The players began filtering back onto the field. Sung-tae and Dae-hyun were deep in conversation with the coach.

As they headed to the sideline, Sung-tae turned. His gaze, usually so hesitant and soft, was fierce, like he’d gone under a knife. “Let’s score another. This half.”

Dae-hyun smirked. “Or we could go with my suggestion and not score at all. Then we could go home.”

I chuckled, shaking my head, as Sung-tae glared. The tall kid was joking to break tension. It’s what he did. But if anyone wasn’t feeling the gravity of this, well… they were going home after all. We couldn’t afford to relax here, even if they weren’t exactly a world powerhouse. That kind of thing could lead to disaster, especially against a motivated, home-side team with nothing to lose.

The Thai side came out, their supporters clapping and cheering enthusiastically. The Thai players raised their hands in greeting, the drums picking up pace. A few flares went off here and there, bathing the crowd in a reddish, flickering light.

We got back into position. I stretched a little, watching the Thai side do the same. This time, the kickoff would be ours. The referee signaled, whistle tucked between his lips. Our formation shifted. I stood at the center, Sung-tae in front of me. Jun-hwan was just behind me, fully locked in.

The whistle blew.

Sung-tae touched it. I tapped the ball back, and the half began in earnest.

He controlled it perfectly, a single touch, and looked up. I drifted wide, letting the Thai defenders see me, baiting them out.

Sung-tae sprinted down the right, low center of gravity, ready to cut inside. Number 2 shadowed him, sticking close. Jun-hwan tapped the ball forward. Sung-tae’s first touch was flawless. He juked left, then spun right. The defender slipped.

Dae-hyun was wide left, waiting, but he was double-marked. Sung-tae feinted a cross. Instead, he dragged the ball back, holding off Number 6. Jun-hwan was already moving, offering a pocket of space.

A quick one-two. Sung-tae slid the ball into Jun-hwan’s path. He took it, controlled, turned. The Thai midfielder lunged. He dodged. No fuss, no flourish. Just… perfect technique, a deft shift of weight.

Number 2 was sprinting back. Sung-tae angled a pass. It split the defense. He raced onto the through-ball, chest high.

But it wasn’t enough.

One short, but very fast Thai defender, Number 4, had kept his eye on Sung-tae. He matched his every stride. Sung-tae twisted, trying to wrong-foot the defender, but Number 4 was having none of it. He stayed with him. Step for step. Touch for touch.

It ended with a desperate tackle.

Number 4 stuck in a foot. It found the ball. Sung-tae fell down, but quickly recovered. The Thai defender attempted a long pass, but Jun-hwan read his mind, and intercepted it before anyone could realize.

Jun-hwan didn't bother to look. He merely slipped it back. And there, right there, at the center of attention, stood yours truly—receiving it with glee.

I had to admit it was in equal parts amusing and exhilarating to see the defenders’ eyes go wide, scurrying like terrified ants to mark me and shut down any avenue I may exploit.

They could never really succeed at the last part of course. But the point is, that they had become desperate and that only fueled the crowd, and that only fed my ego. Three Thai defenders crowded around me. Number 4. Number 2. Number 6.

Number 4, the quickest of them all, was the first to catch up. I slowed down until he did, then gently tapped the ball sideways, through his moving legs, and shouldered him out of the way as I changed directions and moved towards the middle.

The two other center backs rushed toward me. Their midfielders tried to cordon off the rest. Too many of us were on this end, which left our left flank exposed. Number 2 came at me with the blind rage of a charging bull. I cut to the right. His legs gave up from beneath him. He fell.

As did Number 6, who tried to overpower my shoulders with his own. Despite being the youngest present, I wasn't the slightest bit weaker in strength compared to them.

I shoved him off. My body swerved and spun, eluding the next tackle. I dribbled through. Then the entire defensive wall came into view. Behind it, their keeper. I had already dispatched three of their own. Left them in the metaphorical dust of my well-polished cleats.

And I could feel it—the bloodlust, the anticipation, the taste of victory on every tongue in the stadium. They were already moving towards the center, forming a blockade, hoping that would deter me, but what could you really do when you were faced with an animal such as me? How do you stop the flood?

Sung-tae and Dae-hyun made overlapping runs, drawing a defender each with them. But I didn't need wings. My eyes zeroed in the yawning expanse of grass in front of me. No one to block. To intercept. I was roughly 30 yards away from goal. Too far out, most would think.

Not to this player.

Not to this beast of the game.

I steadied myself. My left leg rose back. The angle was tight, tricky. A normal shot wouldn’t do, it would barely threaten the keeper. I needed something special. I needed magic. And luckily enough for my teammates and our supporters—magic just so happened to be the one thing that flowed in abundance in my veins.

As I approached the ball, my right foot tapped twice, kicking up dirt and grass. My eyes scanned the goal. In that split second, everything slowed, stretched, like I was watching a film at half speed. I saw the goalie move across. His feet slid over the line. His body was tense.

I struck the ball.

