The League Opener
The taxi's back seat. Agent David was completely worked up.
"That run and finish just now — I thought you were an absolute madman! God, it felt exactly like when you tore apart the Man City defence at Old Trafford three years ago!"
For the first time in two years, he had seen that spark from Grayson again.
'He must be in the mood for a drink by now…'
"Let's ride this momentum and grab a quick one tonight. A local agent I know says there's a decent club right in the centre of Toulouse. Even with the pay cut, your name still gets you a free pass to a private room—"
"David."
Grayson, who had been quietly watching the unfamiliar French scenery through the window, cut him off in a low voice.
"Open your notes app."
"Huh? Oh, right. What for? Need me to sort out a car or a place?"
"No. Type exactly what I'm about to say and stock the fridge at the accommodation tonight. Chicken breast, broccoli, avocado, asparagus, brown rice, salmon, unsalted cod. From tomorrow, every single meal gets handled from that fridge only."
"…What?"
David's hands froze. The odds of the words "broccoli" and "unsalted" coming out of Grayson Lee's mouth were about the same as the Earth ending tomorrow or Ronda Rousey knocking out Ngannou with a single punch. This was the same man who used to inhale pizza and fizzy drinks after matches at United and knock back bottles of vodka every night.
"And throw away every single crumb of snacks, every can of fizzy drink, every beer, and every sauce with flour in it that's currently in the accommodation. If I see even one of them, the contract ends right there."
"Hey, Grayson. Did you actually hit your head? Did you smack it against the seat during turbulence on the flight?"
David asked, genuinely alarmed. But Grayson wasn't in the mood for jokes. When he scored in the mini-game, the thrill had been immediately followed by fear. A single sprint of just a few dozen metres had left his lungs feeling shredded and his thighs burning like they might tear. At this rate, he wouldn't last a month in Europe before the same downward spiral of minor injuries from his previous life claimed him again.
'I can't afford to ruin everything twice.'
Faced with the unfamiliar intensity in Grayson's eyes, David stopped arguing and quietly began tapping on his phone.
Hellish rehabilitation training began the very next day. Once the club's official morning session ended, most of the players headed off for massages or went home early to enjoy their hobbies and nightlife. Under the warm southern French sun, Toulouse's training ground carried the usual relaxed atmosphere of a lower-table side. But Grayson stayed behind.
"Huff… huff… huff……!"
The auxiliary pitch was empty. The sun had already set, and the floodlights bathed the grass in green. With a heavy latex band wrapped around his waist, Grayson kept repeating shuttle runs. His twenty-six-year-old body recovered far faster than the broken thirty-two-year-old version had. Yet the price of his reckless years at the end of his Manchester United career still clung to every part of him. Even a slight increase in pace made the back of his thighs pull tight and left him gasping for air.
'Endure it. This pain is nothing compared to my last life.'
It was nothing next to the misery of sitting alone on an empty bench in a Saudi Arabian stadium under 40-degree heat, staring blankly at the sky. At the same time, Grayson wasn't simply running himself into the ground. He remembered the tragedy of his previous life, when a torn knee cartilage had ended his career.
"Haa… haa…"
Once the sprints finished, he laid a mat on the grass and began core-stability exercises to strengthen the muscles around his knees — the exact rehabilitation routine the world's top sports medicine doctors had drilled into him in his past life. It was an advanced injury-prevention programme that the current Toulouse physios had never even heard of.
From the second-floor window of the distant clubhouse, the gruff veteran manager Clovis Merah adjusted his glasses and quietly watched.
'That arrogant Asian kid is still out there doing that?'
The report in Merah's hands detailed Grayson's movements over the past week: no club outings, no weekend trips, supermarket receipts consisting solely of raw chicken, vegetables, and fish.
"Hmph. Probably just putting on a show for a few days because of his wounded pride after being kicked out of United."
Merah snorted, yet the tip of his pen quietly moved Grayson's name on the weekend Ligue 1 opener squad sheet from "excluded" to "substitute bench."
