Bizarre Withdrawal Symptoms
Grayson lay diagonally on the bed in the club’s medical room, a thick ice pack pressed against his right hamstring. Agent David stood with his arms crossed, staring at him in disbelief. In his hand was the detailed medical report the club’s medical team had just handed over.
“You know that stereotype Europeans have about Asian players, right? The ones who sacrifice everything for the team without complaint, running around like dogs for ninety minutes but lacking that star-player charisma. You were the only one who shattered that bias with your skill and that insane temper of yours.”
David let out a long sigh and perched on the chair beside the bed.
“So why the hell are you suddenly trying to become that stereotype? Why pull a stunt you’ve never done before and pick up a two-week injury?”
Grayson, leaning back against the bed with his messy hair, clicked his tongue.
“Who said I sacrificed anything? You’re twisting my words.”
“Then what was that tackle? Everyone’s saying it’s the first time they’ve seen you slide in just to clear the ball instead of some revenge tackle from your entire career.”
Grayson fiddled with the ice pack and let out a short laugh.
“I’d already slotted the overhead kick and the free kick to turn the game around. If we couldn’t hold on for the last minute and ended up drawing, my perfect wonder goal would lose its shine and my record would take a hit. So my body just reacted and cleared the ball.”
“You talk a good game. A few months ago you would’ve said ‘who cares if the team draws as long as I scored’ and just strolled around the halfway line. Hell, you probably wouldn’t have scored that goal in the first place.”
David grumbled as he set the chart down, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He could complain all he wanted about the selfish, arrogant ace, but as an agent he couldn’t hate the change in Grayson—the way he was starting to obsess over victory itself.
And David wasn’t the only one who had noticed the shift. French media outlets were all over the story.
Local outlets ran extensive coverage of Grayson Lee’s performance. The provocative headlines that once dominated the Manchester United era—“time bomb,” “troublemaker”—quietly disappeared. In their place came words like “sacrifice,” terms that had never suited Grayson before.
Reactions on Korean football forums were just as heated. No one could deny the overwhelming destructive power Grayson had shown while reeling in the big fish that was Marseille, nor the sheer determination in those final moments.
The next day, when Grayson arrived at the club for rehab, the atmosphere inside had clearly shifted.
“Hey.”
A heavy shadow fell over Grayson as he stretched in the weight room. It was Bouard, the midfielder who had yielded the free kick against Marseille.
Grayson glanced up. Bouard stood with his usual grumpy expression, arms folded.
“How’s the body?”
“Two weeks, they say.”
“Tch. That’s what happens when you do stuff you’ve never done before.”
Bouard snorted, then scratched the back of his neck while looking away.
“…Still, the free kick was solid. I get why the manager nodded.”
“Good.”
“But next time there’s no giving way. I’ve got my pride as the designated set-piece taker too.”
Even as he said it, Bouard tossed an electrolyte drink down beside Grayson. Mathis, the usual starting left winger, muttered “Get well soon” under his breath as he passed by.
This warm atmosphere feels a bit awkward…
Just as Grayson was about to head out for rehab training, Coach Merah’s large frame blocked his path from the technical area, the detailed hamstring diagnosis already in his hands.
“Lee, where are you going?”
“Thought I’d hit the weight room. At least get some upper-body work in.”
“Forget it. Go straight home.”
Grayson frowned at the coach’s firm tone.
“I’m fine. It’s just a minor tweak. What’s the problem?”
“Including the international break, you’re banned from the club for the next two weeks. Go home, breathe, and come back fully recovered.”
“Coach…”
“Listen to me, Grayson. If you sneak in half-baked personal training and it flares up again, the ban becomes a month. I’m preparing tactics to slot you in at the perfect moment, so shut up and rest.”
The coach patted Grayson’s shoulder and turned away without waiting for a reply.
Thus began the first day of his forcibly granted vacation.
Grayson’s house in downtown Toulouse was far too quiet.
In the past, a two-week injury would have sent him straight to the most luxurious clubs in London or Paris behind the manager’s back. His old vacation routine had been to pour expensive liquor with celebrities all night, flip off the paparazzi, and land on the front page.
But now he was clear-headed. This was a critical period to regain his form. True to his resolve, he had cut out nightlife and alcohol completely, yet he had no idea what to do in this huge empty house.
“…Hah.”
Grayson sprawled across the living-room sofa and sighed at the ceiling.
He tried putting on the latest trending movies and dramas on Netflix, but turned them off within ten minutes. He scrolled through his phone, but his SNS accounts had been deactivated long ago, so he set it down again.
Without football, there was nothing to do.
By the fifth day of vacation, a strange withdrawal began to stir inside him.
He was desperate to play, desperate to train, and the lack of any outlet was driving him mad. Even sitting still on the sofa made his legs tremble, and at night he tossed and turned dozens of times, unable to sleep.
Finally unable to bear it, Grayson burst out of his room and stood barefoot on the living-room floor. The cool marble touched his soles.
Without thinking, he began taking light steps across the living-room mat as if it were a pitch. Imagining himself painting with his body to shake off defenders, a sharp twinge shot through his right hamstring and he stopped with a grunt.
“Ugh, what the hell am I doing?”
He trudged over and turned on the TV. An international match was being broadcast live during the break. On screen, players who had once been beneath his level were now wearing the three lions and striding across the pitch. The realization that he had been treated as washed-up and routinely excluded from national-team call-ups hit him anew.
— I thought Grayson might finally get back into the national team.
— National team return? No way, right?
The comments he had seen on the forums before vacation echoed in his ears like hallucinations. Watching the winger on screen spill a clumsy first touch, Grayson’s hand tightened around the remote until his knuckles turned white.
If I played right now, I’d be ten times better than that guy.
The urge to prove the old saying “if you’re so frustrated, you play” rose inside him.
By the tenth day of vacation, Grayson casually ignored the manager’s order to do nothing. He laid a mat on the living-room carpet, dug out an old resistance band from the corner, and wrapped it around his ankle. Running was still impossible, but static bodyweight exercises to strengthen the muscles around the hamstring were feasible.
As he pulled the highest-resistance band and felt the burn in his glutes and hamstring, sweat began dripping from his forehead. His hair clung to his face, but he didn’t care.
“Ngh…!”
The explosive pressure traveled up his leg, yet moving his body somehow cleared the suffocating feeling in his chest. It was a bizarre catharsis unique to Grayson—the man who had traded alcohol addiction for football addiction. He continued his solitary, grueling rehab sessions in the living room every day.