I didn't even hear the contact. Didn't hear the whistling air. All sound had evaporated.

It rocketed through the humid air. It curved slightly from right to left. A missile. A literal terrorist attack, bent on the absolute destruction of their goal.

Their keeper, seeing the incoming freight train, dived, his arms outstretched. Desperate.

I was too much.

My shot found its mark. The high corner of his net. The ball thundered past the stunned keeper, slamming like lightning into the mesh.

The net rippled. The keeper hit the ground, lying there as the ball bounced and rolled next to him. Silence reigned.

3-1

Then the stands exploded.

I took off, running past my stunned opponents. I held my arm out, fist clenched, screaming in delight as I rushed towards where our fans were. All of them. Screaming their nipples off. Tearing their vocal chords as if I were an idol running for presidency. As few as they were, the shouts reached their highest possible pitch.

Sung-tae trudged towards me, face in a mix of disbelief and pride. He didn't seem bothered by the fact that he hadn't been able to get a goal. Jun-hwan did as well, his usual coolness lost in a sea of celebration, and under that, begrudging admiration. The kind that stemmed only after realizing how someone you already respected could climb a few more notches.

Some of our teammates were jumping up and down, arms thrown over each others' necks as we ran past, laughing and clapping one another's shoulders. Coach Ahn Ki-seok shook his head at me in disbelief as we jogged past, and back into position.

The referee, who had already blown his whistle many times by now, signaled for the Thai side to begin the match anew, now behind by a whole two goals. While there was still plenty of time on the clock, their team seemed disoriented and ruffled, as if not quite believing they could even have a shot at catching back up.

Their strategy for the first half had been to defend deep, while their coaching staff's mid-half intervention to make an aggressive, all-out, 'no-holds barred' attack didn't even have time to take shape before I delivered a further blow to their morale.

The rest of the match was merely the tip of the iceberg that led to their demise. A slow, painful decline in their spirit and performance. It was obvious even to their fans. The drumming had slowly faded. The singing had devolved into scattered chants, few and far between. Our fans, on the other hand, continued their energetic support with even greater gusto and joy as we began making our way through their zone and scoring on their defense whenever the opportunity arose.

In the end, our coach didn't have to utter a word as his message from the locker room carried over.

Jun-hwan dribbled past a defender with a fancy step over—straight from my textbook—and left Number 6 tumbling. Two more defenders converged. I ran deeper into their half, and obviously, seeing me advance like that, their attentions went solely to the immediate threat. It left Sung-tae completely unmarked in the wide-open space behind them.

Jun-hwan raised his eyebrows slightly. He measured it. Perfect precision.

He sent the perfect, looping through-ball into Sung-tae's path. The moment the ball landed onto the soles of the winger's feet, he found himself, once again, face to face with the Thai keeper. This time though, things were going to go differently.

Sung-tae immediately grasped his opportunity. The moment he touched the ball he sensed the presence of two more defenders, rushing across to aid the keeper. He had to react fast. Before they could reach him, Sung-tae cut to the right and accelerated, beating both.

This caused their keeper to hurry towards him, to narrow the angles and prevent a dangerous shot. The Thai keeper's timing, however, wasn't enough. As he lunged forward, Sung-tae twisted his body, switching sides with feint. The keeper chased, completely wrong-footed by the maneuver.

The net was completely wide open. Sung-tae tapped it in gently.

4-1

Sung-tae bit his lower lip, holding a fist up, his eyes wide and smiling. He ran like the hounds of hell were chasing him, and a good portion of the stands erupted in jubilation. He slid on his knees and we quickly surrounded him and shook the living daylights out of his limbs as he cried from excitement.

Coach Ahn Ki-seok clapped enthusiastically.

And that turned out to be the match point. The last few minutes didn’t see much action as the Thai team merely played for possession. Knowing the game was ours, we didn’t overtire ourselves trying to add to the tally.

Final whistle. 4-1.

A resounding win for the Koreans. We celebrated.

All of us hugged one another. Coach Ahn was grinning wildly as we trotted back to the center. Jong-su couldn’t hide his relief—it was written plainly all over his face—while Sung-tae, Dae-hyun, and the rest of the team kept pumping fists as we joined them in the middle.

They were the first ones who threw their bodies on us. I was literally ganged upon and forced to be on the receiving end of many sweaty hugs. I frowned, trying to break free from the testosterone-filled displays of affection, but that bastard Jong-su kept dragging me back.

Eventually, I did manage to slip free, and began to make my way back into the tunnel. As I did so, I threw a perfunctory glance at the stands, where the Korean supporters, standing in the limited few that they were, continued clapping politely. One day, there'd be thousands of them there, chanting my name just as the Brazilians did back then.

I smiled wistfully.

Right before the darkness of the tunnel could completely obscure my sight, I found an oddly familiar sight, clapping as well. She stood there, amidst the cheering, hands tucked on her laps. Her head tilted at just the right angle to catch my gaze.

Sunglasses. A mask. And a cap.

I blinked, my brows furrowing.

She stared at me.

"......"