The Special Entry

The match between Valencia and Barcelona rolled on.

Joo Jae-rim was still standing on the pitch, even after ripping off a multi-goal performance.

Two goals had already gone in, and yet only five minutes of the match had elapsed.

Which meant Jae-rim still had fifteen minutes left on his clock.

Tak—!

Misleading the defenders with nothing but his eyes, Jae-rim threaded a pass into the space ahead of the winger cutting inside from the flank. The no-look ball bamboozled Barcelona's entire back line, and not one of them reacted in time.

The pass arrived softly at the feet of the onrushing winger—only for his shot to slam off the post and ricochet back into the box.

"Clear it!! Now!!"

The Barcelona manager was bellowing from the touchline, because out of nowhere Jae-rim was already lunging at the rebound. This was a scientific approach, accumulated through centuries—well, years—of hard-won experience.

I had a feeling the moment that punk collected the pass. His face said everything.

So-called physiognomy, you could call it.

The instant he released the ball, Jae-rim sprinted for the penalty ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠box and calmly rolled it past the goalkeeper, into the far corner.

"…!"

Lionel Messi rose from his seat without even realizing it, struck by Jae-rim's passing vision—

and Cristiano Ronaldo jumped up and down in place yet again, grinning ear to ear.

"SIUUUUUUUU—!"

Ronaldo's current mood could be summarized as excellent.

After all, Valencia—the club he'd invested in—was wiping the floor with Lionel Messi's Barcelona.

Granted, Messi held no official position at Barcelona whatsoever and was, strictly speaking, an outsider…

But objective facts had never meant much to Cristiano Ronaldo.

Valencia ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠versus Barcelona.

The match had, for all intents and purposes, been decided by Jae-rim's dagger of a goal.

"…Puta madre."

The Barcelona Juvenil players were utterly broken, mentally.

Having completed his hat-trick against Barcelona, Jae-rim took stock of their collapsed fighting spirit and switched his style to a pass-first game rather than hunting goals himself.

Experience had taught him that dribbling with a commanding lead needlessly provoked opponents—and done wrong, it could end in a serious injury.

"Jaerimi—!"

Either way, Jae-rim slipped in another assist with a stabbed through-ball.

And the moment he'd logged exactly twenty minutes, he was subbed off.

"Nice play."

"Yeah, I know."

Jae-rim high-fived his replacement and headed straight for the tunnel.

"Jaerimi, where are you going?"

The Valencia youth coach asked, looking bewildered at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the sight of Jae-rim refusing to even sit on the bench.

"Shower. I worked up a sweat, didn't I?"

The moment the words left his mouth, the coach simply stared blankly at Jae-rim walking off the pitch.

"…That kid isn't right in the head either."

This is why starting in the lineup is the best.

The moment you get subbed off, you can go wash up.

For someone like me, saddled with a playing-time restriction, that was the single biggest reason I wanted to start.

The sooner I play, the sooner I rest.

Anyway.

Judging by the scoreboard, the team had banged in one more while I was showering.

Not long after I took my seat on the bench, the referee blew his whistle and the first half came to an end.

Then came the second half.

Huh. The Barcelona manager is made of sterner stuff than I thought.

Whether he'd held a campfire sing-along in the locker room at halftime or what, the Barcelona players—minds reassembled—began to counterattack.

But youth football is mostly a battle of momentum.

The surging Valencia youngsters' resistance proved every bit as stubborn.

Still, it's fascinating. Every last one of them has a big personality.

The youngsters I'd gotten to know playing for Valencia Juvenil shared a common trait. Fittingly for kids who idolized Ronaldo, they all loved being the center of attention during matches.

Even so, they weren't warped enough to refuse a pass to a teammate in a better position.

A pass from some nameless midfielder found some nameless striker who'd come on alongside me, and Valencia manufactured another scoring chance. The nameless striker had made a lovely off-the-ball run to create a one-on-one with the goalkeeper.

But his shot sailed off into the wild blue yonder.

The crushing weight of I have to do well here had stiffened up his whole body.

After that, the match settled into a lull. Barcelona pulled one back right before full time, but it was far too late to turn the game around.

And so the match ended in a rout for Valencia.

Time to head back to the lodging and crash.

That was the plan, anyway.

Naturally, it failed—because Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi got their hands on me.

And so I was dragged off to a dinner with the two of them.

Any other hot prospect would probably have paid good money for an opportunity like this.

Unfortunately, I was not that prospect.

To me, Ronaldo is nothing more—and nothing less—than a funny neighborhood uncle.

He's the guy who'll get steamrolled by me down the line and end up a mere third on the all-time great list, after all.

And Messi…

My feelings toward Messi were, honestly, complicated.

