27 — The Final Whistle III (Conclusion)

Final minutes.

Jeonbuk's players fought against a growing feeling of inevitability. "Move! Move! Move!" The coaching staff at their bench screamed their lungs hoarse, arms flailing as he paced back and forth.

The ball zipped across the grass, slick with rain. Boots slipped. Bodies collided. Fouls were let go. Time was bleeding away. Jeonbuk tried to force one last desperate play. Kim Jun-hwan, tired but undaunted, conjured one last spell. A cross, curling beautifully inwards from the left. I saw their number ten darting toward it. Our defenders stretched. Jeonbuk's benchers were on their feet.

I held my breath.

The striker got a touch.

Just enough.

The ball clipped off his forehead, redirected it toward the top right. Our keeper leapt. Fingers grazing air.

But the ball didn't go in. It rattled off the bar.

A collective gasp rang out, followed by groans from the Jeonbuk section. The ball bounced down into the box—a chaotic, slippery mess of limbs and boots. One of their midfielders lunged. Tae-ho, one of our defenders, beat him to it, toeing it out just before the shot could come.

Corner.

Their coach screamed, waving everyone forward. Even the keeper. He sprinted past the halfway line like a soldier charging the frontlines, soaked jersey flapping, gloves still on.

Our defense shrank, forming a tight circle around the penalty spot.

The referee checked his watch.

I stood just outside, tracking the movement. Jun-hwan raised a hand and whipped the corner in hard—near the post this time.

Their keeper actually got to it first. Got his head on it. Sent the ball rocketing towards the net.

Our keeper was alert. He parried it away. The ball didn't go far.

The stadium erupted—half in relief, half in frustration.

One of Jeonbuk's midfielders stopped it with his chest. The ball bounced once, and then he shot. It wasn't neither hard nor unpredictable.

Our keeper easily blocked it. The ball bounced wildly.

Two more shots. Deflected, punched out.

Eventually, amidst the chaos, Tae-ho caught it, immediately becoming a target for countless Juonbuk players. "Oh fuck!"

I raised a hand.

Pointed.

Tae-ho saw it.

He didn't waste a second. He kicked it. The ball was out, and flying.

Long, low pass slicing the wet pitch. I had already taken off.

There was no one back. Their whole team was still in our box. Two defenders noticed, turned, shouted, but it was too late. Their legs were dead. Mine weren't. I had trained hard for this shit.

The ball rolled into space like it knew I'd be there.

And I was.

My first touch brought it under control. My second kept it close. Rain pelted my face. I ignored it.

I could hear them behind me. Yells. Footsteps. Panic. The beginning of an absolute meltdown; their keeper was still within our half.

But the noises were fading as I sped forth.

All except one. I glanced sideways—just a flick of the eyes—and saw him. I grinned, this guy...

Kim Jun-hwan.

He was chasing me. Full sprint. Full throttle. The last burst of fuel in a dying engine.

And somehow, he was gaining. This bastard was actually getting close.

My pulse kicked harder.

He wasn't giving up.

His lungs had to be burning. Legs like bricks. But his form didn't break. He was right there, inches behind, eating the distance between us with sheer willpower. For a second, I wondered if he might actually catch me. And he almost did.

But that's the thing.

Almost isn't enough. Not here. Not against me. Competing against me in pure speed? I actually respected that, if only because he must've been dying with each step he took towards me. Climbing a mountain wouldn't have been this hard, not when the culmination of his efforts was about to slip through his fingers. Just a couple of minutes left.

I kicked again, one more gear. My body responded—barely—but it was enough. I widened the gap just enough to matter.

Half a step. Then a full one. Then two. By the third, we both knew it was over. Still, he continued, gasping, nearly strumbling. His eyes crinkled, despair being the only motivation to keep running.

I could hear him breathing. Ragged. Desperate.

His hand stretched out, to grab my shirt, maybe. To push, trip, or hold. It didn't matter. Because he missed by miles. He had nothing left.

We were past the halfway line now. The goalpost was empty. No one between me and that net. Nothing. The stadium noise became a roar.

Jun-hwan's footsteps faded, but his shadow remained in the corner of my eye.

One final look at the goal.

I set the angle.

Right foot came down.

My boot connected.

The ball flew. I didn't curl it, didn't put a spin on it. Just straight, true power, dead center. No keeper to stop it. No defender to save them. Simple execution. Clean and precise.

The ball rocketed towards the open net. I saw it land and roll into its depths.

It bulged, rippled, and then, finally, calmed down.

Goal.

Final score: 4-2.

Kim Jun-hwan's legs gave in as he slumped to the ground behind me, panting hard, then leaned his head against the wet grass, covering his face just as the spectators erupted. The referee blew the whistle.

Game over.

I was surrounded by teammates before I could even blink. Arms wrapped around me; voices filled my ears. Jong-su bear-hugged me, lifting me off the ground. The coach was there too, shaking my shoulder vigorously.

We'd won the U-18 Final.

The stadium was still roaring. As were my teammates. The benchers. Assistants and managers. I pulled away from Jong-su's grip gently, gave Coach a nod, and stepped back.

My eyes found him again. Kim Jun-hwan hadn't moved.

He was still on the ground, crouched low with his knees down, head bowed, fingers clenched in the grass like he wanted to rip it out. A strangled cry left his throat, a sad, tragic sound. It made my excitement simmer a little, because, obviously, to win, someone has to lose.

