Whistle blows!
"Waaaaaaah!"
The roar that had never ceased throughout the match erupted even louder.
The deafening roar from the 80,000-strong crowd in the stadium was truly mesmerizing and dizzying.
Beyond the cacophony, a man in a suit strode across the grass, standing alone like a monochrome figure amidst the vibrant tapestry of cheers, frustration, and despair.
Ah, Manager Eric has once again led Dortmund to Champions League victory! The Big Ear trophy is heading to Dortmund!
Dortmund, the once-great club that had fallen into ruin due to repeated investment failures, financial mismanagement, and an aging squad, has risen from the ashes! By seizing the Champions League title, they announce their triumphant rebirth!
- With this victory, Manager Eric Reynolds has secured his third Champions League title, bringing his total trophy count across leagues and various competitions to thirteen.
- He's rightfully hailed as the greatest manager of our era!
- He's led the fallen giants Manchester United, Atlético Madrid (who hadn't won a league title in a decade), AC Milan (who had to dismantle their squad due to financial troubles), and now Dortmund to championship glory!
- We'll now hear from Manager Eric himself, fresh off achieving yet another monumental feat!
"Congratulations on winning the Champions League, Manager!"
"Thank you."
"Now, no one can dispute it—you're the greatest manager, having lifted the Big Ear three times! Your journey to this pinnacle likely began 13 years ago with your first managerial role at Bochum! You made the risky and daring choice to take on the unpopular position of 'firefighter' at Bochum. That decision ultimately forged you into a legendary manager, proving it was the best choice you could have made!"
"..."
Eric remained silent, his gaze distant and indifferent, as if staring at something beyond the interviewer.
The interviewer was momentarily taken aback but quickly recovered, realizing that Eric was likely still caught up in the euphoria of the victory and might not be fully processing the questions.
"This must be the happiest day of your life. How are you feeling?"
At that question, the distant focus in Eric's eyes snapped back into focus.
A faint smile appeared on his lips—a slightly bitter one.
"Yes, I'm happy."
The locker room was silent, as if no wild celebration had ever taken place.
Champagne, which had been sprayed in joyous abandon, now flowed sticky across the floor.
As night gave way to dawn, the deliriously cheering fans had dispersed, spilling into the streets, while the players, who had danced in the locker room, had left to spend the night with their families.
The silence that settled over the locker room felt strangely bitter.
Whether it was the atmosphere or my own mood, I couldn't tell.
Sitting on the cold bench, I quietly pulled out my phone.
My third Champions League title.
A day to commemorate, a day of happiness.
Except for one thing.
I opened the text message saved on my phone.
A routine as familiar as daily life.
In my most difficult moments, whenever crisis struck, I would pull up that day's message.
And I would overcome, endure, and triumph.
I had won.
If not for this... I wouldn't have been able to bear it.
The familiar words swam into view:
—No one wants to take over Mansfield. Help me.
That's right.
Today was her memorial day.
Gazing at the message, I closed my eyes.
The locker room's silence drew up distant memories.
Football was everything in my life, yet not everything.
As a coach, I steadily built my career: Bundesliga coach, Youth Team manager, and Reserve Team head coach. It was textbook and successful, almost as if compensating for my past failures.
As a player, I had failed. I never bragged about my career to others, not out of shame.
A team like that existed? A player like that too?
The questions weren't mocking or derisive, but purely curious.
I never introduced myself as a former footballer. It would have required too much explanation: the fact that my team had spent over a century in the lower leagues, that I was a youth academy graduate of such a club, that I only played for the Reserve Team, and that I retired after fewer than ten first-team appearances.
I just couldn't be bothered to explain.
By the time I turned thirty-three, there was no need to even try.
Mansfield Town Enters Receivership.
Billionaire Owner's Premier League Dream Crumbles.
Year-Long Owner Vacancy, Four Managerial Changes: Chaos at Mansfield Town.
Mansfield Faces Another Relegation Threat Immediately After Dropping to League Two.
The sensational headlines told the story well enough.
Still, I never felt the need to brag about my career.
It wasn't shame.
Just... laziness.
Truly.
Life is a series of choices.
We can't always make the right ones. I know that all too well. What seemed like the best option at the time often turns into regret later.
No one wants to take on Mansfield. Help me out.
When my old friend contacted me, I had no choice but to refuse.
Tsudeberg Division Leaves Bochum
Bochum Struggles to Find a Savior for Relegation Escape
Reserve Team Head Coach Eric Reynolds to Take Over as Interim Manager?
It's common for clubs facing relegation to sack their managers.
It's also understandable that teams needing to win all five remaining games to avoid relegation would struggle to find a manager willing to take on the role of savior.
