As the players finished their cooldown stretches, Coach Park gathered them in a loose semicircle. The sun had begun to dip, casting long shadows across the pitch, but the heat of victory still glowed on their faces.
He folded his arms behind his back, eyes scanning the group—sharp, proud, unreadable.
"You did exactly what I expected of you," he began, voice calm but firm. "Five goals. Zero conceded. Dominant football. I'm proud of each and every one of you."
Some boys exchanged quiet smiles, others nodded, exhausted but satisfied. Min Son stood still, wiping sweat from his brows, eyes quietly watching the coach.
Coach Park turned to Jin-Woo.
"You," he said with a short nod, "had a really good game today. You're starting to move like a real striker. Not just finishing, but connecting play, drawing defenders, making space. Your buildup play has improved by miles."
Jin-Woo looked down, fists subtly clenching at his sides—conflicted between the praise and the bitter taste of being passed over for MVP.
Then Coach Park's gaze shifted.
"Min Son."
The boy straightened, the slightest expectation glinting in his eyes.
"You were brilliant today. One goal, one assist, record-breaking pass accuracy, unstoppable on the dribble…"
Min Son almost smiled—but the coach raised a finger.
"…But from now on, no more Blitz Curlers in this tournament."
Min Son blinked. "Coach, I—"
Coach Park shook his head, tone still calm but sharper now. "No."
"That move wastes too many chances. Three of your attempts were from impossible angles. If even one of those turned into a grounded pass, we might've scored two more goals."
A hush fell over the players. Min Son looked down at the grass for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. The Blitz Curler—his signature, his pride—wasn't just a move. It was his statement. But the coach's word was final.
"I'm not saying it's not a beautiful weapon," Park added, softer this time. "But right now, we need results more than experiments. Save it. One day it'll win us a final—but today, it nearly cost us momentum."
Min Son gave a small nod. "Yes, coach."
"Good." Coach Park clapped his hands. "Two wins down. One more group match to go. Remember—next match is war.
Dismissed.
---
The others were already drifting toward the bus when Coach Park called out quietly, "Min Son, stay behind."
Min Son paused, blinking, then nodded. The murmur of teammates faded as they filed out, leaving the two of them alone on the field bathed in sunset's soft gold.
Coach Park walked over and placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder—solid, approving. His face wasn't just proud; it was reverent. Like he was staring at something precious. "You did good," he said simply.
Then, without ceremony, he slipped a folded bill into Min Son's hand. A crisp ₩130,000 note—around a hundred dollars.
Min Son stared at it, stunned. For a moment, he couldn't move.
Coach Park's smile deepened. "Use it wisely."
The boy lowered his head, bowing deep. "Thank you… Coach."
For someone like Min Son—who had memorized the sound of empty dinner pots and watched his mother count coins for medicine—this wasn't just money. It was belief. It was acknowledgment. It was power.
As he walked toward the waiting bus, he whispered to himself, "When I go pro, I'll give Mum a life she never had. No more pain. No more begging for strength."
The bus buzzed with laughter and chatter. Most of the players were riding home—parents hadn't shown up this time. It was an easy match, after all. Nothing too serious, they thought.
Except for Min Son, everything was serious.
Juho's father had come again, as always. The kind of man who always waved from the sidelines. Others had similar parents. But not Min Son. He tucked the money into the deepest part of his bag and climbed onto the bus.
On the other side of the lot, Jin-Woo stood frozen. His car was waiting, driver staring at him from the windshield. But the boy wouldn't move.
He knew what was waiting at home.
The sneer. The slap. The endless repetition:
"How do you lose MVP to a low-life? You're not my son."
His hands tightened on his bag straps. His knuckles whitened. But he didn't move.
---
Min Son's stop came quickly. He got off with a nod, and the bus rumbled away.
Instead of heading straight home, he turned toward the neighborhood's old mini-market—a place he hadn't been to in a while.
The smell hit him first.
Bulgogi rice bowls.
The same kind his mother used to buy for him when things were still okay. When they were still… a family.
There was a line, of course. Always was. The woman behind the stall was famous in the neighborhood for her cooking. As he stood in the queue, people bumped shoulders and murmured prices. Min Son just stared at the steam rising from the bowls like it was a dream.
Finally, his turn came.
"How many plates?" the woman asked.
He opened his mouth. "Two."
