The Agent
Securing a win against Incheon carried real weight for Jeonbuk.
Some would shrug and say it was nothing more than three points in a regular league match. Look under the surface, though, and the value ran far deeper.
First—Jeonbuk's winning streak against Pohang may have been cut short, but their momentum never died. They're still riding a surge. Second—that high-pressing system everyone wrote off as pure attack-first football is far sturdier than anyone imagined.
Those were the harvests from the match itself.
Dig past the team level, though, and into the individual players, and another piece of information leapt out.
And Baek Yi-an. Whether that kid starts or not makes a massive difference to how complete Jeonbuk looks as a side… There's a reason he took Young Player of the Year as a debutant. Watching him drop deep, contribute defensively, and still dictate the playmaking from the back—he's already a cornerstone.
Even setting age aside, Baek Yi-an's ability didn't merely hold its own against other players in his position across the league—it crushed them.
The moment the final whistle blew, scout Elliot pulled out his phone and made a call.
"Hey, hyung. Been a while. What's with the sudden call? Didn't you tell me not to contact you unless it was important while you're on assignment abroad?"
"Is it that strange for an older brother to call his little brother? More importantly—why's your voice shaking? Been slacking off and goofing around instead of working, and now you're spooked because I rang?"
"Goofing around?! Do you have any idea how hard I've been grinding? I just closed a contract with a player, actually. When you see him, you're going to lose it. He's in Belgium for now, but a few years from now he'll be conquering the Premier League with a grin on his face."
Elliot let out a hollow laugh at the voice on the other end of the line.
Unlike himself—a scout for Sporting in Liga Portugal—his younger brother Oliver worked as a football agent, bouncing between countries and linking players with clubs.
"Talk after the signature is on paper. Don't go around saying you've signed someone when all you've got is a verbal agreement."
"Of course I got the signature! What do you take me for? The second I heard that German bastard Volker Struth was sniffing around my client, I scrambled onto a train from France and closed the deal. Just wait. This one player alone is going to put my name on the map across Europe."
"That so? Shame. I was about to recommend a real talent I found—guess you don't need him."
"Hyung-nim. Did you know I've looked up to you since I was little? I became an agent because I wanted to follow in the footsteps of a senior football scout like you, you know?"
The second a good player entered the conversation, the flattery poured out of his brother without pause. Elliot wondered whether recommending anyone to a guy like this was even a good idea—but family was family. He decided to throw him a bone.
"Mention talent and the words just roll off your tongue, don't they. Where are you right now?"
"Me? Zolder station. Wrapped everything up in Genk, so I was about to hop on a Eurostar and swing through France."
"In other words, you've got nothing to do. Oliver—get yourself to Brussels Airport right now. Or the second you hit France, board a flight to Korea."
"Korea? You want me to go all the way there? Hyung, on what basis am I flying to Korea? I'm an agent, sure, but you know as well as I do that my wallet isn't fat enough for me to hop between Europe and Asia on a whim."
Even after being handed a lead on a silver platter, Oliver came back full of suspicion.
Looking at that attitude, Elliot wanted nothing more than to smack him upside the head—but the only thing beside him was an empty seat, so there wasn't much he could do.
"Haa. This little shit, I swear."
All he could do was steady his breathing, send over the analysis packet he'd already prepared, and let Oliver decide for himself.
"I just mailed you the file. Look it over and call me back."
"A file? Don't hang up—wait. I've got my laptop on my knees. What kind of player has you this hooked that you'd—huh?"
A short, questioning gasp. That was all it took for his endlessly chattering little brother to shut his mouth.
Aside from the occasional catch of breath, Elliot's phone was pure silence.
The noise returned exactly two minutes and fifty-four seconds later.
"Holy shit! Hyung! If a player like this existed, you should've called me immediately! Ah, damn it, this is bad—getting to Korea takes a solid fourteen hours at least…"
"That's why I keep telling you not to stick to Europe. Dig around Asia once in a while."
