The Old Grayson Returns
Okay, can’t win this. ‘Okay, can’t win this.’ The moment the halftime whistle blew, Grayson reached his conclusion. His steps toward the locker room felt heavy—not from pressure, but from the fatigue that had piled up in his legs after spending the entire first half tracking back on defense.
PSG had scored once more right before the break, widening the gap on the scoreboard.
[TFC 0 : 2 PSG]
The gap in the underlying numbers was even more stark. Eleven shots on target to one. Even Toulouse’s solitary effort had been a corner that ended up nestled against the goalkeeper’s body—hardly worthy of being called a shot on target at all.
The air in the locker room was tense. Manager Merah pounded the whiteboard, barking out tactical instructions, but none of it really reached Grayson’s ears.
‘We can’t win. We absolutely can’t win. This isn’t the kind of game you lose by a hair—it’s the kind you lose even if the sky splits into a hundred and eight pieces.’
Then a fundamental question crossed his mind.
‘But why am I still running myself ragged trying to win?’
He recalled the resolve he had made upon returning to the past: to become the best footballer in his second life. Yet, realistically, becoming the best player at Toulouse was impossible. This club was merely a waypoint. The final destination had to be a big club.
‘What’s the point of trying to win? Ultimately, I want to be the best. The textbook way is to play winning football and climb the table. But what if that’s simply, absolutely, utterly impossible?’
Leading the team to victory was undoubtedly the ideal answer. However, when facing an opponent you could never beat no matter what, the strategy had to change.
‘In that case, it’s not about winning plays—it’s about plays that draw attention.’
Only by attracting notice could he hope to receive offers from big clubs.
Grayson let out a dry laugh, tightened his bootlaces once more, and lifted his head.
‘Okay. Time for Old Grayson to take the pitch.’
“Old Grayson” was the nickname the football community had given him during his Manchester United days—the version of him who cared nothing for team tactics or defensive duties, obsessed only with his own dribbling and shooting. An utterly selfish era.
Fans had taken to calling the far more dedicated player they saw at Toulouse “New Grayson.” But what he needed now wasn’t the new version. It was the old one.
The second half began, and the commentary box was thrown into confusion.
[Grayson Lee’s movement is completely different from the first half! He’s not tracking back at all!]
[He’s literally strolling around the halfway line. Toulouse is struggling against Paris Saint-Germain’s attacks, yet he looks like he’s playing an entirely different match.]
Grayson did not drop back a single step. He did not even pretend to press and disrupt the opponent’s build-up. Thanks to that, by the sixty-fifth minute his jersey was still dry, and his energy levels remained far fresher than usual.
Regardless of the burning online backlash, the match continued to unfold.
Paris dominated as usual and eventually added another goal, stretching the score to 3-0. Convinced the win was secure, PSG gradually slowed the tempo and shifted into a more controlled rhythm.
That was when Grayson moved.
“Tete, just push up!”
At Grayson’s instruction, Tete abandoned his position without complaint and surged forward.
With both Tete and Grayson pressing high, Paris’s defensive line was forced to spread out to mark them man-to-man.
Seventy-eighth minute. The chance finally arrived.
A ball won in midfield found Grayson. He slipped past the onrushing midfielder with a quick one-two involving Tete. The moment Tete returned the pass, he made an overlapping run, momentarily splitting the defenders’ attention.
Grayson did not waste the opening. His solo dribbling run began.
With energy to spare, his first touch stuck perfectly to his foot. A centre-back stepped up to block him, but Grayson’s phantom dribble completely dismantled the defender’s balance. Entering the box, Grayson unleashed a powerful right-footed shot.
Thud—!
A desperate defender flung himself forward to block it, but the ball struck the arm cleanly. The referee blew the whistle without hesitation and pointed to the penalty spot.
[PK!!! It’s a penalty! Grayson Lee has caused chaos once again!]
Grayson stood over the ball, breathing hard. He desperately wanted to take it himself.
But his body had no reserves left. It was already the seventy-eighth minute—the longest stretch he had played since arriving at Toulouse—and the solo run had burned through every ounce of energy he had conserved by staying forward.
‘If I take it now, I might miss.’
Grayson picked up the ball and handed it to Bouard, the designated penalty taker.
