Affair
Was this how it was all destined to end?
If I thought about it, it was probably because I'd come home earlier than usual today.
Five in the afternoon.
Normally, I'd still be at the club, grinding through personal training.
If only the contract negotiations hadn't fallen apart.
If only I didn't despise the sight of that training room plastered with the club's logo.
I never would have returned to the home I shared with my girlfriend this early.
London's December dusk carried that familiar bone-chilling damp cold, seeping straight into your marrow.
I approached the front door's lock, now so familiar I could do it blindfolded.
Today, my fingertips felt especially numb.
Was it because my heart had frozen solid at the negotiation table, still thawing?
Or because of the ominous dread that had shadowed every step toward this house?
Beep-beep-beep.
The door clicked open with a cheerful chime.
The apartment lay shrouded in darkness.
No soft glow of lights, no warm welcome from my girlfriend.
Nothing.
"...Han Ye-jin?"
Silence swallowed my voice.
The quiet amplified my unease.
She traveled often for work, so empty evenings weren't rare.
But today felt different.
A strange, heavy perfume lingered in the air, tickling my nostrils.
The kind European soccer players favored.
And there, on the entryway floor, a pair of shoes tossed carelessly aside.
Sleek Italian designer loafers. Not mine.
Next to them, brazenly displayed, sat the latest Nike soccer cleats, fresh off the seasonal release.
The kind branded around star players.
Fluorescent colors screaming for attention in the gloom.
Not mine either.
My heart plummeted like a stone.
I crept inside, holding my breath.
A pricey men's cashmere coat lay crumpled on the living room sofa.
On the floor, a silk blouse tangled with a men's dress shirt, the trail leading straight to the bedroom door.
No.
My mind went white-hot.
Blood rushed to my head—was a vein bursting in my eyes?
It had to be a misunderstanding.
But my feet dragged me toward the bedroom like a magnet, defying my denial.
Faint moans leaked through the closed door.
Her voice—familiar yet sickeningly alien. Answered by a deep, rumbling male chuckle.
My hand trembled on the doorknob, strength fleeing my fingers.
Blood turned to ice in my veins.
Six years of trust, ten years of dreams—crumbling like sandcastles from the soles of my feet.
If only.
If only I hadn't come home early.
This tragedy had begun just three hours earlier.
Ashbery Town FC's training ground, second-floor conference room.
The cheap plywood table held just two paper cups and a single thin contract.
Cha Kang-min stared silently at the man across from him: Daniel Henderson, Ashbery's general manager.
"This is the best the club can offer, Kang-min."
Daniel spoke in his polished British accent.
No trace of pity or regret in his tone—just cold, efficient business.
Cha Kang-min's gaze dropped to the number stamped on the contract.
Weekly wage: 1,300 pounds.
A hollow laugh escaped him. 1,300 pounds.
About 2.5 million won a week.
Chump change for a promising rookie fresh in League Two.
Not for a Championship player—especially one who'd once been the team's icon.
"...1,300 pounds a week?"
His voice cracked. Rage? Despair? He couldn't tell.
Three years of pay cuts from injuries and slumps. But this? This was beyond cuts—an insult.
"Yes. A tough call, but realistic given your current standing and contributions."
Daniel shrugged nonchalantly.
Cha Kang-min bit his lip. He'd tried to stay positive.
He'd wanted to remain with this team.
Han Ye-jin was here. For her, wages didn't matter.
The dreams they'd vowed to chase together.
He could sacrifice anything for that.
But Daniel's next words shredded his last shred of pride.
"And I'd advise against taking this straight to the owner."
Cha Kang-min's eyes sharpened.
The owner.
Han Ye-jin, owner of this club, was his girlfriend.
"Do I strike you as the type to tattle to my girlfriend over wages, Daniel?"
"Who knows?"
Daniel smirked, savoring the reaction.
"I keep business and personal matters strictly separate."
"Hope you do the same this time. This contract represents the absolute maximum the club can offer you."
Maximum.
1,300 pounds base with options. One-year term.
He knew it.
Few teams might offer better.
His knee—shattered once already—was a ticking bomb to suitors.
But.
This lacked any respect.
Not for a player who'd bled for the team, injury and all.
"..."
Words failed him.
Questions burned in his throat like molten lead.
"Well, I've got another meeting. Transfer window closes soon—think it over carefully and decide quickly."
Daniel waved lightly and strode out without a backward glance.
Cha Kang-min sat alone in the empty room.
The door's slam echoed like thunder.
No respect in that negotiation. Not a negotiation—a unilateral eviction notice.
Staring blankly at the contract, memories flickered: six years ago, his first time in this chair.
Back then, he was "Korea's soccer future," a prodigy with K League's best deal and Premier League scouts circling.
Yet he'd chosen England’s fourth tier, obscure Ashbery Town FC.
For one reason: his childhood friend and first love, Han Ye-jin.
"Kang-min, let's do it together. From fourth tier to Premier League, with our own hands. Like a movie, right?"
The chaebol heiress had bought the club with her grandfather's inheritance. She extended her hand, believing his genius could make it real.
He couldn't resist her sparkling eyes, her pure passion for soccer.
He abandoned the safe path for romance with her.
And it seemed the right choice.
He tore through the fourth tier.
Overwhelming skill promoted them to third, then straight to the Championship.
"Ashbery's King." "Miracle from the Fourth Division." Praise poured in; his No. 10 jersey sold out.
Lifting trophies with Han Ye-jin on the pitch—his life's brightest moment.
One step from Premier League dreams: Championship playoff final.
At soccer's holy ground, Wembley Stadium, he carried the team.
Extra time, late—1-1. Miracle brewing at his toes.
Crack!
Opponent's killer tackle crushed his right knee. Bones and ligaments twisted with a horrific snap; his body flew airborne.
Falling, he saw 10,000 fans' silence—and Han Ye-jin's despairing face.
Penalties sealed defeat. Promotion slipped away.
His wings broke that day.
Compound ligament tear. Meniscus damage.
Career-threatening.
Three years of grueling rehab and comebacks yielded no return to explosive speed or agility.
The team languished mid-table, promotion fading.
From savior to high-wage benchwarmer liability.
He felt guilty.
Cut his own pay.
Never quit.
First to training, last to leave. Cheered from the bench till hoarse. For team, for her. Believing they'd laugh together again someday.
That six-year devotion's reward: 1,300 pounds a week.
"Goddamn it..."
The quiet curse echoed in the empty room.
Aaah—
The sultry moan yanked Cha Kang-min back to reality.
His mind reeled between the club's betrayal and the voices beyond the door.
...What now?
Honestly, he wanted to run.
No courage to witness whatever lay beyond.
Today, he'd lost soccer.
Couldn't lose the last pillar of his life too.
A small voice whispered inside.
Run.
Pretend it never happened. Come home at normal training time.
What could he—a guy still lost post-injury—even do?
Run.
Squeeze—
Against that inner plea, my hand gripped a baseball bat.
Cold metal handle.
Holding it cleared the fog from my head.
"Hoo."
I took a deep breath.
The doorknob turned smoothly.