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After roughly one hour spent analysing Australia's past games, from every aspect, like the defense patterns, offensive structure and counterplay tactics, there was also the 'how-to-outwit-this-or-that' portion.
The projector clicked off, and the lights came up. Coach Ahn tossed the remote onto the table like he was done with it.
"Alright." He said, rubbing his eyes. "You've seen the film. Matthews cuts inside. Hendrick drops deep. They'll try to stretch us. Questions?"
Silence for half a second.
Then Jong-su raised a hand, already grinning. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach, and a sudden urge to punch that grin off his face.
"Coach, real talk. If Jae-il marks Matthews, does the guy even show up?"
Sung-tae didn't miss a beat. "Matthews? Nah. He'll fake an injury the night before. I've heard that Hendrick tried to nutmeg Jae-il in a dream. Woke up with a broken leg."
Dae-hyun looked at me, apologetically, then... "Jae-il doesn't head the ball. The ball heads itself into the net to avoid confrontation."
I groaned as a smattering of laughter rippled across the room.
"Jae-il doesn't press high. The ball presses itself when it sees him coming."
"Jae-il doesn't take penalties. The referee just gives the goal to avoid the paperwork."
"The stadium lights in Australia aren't powered by electricity. They run on the raw terror Matthews is going to feel when he sees Jae-il on the team sheet."
"Stop it." I grumbled, rubbing my temples as they roared in unison.
"Jae-il's passes aren't measured in yards, they're measured in time zones. He can pass the ball to himself in the future."
"His diet is just the hopes and dreams of other players."
"He doesn't sweat. Gatorade pours out of his pores."
I slumped in my chair.
"I heard that when Jae-il was born, the doctor didn't slap him. Jae-il dribbled past him, nutmegged the nurse, and chipped the placenta into the top corner."
"..."
The chuckles evolved into roars of laughter—much to my consternation. I couldn't believe I just turned into a fucking Chuck Norris meme. I glared at Jong-su, the perpetrator of it all. Fucking bastard.
He grinned back, a picture of innocence, and then shot me a wink. "What? We're just showing our captain some love."
"Stop it, all of you." Coach sighed, running a hand over his face. He didn't look angry. He just looked tired. Like he was dealing with a particularly gifted group of kindergarten students who'd discovered how to use the intercom. "You're playing as a team. Not as Jae-il's cheerleading squad."
"Sorry, Coach." Jong-su said, trying and failing to wipe the smile off his face. "It's the pre-game jitters. All that pent-up energy."
Coach Ahn's eyes swept over us, his expression unreadable. "The jitters are fine. The jokes are not. The Australians won't be laughing tomorrow. Now, get some rest. I want you in bed by ten. Lights out. No exceptions."
"Aye, aye."
As we filed out, the locker room was a whirlwind of good-natured shoving and loud, overlapping chatter. I moved slower, letting the noise wash over me.
"You're not going to say anything?" Jong-su slung an arm over my shoulders, his voice still vibrating with suppressed laughter. "Not going to threaten to lock us in the equipment shed?"
I shrugged. "It was marginally entertaining." I admitted.
"Marginally?" He feigned a wounded expression. "I was on fire!"
"I'm getting back at you, for that." I grinned, pointing at him, and then at Dae-hyun, Sung-tae, and even the traitor Jun-hwan, who were lagging slightly behind. "And all of you too."
The threat, as lighthearted as it was, sent a fresh wave of laughter through the group.
"Looking forward to it, Captain." Jong-su's grin was wider.
xXx
Dae Hee's POV:
South Korea vs Australia.
Quarter Finals.
The stadium was a living, breathing organism. A concrete beast packed with close to 20,000 people. A massive spike compared to their previous matches. She stood in Block 112, Row 3, Seat 7—the ticket Jae-il slipped into her hand the other day.
He didn't know she'd slept with the ticket under her pillow. Didn't know she nearly cried when the barcode scanned green.
Now she was here.
Close enough to see the sweat bead on his neck.
Close enough she could easily make out the armband on his bicep. Oh, that bicep...
Close enough that he might even see her, if he just looked.
The air was an odd but not unpleasant mix of fried squid, hot dogs, and all of kinds of beverages. Her ears twitched from the loud noises blasting at her from every direction. A roar of cheers, jeers, and the incessant pounding of a drum. All around her was a sea of red shirts, all of them a blur, all of them focused on the green rectangle below.
It was a particular feeling, being a part of a crowd. It was not her first time, mind you. But the attendance this time was so much larger than last.
She had to push through a throng of boisterous fans just to get to her seat. The sheer physical closeness of so many people—it was overwhelming, not to mention disgusting.
Dae Hee composed herself and looked down below where the teams were standing on opposite sides of the pitch.