"How was I supposed to know a player like this was out there? Hyung! Get to him right now and ask him to wait! Tell him not to fall for some random agent—tell him the agent who will take him to Europe is already on a plane!"
"Oliver. I'm a scout under contract with Sporting. Approaching a player still under contract is tampering."
"Come on—your little brother is an agent, so handing him my business card is fine, right? I made those cards and gave you one as a souvenir. It's still in your wallet, isn't it? At least pass that along! I'm on my way right now!"
And that was the end of the long-overdue brotherly phone call.
This idiot hasn't changed one bit.
He was family, sure, but the way he lived like a freeloading vagabond made him hard to trust. Still—Elliot had practically spoon-fed him the whole thing. Oliver would figure it out from here.
Ask students who have chosen football as their path what they dream of as players, and you'll almost always get one of two answers.
First—to become a national team player and deliver results at a World Cup or the Olympics.
Second—to step beyond the domestic league and become a regular in one of the big leagues driving the modern game: the Premier League, La Liga, Serie A, the Bundesliga.
In my previous life, I always valued the second over the first.
It wasn't that I disliked Korea, or that I'd clashed with the association. I simply found it more fun to play with better players.
Football isn't a one-man strongman show—you can't do it alone. A poacher or a winger can at least drive the ball forward and score themselves. But for someone like me, whose job is playmaking from deep, goals mostly depend on the strikers up front unless you're banging in wonder strikes from range.
I had no desire to put the K League down. Still, the gap in quality against European players was real—and when you play a position where that gap hits you hardest, wanting to share the pitch with better teammates is only natural.
That was why, even though I loved Jeonbuk, I'd already planned to move to Europe after a single season.
Still, I owed the club for believing in a kid like me and putting me on a provisional pro contract. So before I left, I wanted to sign a proper deal with a release clause built in—and that meant finding an agent…
"Hello, Baek Yi-an. I'm Oliver Williams, a professional football agent. I know this meeting came out of nowhere and may have caught you off guard, so thank you sincerely for agreeing to see me. Ah—I've been a complete mess, haven't I? I brought a gift. I hope you'll like it."
"…"
"It's a cocker spaniel plush. Not something you'd pick up at a toy shop or supermarket—this one is made with actual cocker spaniel fur. From a distance, no one would even guess it's a stuffed animal."
"…"
"French-made, for the record. I heard cocker spaniels were your type, so I ducked in and bought it on the way! Ahaha!"
Oliver Williams? Of all people to run into here.
Who would have thought I'd meet an agent like this?
"Hmm…"
"Haha… ha. Ha…"
As I stared blankly at the plush he'd handed over, Oliver fidgeted and rubbed his hands together, clearly worried the gift had missed the mark.
Of course, that wasn't why I'd gone quiet.
Oliver Williams… what the hell is this guy doing in Korea? I'm sure he mostly works the European circuit… Around this time, shouldn't he be busy negotiating a contract with that bastard?
In my memory, Oliver was still an unknown agent. The winger he represented would transfer from Genk in Belgium to Newcastle, explode in form, and only then would Oliver's name start ringing through the football world.
I crossed paths with him several times over contracts in my past life, too.
We never got as far as a signature—just handshakes and greetings. Even so, there was no question he was a capable agent.
His older brother worked as a scout for a prestigious club, which meant Oliver had club connections of his own. And more than anything else, when it came to salary negotiations and transfer work, the man was a master. Clubs whose players signed with Oliver were said to clutch their heads the moment they heard the news.
Right now the talent was still buried, but he was a genuine diamond in the rough—and for someone with designs on Europe, he was clearly the best agent I could ask for.
"I'll gladly take the gift. I do like dogs, but I never imagined anyone would show up with something like this."
"Oh? I'd heard you spoke English, but you're far more fluent than I expected. Now I understand why you said you wouldn't need an interpreter. This conversation might go even more smoothly than I hoped."
"For a player dreaming of Europe while stuck in Asia—the football periphery—preparing English for the future is just common sense."