If a hypnosis app existed, I'd love to make him declare, "I am a drug-addled dwarf. The greatest footballer of all time is Joo Jae-rim."

And if I could ever return to the past, I'd want to snap his ankles if that's what it took to stop him from becoming the best.

And yet, I didn't exactly hate him enough to want him dead, either.

Is this what Cristiano Ronaldo feels toward Lionel Messi…?

The moment I shot Ronaldo a look of pity, he launched into his nonsense.

"You've grown so quickly since I became your mentor."

Since WHEN were you my mentor?

But I didn't raise a single objection.

If this punk got in a huff, things would get genuinely exhausting from that point on.

Emboldened by my silence, Cristiano Ronaldo began showing off in earnest. But one of his follow-up remarks was something I simply had to correct.

"Jaerim, you are without a doubt a talented young player. You play beautifully, just as I taught you."

Claiming he'd taught me football was a step too far.

"Chris, sorry, but I'm better at football than you."

It was a statement I genuinely could not comprehend.

Who was teaching whom here?

Absolute nonsense.

That day, Cristiano Ronaldo ultimately sulked and stormed off first, and I had no choice but to catch a ride in Lionel Messi's car back to the lodging.

"…Where's the owner?"

The manager asked, spotting me chatting with Messi in front of the building.

"A petty little man got butthurt and left early."

I answered with the utmost adherence to fact.

Meanwhile, at that very moment.

Valencia.

The instant the result against FC Barcelona Juvenil came in, a meeting was convened.

The main agenda item: when to give Joo Jae-rim his first-team debut.

"Thirteen is too young, no?"

"Far too young."

"Then how about fifteen? That's when Lamine Yamal debuted."

"Hmm… leaving him in Juvenil for three more years feels like a waste of talent. What about quietly bringing him up around fourteen?"

"Agreed. So, two years to go, then."

"Two years…"

Valencia's general manager could hardly wait for the moment Joo Jae-rim turned professional.

Once Jae-rim debuted, he was certain the football world would undergo seismic upheaval.

"…By the way, where is the owner?"

The general manager began searching for Ronaldo.

His gaze landed on the owner's private box—completely empty.

"He said he was going to Barcelona today, didn't he?"

"Ah, right. He did."

The general manager recalled the events of a few days prior.

"Speaking of which—tell that employee who mentioned Messi to keep out of the owner's sight for the time being. No running into him."

"Yes, sir. But… how long should he stay hidden?"

"Until the owner is in a good mood again."

The employee prayed fervently that peace would return to the club, and soon.

And a short while later—had his earnest wish been granted? The club's peace seemed to arrive earlier than expected.

"Tell that Messi guy to come see the owner soon, will you? He seems to be in a good mood."

"Right away, sir!"

Just as the employee was about to hurry off with a smile—the general manager's frantic voice rang through the office.

"Hey! He's furious again! Tell that guy to go back into hiding!"

"…In that span of time?"

Apparently, peace at Valencia CF was…

still a long way off.

"What's this?"

"Jaerim, it's an offer that came in for you."

I'd recently been feeling the need for an agent.

As my dominance in the youth leagues continued, sponsorship contracts had begun pouring in from every direction.

Up until now, my parents and I had handled the bulk of it ourselves, but lately it had become obvious the workload was wearing on them.

It was a little early, perhaps, but an agent seemed to be in order.

Granted, with all my regression experience under my belt, I could spot a toxic clause from a mile away—

but who wants to check every single line item by hand? What a drag.

I was a footballer, not a legal expert.

And an agent's job didn't end at contracts, either.

A good one supports a player in all sorts of ways so they can maintain peak performance on the pitch.

Hiring one outright transformed your quality of life. The details varied a bit, but it was something like the nobility of the Joseon dynasty keeping servants.

Hmm. Less a servant, more a butler?

In any case, I was still too young to generate serious revenue for anyone, which meant agencies practically lined up to invest in my future—and all I had to do was pick the best of the bunch.

Still, I have standards.

I was confident in my ability. It was a foregone conclusion that I would become the greatest player in the world.

Which was precisely why I preferred the honest type over the agents who reeked of snake oil.

In the end, I shook hands with an agent who gave off a comparatively trustworthy vibe.

"Jaerim, looking forward to working with you."

"Same here."

And from that point, time flew by in the blink of an eye.

Before I knew it, the deadline for renewing my contract with Valencia had arrived.

"By the way—why on earth does this contract contain a clause requiring me to mention Ronaldo whenever I mention Messi? On behalf of my client, I demand the removal of this outrageous provision, which constitutes an infringement upon the player's personal freedom."

"You're Fired!!"

That day, Valencia's owner, Cristiano Ronaldo, declared my agent dismissed.

A huffy one, isn't he.