She brought her gaze forward. It wasn't difficult to find Jae-Il because, well, he stuck out. In more than one sense. Physically, and in the sense that there was the inevitable sense of 'oh, it's him'.
One of the South Korean players seemed to catch sight of a huge poster bearing Jae-Il's picture, and pointed up to it, clearly awed, turning to clap and then laughing as he shouted something to his companion.
Dae Hee also saw the banner, and frowned. Leave it to a group of overenthusiastic girls to display their misconceived fondness towards Jae-Il, as if they'd be his personal cheerleaders.
Goodness.
She refused the desire to take another glance and chewed furiously at the straw in her soda, her eyebrows twitching as if an impulse wanted to make the three teenage girls who carried the poster suffer.
The cheers that reached her ear were a combination of booing, enthusiastic support and screaming, and overall noise pollution.
Some were in a rage because their favourite players were replaced; others, giddy in excitement, just like her. There were so many different styles, she noticed as the referee blew his whistle, giving the starting order.
And as the ref signaled the kick-off, her gaze couldn't tear itself off her dear Number 9, Cha Jae-il. He was in center field, along with the Australian captain. The referee was speaking to both of them.
Dae Hee found herself clenching her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She hadn't realized she had been doing it, until a dull ache pulsed through her hands. She forced herself to relax, to unclench her fingers, but her muscles remained tense. It was crazy how she was being affected by this, and even crazier how glad she was to be there, to watch her so-called nemesis play an important game, and hope he actually won.
The game began.
South Korea, in their red jerseys, immediately went on the offensive. The ball moved whirled around with almost telepathic grace between the midfielders.
Jun-hwan, a stocky, relentless presence, shielded the ball from a lanky Australian midfielder, before bypassing it with a fancy movement of the legs she couldn't name; Jae-il had once told her what it was called, but she kind of forgot.
He laid it off to the man in question, Jae-il. And Dae Hee's world narrowed. No surprise there.
The crowd roared, but she heard nothing. The drummers pounded, but she felt nothing. All her senses, all her being, was focused on the single, mesmerizing figure in the number nine jersey.
He ran, gracefully. He was so fast and swift. Nimble, perhaps was the right term. He had everything, despite being the youngest there. A physical imponence that made it nearly impossible to simply shoulder him aside. More than that, he had something special as well.
It wasn't just speed. It was something else, something she had observed in previous matches too. A preternatural awareness. He seemed to know where every player would be a full second before they did. A defender lunged for him from the left, and Jae-Il didn't break his stride, simply letting the ball roll a fraction of an inch ahead of him, a feint so subtle it was almost imperceptible.
Another tried to close him down from the front. Jae-il's hips flicked left. The Aussie player lunged. Too late.
The ball was already gone, a white comet slicing between the player's legs like it had been threaded by a ghost-
A collective gasp rippled through the stadium, followed by a roar of approval.
He was past them.
It had taken him three touches.
Three.
To dribble past two men. An Aussie defender careened back, struggling to catch up, only to be beaten by the sharpness of Jae-Il's turn. He changed pace and direction instantaneously. It didn't matter how much bigger, faster the defender was. It was like chasing an ice cube that didn't just change its direction, but could also liquefy on the spot.
Jae-il looked up once, quickly analyzing the yawning space in front of him. He slowed down just enough to let his wing-back close the gap. Then he suddenly took a long pass and slotted it right into the path of his teammate, who was sprinting down the flank.
A perfect pass.
Timed to perfection.
The cross came in. No hesitation.
But the keeper was ready, and he managed to punch the ball away.
"Ahhh!"
A collective groan of disappointment echoed through the stadium.
Dae Hee felt a pang of frustration. A pang so sharp and so visceral that it almost felt like her own missed opportunity. She slumped back into her seat, her heart pounding.
The ball rebounded once on the grass—right outside the box—before a madly sprinting Jae-il got to it first. Almost as if he knew the ball would be there.
He didn't have any second guesses. His leg coiled, a whip of pure muscle and bone lashing forward. He struck the ball, so damn hard his whole body had to contort in mid-air, his foot connecting with a sound that was lost in the noise.
The ball was a white arrow that flew straight for the top corner. The Aussie keeper stood motionless, almost resigned, watching as the sphere slammed into the crossbar, but not going in.
Dae Hee gasped.
The clang of aluminum rang out like a gunshot. The ball ricocheted high, spinning end over end, and for one impossible heartbeat the stadium froze—twenty thousand people holding their breath.
Then gravity remembered its job. The ball dropped straight down, a white comet falling back to earth, and one Jun-hwan, who fended off the spot the ball was destined to land on.
He didn't leap so much as ascend. He hung in the air for an impossibly long time. He headed it down with the force of a hammer blow.
The keeper had no chance.
It hit the back of the net with a satisfying thwump.
A second. Just a single second of stunned silence.
Then, the world exploded.