“Bouard, you take it. Just roll it in cleanly.”
Bouard looked surprised. This was a chance Grayson himself had created—the moment to be the hero. Yet Grayson’s eyes carried clear exhaustion. Bouard gave a short nod and placed the ball on the spot.
A moment later, Bouard’s shot sliced into the bottom-left corner, opposite the goalkeeper’s dive.
[TFC 1 : 3 PSG]
Immediately after the goal, Manager Merah reached for the substitution board. Grayson was replaced by Mathis and walked off the pitch.
He trudged to the bench and sank deep into his seat. With a white towel draped over his head, the roar and heat of the stadium faded to a muffled hum.
Wiping away the sweat trickling down his face, Grayson silently watched the remainder of the match.
Without Grayson, Toulouse’s attack no longer posed any threat to Paris’s defense.
Paris showed no mercy. In the eighty-seventh minute, they exploited a lapse in Toulouse’s midfield press and slipped a sharp through ball forward. The young PSG substitute collected it calmly, beat the goalkeeper one-on-one, and scored.
[TFC 1 : 4 PSG]
The decisive goal. Not even a sigh escaped the home stands. With three sharp blasts of the referee’s whistle, the match ended in Toulouse’s complete defeat.
The air in the locker room was suffocating.
The buoyant mood from their previous dominant win had vanished. The players sat with heads bowed like criminals, fiddling with their bootlaces.
Crash—!
The locker-room door flew open as if it might break, and Manager Merah stormed in. His face was flushed, eyes blazing. His gaze locked straight onto Grayson, seated in the corner.
“Grayson.”
The low, icy voice froze the room. Merah marched right up to him and exploded.
“What the hell was that second-half performance? I’ve spent weeks drilling midfield cooperation and maintaining the line, yet you were strolling around above the halfway line. Should I take that as you deliberately ignoring team tactics?”
Merah’s finger jabbed violently at the whiteboard.
“Because you refused to track back, the midfield—and eventually the flanks—were completely overloaded! And then you dragged Tete forward too?”
Every teammate’s eyes turned to Grayson. Tete remained expressionless, but his leg trembled.
Grayson simply lowered his head in silence.
“I’m sorry, Coach. It was my fault.”
His immediate admission only made Merah huff in frustration before turning away, clearly unwilling to say another word.
Grayson knew the manager was right a hundred times over. His second-half display had not been for the team’s victory. It had been pure showmanship for himself.
As a manager whose sole focus was team success, Merah’s anger was justified. That was why Grayson bowed without protest.
The team bus carried the heavy silence of defeat through the night streets. Watching the streetlights blur past the window, Grayson switched on his phone.
As expected, the French press and major sports outlets were dominated by headlines celebrating Paris’s resounding victory. Yet a few articles still caught his eye.
The football community was also ablaze with debate over his bizarre second-half antics and the penalty he won.
Grayson scrolled to the official Ligue 1 standings. His eyes moved quickly across the table.
‘…Still, that’s a relief.’
A sigh of relief escaped him. Despite the heavy defeat to Paris, Toulouse remained firmly in fourth place thanks to other results going their way—draws and losses for their rivals.
‘Phew. If we’d dropped to fifth, I really would’ve been public enemy number one.’
Even as he exhaled in relief, his gaze lingered on the table. Fourth place—the final Champions League spot. Staring at that precarious number, an odd sense of responsibility pressed down on his chest.
Summoning Old Grayson to draw attention had gone exactly to plan. But the cost had been the collapse of team structure and a shattered locker-room atmosphere. If the result had dragged them below fourth, even thick-skinned Grayson would have struggled to shake off the guilt.
‘Yeah. At the very least, I need to get this team into the Champions League spots.’
What big clubs valued most was winning mentality. Occasional flashes of brilliance against giants like Paris mattered, but they paled in comparison to an ace who could lead a side through an entire season and deliver victories.
‘Old Grayson is done. From today onward.’
Grayson made the resolution firmly in his mind. The performance he had shown in the second half had been a one-off gamble forced by the sheer size of the PSG wall. If he played that way for the rest of the league campaign, he would not only fail to move to a big club—he would be benched by the manager. From the next match onward, he had to return to being New Grayson.