But then he paused.
He could still hear his father's drunken voice from nights past. The curses. The bottles shattering. The shouts. The disappointment.
He didn't deserve anything, that man.
But still—
"…Three," Min Son said.
Because in the end, he's still my father.
The seller smiled and packed the bowls. Min Son reached into his bag, peeled off a portion of the money Coach gave him, and paid in full.
Before he left, he stopped by a tiny sports shop tucked in the corner of the market. The glass was smudged, the sign faded. But behind it, in the display—boots.
He found a pair that fit. Nothing flashy. No brand names screamed. Just clean, black boots. Strong laces.
He bought them, too.
By the time he walked home, his hands were full—food in one, the boots in another, and the kind of quiet happiness that only kids like him ever truly loved.
---
Min Son got to the door, expecting the usual silence. Or maybe yelling. Something familiar.
But instead, he froze.
Laughter.
Not the warm kind. The kind that left something bitter in the air. And words—slurred and teasing:
"You're spoiled… okay, fine, you can touch me there. In my prime, they begged for it—"
Min Son's face went blank. One of the voices was unmistakably his father's. But the other? A woman. One he didn't recognize.
His chest tightened.
With the warm food in his arms, he stepped inside. The living room was empty—except for his mother, curled on the floor like a forgotten rag doll. Sobbing soundlessly. Her nails dug into her hair. Her eyes were vacant, red and wide. Not even noticing him.
Min Son stood there.
Then something inside him cracked.
I can't take this anymore.
His legs moved before his mind could catch up. He walked past her, the plastic bag in his trembling hand now forgotten.
Straight to his father's room.
He kicked the door open.
There, half-lying on the bed, was his father—shirtless, beer in one hand, lips stained and greasy. Beside him, a woman—half-dressed, smiling with lipstick smudged, one strap slipping off her shoulder.
For a second, no one said a word.
Then Min Son's voice came out like shattered glass. "What did you do to her?"
His father turned lazily, clearly drunk, eyes bloodshot.
"Don't bother me, brat," he grunted and reached for the woman's waist again, making her giggle like this was all a game.
Min Son stepped forward, his fists clenched. "I said—WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?"
His father's smile vanished.
In one motion, he stood up and lunged, grabbing Min Son by the neck. The boy gasped, feet lifting slightly from the floor.
"You want to talk back now?" he hissed, spit flying. "You little bastard."
Min Son squirmed, scratched, kicked—but the grip was iron. Desperate, he sank his teeth into his father's wrist.
"Aaargh!"
The man dropped him with a roar. Min Son stumbled back, eyes darting. His hand grabbed the neck of a beer bottle lying on the floor. He smashed it against the leg of the table with all his strength—
CRACK!
The jagged glass hissed in his palm.
"STAY AWAY FROM HER!" he shouted.
But his father only grew wilder.
"I'll kill you! You're not my child!"
He lunged again, grabbed Min Son by the collar and threw a punch that snapped the boy's lip open.
He stumbled. Blood trickled down his chin. Then—a shriek.
His mother had rushed in. She threw herself at her husband, clawing at him. "Stop it, STOP IT!"
But the man's fist swung again.
A blow landed across her face—and she dropped.
Min Son's scream was silent.
His father reached for the broken bottle.
The boy raised his arms, trying to shield his face. "NO—"
But the strike never came.
A hand shoved the man backward—forceful, trembling.
It was the woman.
She stood between them now, chest heaving, hair a mess. Her voice cracked, mascara bleeding down her cheeks.
"I did this to get back at Bora…" she whispered, pointing to the crumpled form of Min Son's mother. "She stole my boyfriend in high school. I heard you were garbage, and I thought using you would hurt her."
She looked at the man—his madness, his violence. The child cowering behind her.
"But you… you're worse than trash," she said, almost choking. "You were going to kill your own son."
Min Son stared at her, stunned.
She turned to him gently, voice barely audible. "Go to your mother."
Min Son didn't wait. He crawled to his mum as she stirred, clutching her tightly. Her body trembled in his arms, and she whispered something he didn't catch.
Behind them, the woman slipped on her blouse, blinking through her tears. "I don't need revenge anymore," she muttered. "Marrying him… is punishment enough."
Then she left the room—quietly.
And for a moment, only the broken sobs of a mother and son filled the air.