couldn’t take care of his body.
Grayson yanked his boot laces tight, teeth grinding.
But you lot, barely scraping by in a lower-table Ligue 1 side, aren’t in any position to look down on me.
The locker-room door opened and the grizzled manager, Clovis Merah, walked in. Without offering Grayson a handshake, he jerked his chin toward the pitch.
“Your reputation gets proven on the training ground, Grayson. You’re going straight into a 7v7 mini-game. I need to see with my own eyes whether you’re worth that wage.”
The welcome was closer to an insult, yet Grayson simply nodded in silence.
The moment the mini-game began, Grayson confronted cold reality.
······My body feels light. And heavy at the same time.
A twenty-six-year-old physique was a hundred times better than his ruined thirty-two-year-old frame, yet the aftereffects of his late-Manchester-United partying and sloppy bulking had left it sluggish. A pass from a midfield teammate bounced awkwardly off Grayson’s foot and was instantly stolen by an opposing defender.
“Hey! Focus!”
“See? Told you. With that body he couldn’t even beat a youth-team defender.”
Teammates’ jeers flew from every direction. In the past he would have pointed at the passer and complained about the terrible delivery. But Grayson understood now why he had collapsed in his previous life. The problem had never been the pass—it was his own body that had been trash, unable to time his first touch correctly.
If I just wait for passes like before, the same ending will repeat. This time I’ll win the ball myself and drive forward.
The instant the opposing midfielder received the ball and turned, Grayson surged forward. The defender, expecting the old Manchester United version who rarely tracked back, was caught off guard. Grayson shouldered him aside and stole the ball cleanly.
“Huh······?”
The manager’s eyes widened. Two Toulouse centre-backs and a full-back immediately closed in on Grayson, intending to bully him with physicality. In that moment, the memory of their earlier contempt flashed through his mind.
How dare a Toulouse side look down on me?
His body remembered the sensations of his prime. The instincts of the crack who had destroyed opponents in tight spaces stirred. Grayson’s upper body feinted sharply left. As the centre-back shifted his weight, Grayson pivoted on his standing foot and nudged the ball right.
“What—what the hell?!”
One defender went down. Grayson slowed his tempo, then exploded past the covering full-back with his signature acceleration. Two quick, rhythmic touches left the second defender’s legs tangled; he sat down hard on the grass. In seconds he had made fools of two defenders.
One-on-one with the goalkeeper. Grayson waited for the keeper to commit, then chipped the ball delicately with the outside of his right foot. It sailed in a graceful arc over the outstretched arms and nestled into the empty net.
The training ground fell silent. Teammates who had mocked him moments earlier stood frozen with mouths agape. Even the stern manager Merah nearly dropped the whistle from his lips. Grayson had dismantled Toulouse’s defensive line single-handedly—an overwhelming display of class.
“Hah······ hah······ hah······”
Yet the goalscorer himself was bent over, hands on his knees, lungs burning. A single short sprint and a few dribbles had left him gasping as though his chest might tear. His body was in truly terrible condition—the price of his past excesses still written into his flesh. But when Grayson lifted his head, his eyes burned brighter than they ever had on that Saudi bench.
I can do this.
Talent never truly died. If his current body was trash, he would rebuild it from today. Grayson spat on the ground, then glared at his stunned teammates and manager with fierce eyes. And he repeated the vow in his mind, over and over.
From today, I start again. Alcohol, women, nightlife—everything that ate away at my career ends right now.