It had been so long since I've felt what he was feeling. But that didn't mean that I forgot. I died in the midst of the most important tournament of my life.

The rain kept falling.

I walked toward him.

It was the right thing to do, after all.

Past camera flashes. Past teammates. Past everyone.

Step by step until I stood just a few feet away.

His shoulders were heaving. Breath shallow and uneven. I waited.

He must've sensed me, because slowly—almost reluctantly—he lifted his head.

His eyes locked on mine.

And in them, I saw everything.

Frustration. Humiliation. Rage.

And under all that—respect. Just enough to be real.

His lip curled, like he wanted to say something. Curse me. Tell me I was lucky. That I wasn't better.

But he didn't.

I held out my hand.

Didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

Rain trickled down my wrist. He stared at it. His jaw tightened.

For a second, I thought he'd leave me hanging.

But then—

He took it. Gripped it tight, like it cost him something. A piece of his pride.

I helped him up.

He stood, chest still rising hard, eyes locked on mine the whole time. His hand slipped from mine, slow and tense. Then he nodded once. Almost imperceptible. Like he hated that he had to give it.

I nodded back, a slight smile on my face. Then I turned and walked away, leaving him there.

I'd remember him as one of the toughest opponents I had to face so far in this life. And he'd remember me as the prodigy who shattered his dreams in the finale. Whether that was a good or bad memory, it didn't matter.

What mattered was what happened next.

Because when the dust settles…

Only those willing to sacrifice everything can reach the top.

And only the top...

Reaches for the stars.

xXx

The award ceremony was about as anticlimactic as expected. Trophies were distributed, pictures were taken, some speeches were given, but I couldn't really get excited about any of it. For me, these formalities were nothing more than obligation. The boring filler that bookended the main event. What mattered was on the field.

But nevertheless, I smiled and shook hands and posed for photos when it was required of me.

Still, I went through the motions. That's part of the job too.

I was about to retreat to the locker room when a production assistant flagged me down and pointed toward the touchline. A camera crew was waiting, flanked by a slim young reporter with a SPOTV mic in hand. She gestured me with her hand, wondering if—

Of course.

I plastered on my most approachable smile as they herded me over. The reporter smiled as the camera light flicked on.

"Cha Jae-il." She began brightly. "Congratulations on today's performance, truly a fantastic display."

I shrugged humbly. "I'm just grateful to have the opportunity to contribute." I recited with practiced modesty.

Her grin broadened. "Well, your contributions seem to be making quite the difference." She shifted the microphone. "People are calling you South Korea's greatest hope in years, perhaps even decades. How does that feel?"

I forced a soft laugh. "I'm honored, really. But the road ahead is still incredibly long. It's important to stay grounded." There was a fine line between being seen as arrogant or underconfident. "Right now, I'm just happy our hard work as a team is paying off."

"And it is paying off indeed." She agreed with a sharp nod. "But of course, individual achievements can't go unnoticed, especially on a stage like this."

Here it comes...

"With an excellent assist and three—not one, but three—breathtaking goals, you were truly the man of the match today."

I felt the camera zoom in. This was where they'd cut for highlights, probably. So, I obliged and gave them what they needed: a flash of confidence and a hint of excitement. "Yeah, I'm really happy with my personal performance today. When you step onto the pitch, you have a job to do. And today, I feel like I did that well." I paused, letting a small smile curve at my lips. "But it's not just me. My teammates also had incredible matches. "They deserve recognition, too. As does Jeonbuk Hyundai Motors for a great fight."

She nodded, the mic still steady in her hand. "They really pushed you guys to the wire."

"They did," I said with full honesty. "There was a moment where it could've gone either way. That's the kind of match you grow from, win or lose. Credit to them for making us dig deep."

A flicker of appreciation crossed her expression, like she hadn't expected me to say that.

Then she tilted her head with a practiced smile. "That final counterattack—it's already blowing up online. People are calling it stone-cold execution. I think one comment said, 'If that's a teenager, I'm retiring my cleats.'"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Hey, I'll take the compliment. But it wasn't just me. Tae-ho's pass was inch-perfect. All I had to do was run."

"Just run?" She echoed, amused. "You outran their entire backline and their captain."

I gave a small shrug. "Maybe I had a bit more fuel left. Or maybe I just really wanted to score."

That earned a chuckle from her and the camera crew alike.

She straightened, then glanced at her producer before returning her focus. "Alright, Cha Jae-il. Last one for the night. You've lifted an important trophy. You've got scouts watching from Europe. Everyone's calling you the future. So—what's your ultimate goal?"

I took a breath. This wasn't something I wanted to answer with a soundbite.

"To represent my country at the highest level." I said slowly, carefully. "And not just to be there. I want to help us win something we've never won before."

I looked straight at the lens now.

"I want to win the World Cup. For Korea."

There was a small silence. Not awkward, just enough to let the weight of it settle. The cameraman briefly dipped his head in an appreciative nod. Then the reporter gave a soft smile. "Big dreams."

I nodded. "Someone's gotta have them."

She grinned at that. "Well, we'll be watching. Congratulations again, Cha Jae-il."

"Thank you." I said, and gave a quick, respectful bow before heading off—finally—toward the tunnel, where my teammates were still shouting and laughing.

The interview lights dimmed behind me.