"Excellent attitude. I've traveled a lot of countries, and I've seen plenty of players who claim they want the Premier League but can't even manage a simple English greeting. Ah—I've rambled. To get to the point: Baek Yi-an, I want to represent you. I may not have a flashy track record yet, but I'm confident I'll make a name for myself in the agent world soon enough."
"…I see."
"If there's a country you prefer, I'll do everything I can to push a transfer there. First…"
Oliver flipped through his materials and launched into a full presentation—where his analysis of my playing style suggested I'd thrive, which clubs typically wanted players of my type, even which leagues would best serve my development if growth was the priority.
He was working this hard, I figured, to build trust with a player who might otherwise worry whether an unknown agent could actually deliver.
Plenty of agents talked a beautiful game and delivered nothing of substance, so you always had to be careful. With Oliver, though, I didn't need that level of suspicion.
If he'd been talentless, past-life me would never have remembered him—and that bastard would never have signed with him either.
I went through the materials Oliver had handed over at a careful pace. And there, among the documents he presented so proudly—the list of players currently under his representation—at the very bottom, was a name I knew far too well.
Tariq Emile…
The winger who would become my teammate after transferring from Juventus to Newcastle. The one who would push me to a Ballon d'Or podium finish and then claim the award himself.
A player destined to become one of the best in the world—good enough to compete with Lamine Yamal for the title of Messi's successor.
Never thought I'd end up sharing an agent with that bastard.
Something that would have been unthinkable in my past life was unfolding right in front of me, and a laugh slipped out before I could stop it.
The day after sealing the agent contract, I headed straight for the clubhouse.
By the end of our conversation, I'd decided to appoint Oliver as my agent.
"Well—if word gets out that a rookie who's only been in the senior league for a month already signed with an overseas agent, some people are going to give me dirty looks."
But what choice did I have?
If I was going all the way as a footballer, I had to take a run at Europe too.
Sure, if some half-baked player pulled a stunt like this, people would sneer that he was already drinking the kimchi soup before the meal arrived. But a rookie drawing league-wide attention while eyeing a move abroad wouldn't take nearly as much flak.
Looking at it this way, the seniors really did pave the road nicely. It's a good thing Min-hyeong hyung went straight from Gangwon to Tottenham within a year of his debut.
Without that kind of precedent, even strong performances wouldn't have made a European push look good.
"Still—just because I signed an agent doesn't mean I get to start daydreaming about abroad. I've got to put the work in at Jeonbuk too. If I want the fans satisfied when I leave, a treble is the bare minimum."
Even under the all-conquering Choi Kang-hee era, a treble had never happened.
For anyone who supported Jeonbuk, it was the dream they counted on their fingers for. Sweep the league, the Korea Cup, and the AFC Champions League, and the fans would at least tolerate my transfer.
It would also widen the range of clubs I could choose from later.
"So—time to train hard."
I figured I'd get there early and ease into a warm-up. With that thought, I started prepping to head out to the training ground—
"Huh? What are those idiots doing over there?"
Lined up along the hallway sat the twins and Yoon Seung-hwan, deep in conversation.
Seung-hwan looked flustered in the middle, with Han Gang-rok and Han Gyeong-rok pressing him from either side.
Had they dug up some dirt on him?
Curious, I edged closer and started eavesdropping.
"Yoon Seung-hwan-ssi! Answer the question! Why were you standing at the gas station with your mouth open after saying 'fill her up'?!"
"Word is you've been making frequent appearances at the tanning salon near the team lodging. While tanning, you watch the Ronaldo Special, open your nostrils wide, and say you have to tan evenly to become like our hyung—is that true?!"
"What the hell are you even talking about?!"
"Hey! Watch that volume! Yoon Seung-hwan-ssi—then explain the three million cash you dumped into a dating app!"
"Is it true that after getting a Platinum rating on a face evaluation app, you wrote a 5,700-character customer inquiry that opened with 'you must respect me'?!"
"I didn't do that, you bastards!"
Mmm… they've learned well.
I'd walked in mid-interrogation, so I didn't know the full story—but watching Seung-hwan's face turn bright red with every question, they were clearly doing just fine.