The Return of Number 7
As expected, these bastards couldn’t be trusted. Along with the stadium announcer’s voice declaring the start of the second half, the Toulouse players filed back out of the tunnel.
Mathis, who had been stripped of his soul by the opposing full-back in the first half and then subbed off, wore a completely vacant expression. He pulled on his bench vest over his kit with a twitchy, irritable motion and trudged toward the substitutes’ bench beside the technical area, dropping into the seat with a heavy thud.
Grayson accepted the purple home shirt from a staff member as he exited the tunnel and slipped it on. While straightening the fabric, he glanced at the bold number on his back.
7.
The number seven carried real weight for Grayson Lee. Even during the lowest points of his career, it had remained his personal symbol and source of pride.
After being driven out of Manchester United, his career had plummeted. Yet through every desperate contract, the one demand he had stubbornly insisted upon was the number seven. Whether joining Hull City, a side fighting relegation in the Premier League, or drifting to some obscure Saudi club chasing money, he had always inserted a clause guaranteeing him the number.
It was an obsession born from refusing to let go of his glory days as Old Trafford’s crown prince. Even upon joining Toulouse FC, the number seven—symbol of the team’s star player—had been reserved solely for him.
Now wearing the number seven shirt, Grayson strode confidently onto the green pitch of Stadium de Toulouse.
The moment his boots touched the touchline, a massive wave of jeers and sighs crashed down from the stands. This was the same Grayson Lee the media had branded daily as “training slacker” and “party addict.” French fans knew his reputation well. They despaired that the card being played in this desperate two-goal deficit was nothing more than Manchester United’s discarded problem child.
Yet amid the torrent of boos, a few faint but clear voices cut through.
“Grayson! Show them what you’ve got!”
“We believe in the class of Manchester United’s number seven!”
A handful of light supporters still clung to the faint hope of witnessing the return of the once-dominant genius who had once shaken all of Europe.
Grayson bounced lightly on the spot, loosening his thighs and ankles. The referee placed the whistle between his lips.
Beep—!
The moment the second half began, Toulouse’s central midfielder quickly delivered the ball to Grayson on the left flank. The instant it reached his feet, the opposing right-back charged in with aggressive pressure. It was a rough physical challenge meant to seize the initiative, as if trying to overcome the intimidation of Grayson’s prime reputation.
Should I just take him on?
Grayson’s instincts stirred. With his body from his peak years, he would have exploded into acceleration in an instant, perfectly timing the defender and tearing down the flank. But he didn’t move rashly.
He had learned the hard truth during a week of brutal rehabilitation training. The price of his wasted years meant that his twenty-six-year-old body could no longer sustain full acceleration without his hamstrings giving out.
My body feels much lighter than before, but pushing it that hard would be reckless.
Tap.
Instead of forcing a dribble, Grayson checked the onrushing defender’s center of gravity and laid the ball off to the central midfielder with a single touch. He then slipped smoothly into the space behind the defender’s back.
“Huh?”
The opposing full-back, suddenly losing both man and ball, swiped at empty air. Grayson’s diagonal run to receive the return pass was ruthlessly efficient.
To Mathis on the bench, it probably looked like Grayson was simply passing backward out of fear. But Manager Merah, arms folded in the technical area, saw it clearly.
Football intelligence that created space with minimal movement. The moment Grayson stopped dragging the ball needlessly on the wing and began opening channels through one-touch combinations, Toulouse’s previously suffocated passing lanes finally began to breathe.
Grayson didn’t stop once he found his rhythm.
In the sixty-fifth minute, deep in the opposition half on the left, Grayson received the ball and paused. Unlike the first half, the opposing defense—now struggling against his unpredictable passing—had organized a compact defensive line. The full-back and defensive midfielder joined to double up on him immediately.
Right. This is it.
The tiny crack created when the two defenders instinctively backed off in fear.
There was no need to dribble. The passing angle was already perfectly open.
Planting his standing foot firmly, Grayson curled the ball with the inside of his right foot. It arced beautifully over the center-backs. Toulouse’s towering striker, charging into the box, leapt and met it perfectly. Before the goalkeeper could react, the header slammed into the corner of the net.
Thwack!
“Gooooooal—!”
As the stadium announcer roared, the scoreboard changed to 1–2.
“Grayson! That cross was insane!”
The goalscorer sprinted straight to the left flank, forgetting his celebration, and wrapped Grayson in a fierce hug. The jeers that had filled Stadium de Toulouse moments earlier began to shift into roaring cheers.
But Grayson shoved the striker away with a frown. Celebrating was for when they equalized. The score was still 1–2, and time was slipping away.
“No time, you idiot. Go fetch the ball.”
The striker snapped back to attention at Grayson’s cold command and nodded. Grayson turned away from his celebrating teammates and walked calmly toward the halfway line.
Even after the goal, Toulouse struggled to create chances. Time cruelly ticked on until the ninety-second minute of added time. Only two minutes remained. It was Toulouse’s final opportunity while trailing by one.
Yet the midfielders and defenders, terrified of turnovers, refused to play forward. Instead they circulated the ball meaninglessly between the midfield and full-backs in a sterile U-shaped build-up.
“Play it forward! Push up!”
Manager Merah, leaning so far into the technical area he was nearly on the pitch, clutched his head and screamed in frustration. Just as the tension reached its breaking point—
Grayson, who had dropped deep near the halfway line, gestured sharply at the central midfielder passing the ball sideways.
Intimidated, the midfielder obediently slid the ball to Grayson’s feet. Once in possession, Grayson had no intention of crossing or passing backward.
As expected, these bastards can’t be trusted. I’ll break through myself!
Keeping the ball, Grayson surged forward alone.
With time running out, he exploited the defenders who had dropped into the box expecting another cross. It was a perfectly timed solo run.
“Stop him! He’s coming through!”
The opposing midfielder and full-back lunged to close him down, but Grayson was already a step ahead.
Instead of accelerating blindly, he subtly slowed his tempo, baiting both defenders to commit. At the exact moment they stretched, he feinted with his upper body and dragged the ball through the narrow gap between them.
“No way…!”
Having made fools of both defenders, Grayson drove deep into the penalty area. The angle was terrible, almost nonexistent. The center-back lunged desperately with a sliding tackle while the goalkeeper rushed out to narrow the space.
Damn it. Is there really no one in position to receive a pass?
Disgusted by his teammates’ positioning, Grayson abandoned any thought of passing. Reading the tackle’s trajectory, he flicked the ball upward with his left foot. It bounced twice in the air. Without hesitation, he smashed it with his right foot—a powerful half-volley that stole the timing from both defender and goalkeeper.
Thump—!
The ball rocketed past the goalkeeper’s ear and crashed into the top far corner, ripping into the net.
[TFC 2 - 2 SCO]
In an instant, tens of thousands of home fans leapt to their feet. A deafening roar of ecstasy erupted throughout Stadium de Toulouse.
The referee blew his whistle three long times.
Beep— Beep— Beep—!
Full time.
The match ended in a draw. Instead of jeers, the stands echoed with thunderous applause chanting Grayson Lee’s name.
Yet even as he accepted his teammates’ congratulations, Grayson couldn’t hide his ragged breathing. The limits of his twenty-six-year-old body after years of neglect were painfully clear, even after just one week of rehabilitation.
Playing a full ninety minutes is still a dream…
Wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve, Grayson trudged toward the technical area. From a distance, Manager Merah watched him with a gaze filled with shock and a strange, quiet satisfaction.