And finally, the weekend arrived. Inside the locker room at Stadium de Toulouse, Toulouse FC's home ground. When the starting lineup for the opening fixture was posted on the whiteboard, the players crowded around. Grayson calmly confirmed his name on the substitutes' list, then sat in a corner chair and silently began taping his ankles.
At that moment, Mathis — the starting winger who had been thoroughly embarrassed by Grayson in the mini-game — spoke in French, loud enough to be overheard.
"Oi, Mr Star from the Premier League. Are you really eating several players' worth of wages just to warm the bench like this?"
A few of the French faction players smirked and shot glances at Grayson. For a second, Grayson's hands stopped moving. The pattern was unfolding exactly as it had in his previous life. The old Grayson Lee would have hurled the scissors at Mathis's face and grabbed him by the collar right there.
Anger surged. Blood rushed to Grayson's eyes as he clenched his fists. But he counted to three in his head and forced the rage down. Throwing a punch now would only guarantee front-page headlines about how he hadn't changed at all.
Grayson slowly lifted his head. Then, with an extremely slow, chillingly cold smile, he looked Mathis dead in the eye. What came out of his mouth was fluent, crisp French.
"Mathis."
"Wh-what? You heard that?"
"Even if I played at fifty with both knees completely destroyed, I'd still be on more money than you."
"…What did you just say, you bastard?"
"Don't worry about me until after I retire. Go out there and earn your wages instead. Try not to get subbed off after getting torn apart in the first half."
Just as Mathis's face flushed red and he looked ready to charge, Manager Merah kicked the locker-room door open. At his barked order to sit down, Mathis swallowed his anger and returned to his seat. Grayson, as if nothing had happened, calmly finished tying his boots.
Beep—! The referee's whistle blew, and the Ligue 1 opener began. The opponents were Angers SCO, a side that regularly bounced between promotion and relegation. From the bench, Grayson watched Toulouse's performance with cold detachment. It was a mess. The chronic problem of lower-table sides — shaky distribution from midfield — was on full display. Passes were clumsy, movements lacked cohesion. Ineffective U-shaped build-up and turnovers kept repeating.
Mathis, starting on the left, seemed rattled by Grayson's earlier provocation and was trying far too hard. Every time he received the ball he forced 1v1 dribbles that the opposing full-back read perfectly, giving the ball away. His defensive positioning was also late, repeatedly leaving a highway open down the left flank.
"Ah! Mathis, you useless idiot!"
Manager Merah, standing in the technical area, rubbed his face and spat out a string of curses. In the 34th minute, the inevitable happened. A counter-attack sparked by Mathis's turnover. Toulouse's flank collapsed helplessly, and the cross into the box found the opposing striker's head with perfect precision.
Thud.
[TFC 0 - 1 SCO]
Boos rained down from the Toulouse fans filling the home stadium. The tide never turned. Another goal just before half-time made the score 0-2. The Toulouse players walked into the locker room with their heads hanging low.
Bang—!
Merah stormed in, kicking the door hard enough to break it. His eyes behind his glasses burned like they were about to explode. His roar tore through the room — asking if they were even professionals, how they could put on such a disgraceful display in a home opener.
Mathis kept his head down and said nothing. A suffocating silence gripped the locker room. In that heavy stillness, Merah slowly turned his head. His gaze landed on the corner of the room, where Grayson sat with a perfectly calm expression, chewing on a slice of lemon. The man who had been quietly building his fire alone before dawn every day for a week. Merah walked straight over to him and stopped, gesturing at Grayson's taped ankle with his chin.
"Grayson."
"Yes, boss."
"You're coming on right after half-time. You're replacing Mathis."
Merah leaned in close, almost grabbing Grayson by the collar.
"Those bastards are throwing a party in our own home, and you're just sitting here chewing lemon? If even half of the ability you showed at United is still left in you… get out there and tear their flank apart."
Grayson slowly stood up.
"Half, sir?"
At the same time, he tapped his studs against the locker-room floor.
"Even in this sorry state, I'm more than enough to rip those lot to pieces."