While less frequent, it's not unusual for the head coach's staff, including the assistant coach, to resign simultaneously.
However, it was rare for the Reserve Team manager to resign simultaneously.
Yes, the opportunity that had come my way was no ordinary chance.
It was the opportunity of a lifetime.
A glorious chance to rise from coach to manager.
Of course, it was poison. Relegation loomed like a burning certainty. The word "relegation" would forever cling to my first managerial role like a permanent stigma.
But I was desperate. I had failed as a player; I yearned to succeed as a manager. To succeed, I first needed to become a manager—not in some lower league, but in the Bundesliga. To manage a club in one of the world's top four leagues.
If I could miraculously secure survival as interim manager, I might even have a chance to become the permanent manager.
I accepted.
Mansfield Town suffers third consecutive league defeat without a permanent manager.
I turned down my friend's request.
Amidst the jubilant celebrations and raucous cheers that filled the festival-like streets, I drove home alone.
Now, it's clearly Manager Eric Reynolds era. Even after switching teams, his football remains dominant! Why? It's not just because his tactics are revolutionary or sensational.
He transforms teams. By completely overhauling their very foundation, he builds them from the ground up, making them unshakable in any situation. Even if he spends today celebrating with his loved ones, popping champagne, he'll be back to focusing solely on football tomorrow.
As I listened to the commentary drifting from the casually tuned-in TV, I popped open a bottle of champagne.
I didn't know much about alcohol. I never enjoyed it, nor did I ever feel the need to learn more.
But my throat kept bobbing.
No one wants to take over Mansfield. Help me.
Her text message remained unchanged. I hadn't even managed to send a reply refusing her request.
No, I didn't reply. I was afraid she'd persist, afraid I'd cave to the request of an old friend.
Silence.
That was my answer, a cold refusal, and our last communication.
I stared at the message for a long time, my finger hovering over the delete button.
I kept my finger there, unmoving, as time passed. My vision blurred.
What possessed me? Slowly, I moved my finger.
I pressed firmly on the screen, sending a message to a place I could no longer reach.
—Okay, I'll help.
A belated text, sent even though it would never reach her.
I tossed my phone onto the far side of the bed, desperate to alleviate my guilt, even if only a little.
Was it relief? Or the sense of having purged something? Suddenly, the alcohol surged through me like a switch had been flipped, plunging the world into darkness.
"...!"
And then, as if collapsing, I slammed my head against the table.
Vibrate— Vibrate—!
My phone buzzed and rang simultaneously.
I barely managed to steady myself, clutching my forehead as I staggered up from the table.
Perhaps it was because I'd abandoned my million-dollar bed to collapse face-down on the hard table.
My entire body ached as if I'd been beaten.
But even that pain...
The moment I glanced at my phone screen, it vanished completely. Stunned, I froze in place.
Lucy
A call from my friend.
Anyone would panic when faced with something unbelievable.
I panicked, then quickly regained my composure. I wasn't hallucinating from the alcohol. I thought carefully.
It's someone else. She can't be back to life.
Someone had activated a phone using my dead friend's number.
That's why they'd sent that random text about offering help, and why I'd called back to ask what was going on.
"Hello?"
I hoped my drunken voice didn't sound too unpleasant.
Such trivial thoughts vanished without a trace when a familiar voice rang out from the other end of the line.
"Eric! Is it true? Are you really going to help us? Are you really, really going to join our team? For real?"
The sweet voice rang out sharply.
Lucy... my friend.
As if hypnotized, I pulled the phone away from my face and checked the date.
I had returned to the past.
To the moment of choice. Amidst the confusion of realizing my reality, Lucy's unmistakably alive voice continued to ring in my ear.
"Oh my god. I only sent that text as a last resort, even though I knew it was a long shot. Is it really true? I saw the news about you being the interim manager. Are you really going to join our team?"
No matter how lovely a voice might be, it becomes grating when raised in excitement. Yet I couldn't bring myself to hang up.
I managed to squeeze out a reply.
"...Just a moment, Lucy."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Was I too excited? I'm so sorry, really. Calling you in the middle of the night—I'm just so overwhelmed..."
Life is a series of choices.
I chose Bochum, built a stellar career, and simultaneously lost a beloved friend, severing my entire past and relegating it to the realm of memories.
As I remained silent, only shallow breathing could be heard from the other end of the line.
"...Lucy."
"Hmm?"
"Let's meet and talk."
"Meet? Wait, you're in Bochum, right? If I clear my schedule this week, maybe..."
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Wait, that's impossible! Impossible! Tomorrow's out of the question!"
"I'll come to Mansfield."
"What?"
"See you tomorrow."
"Wait, wait! Hey!"
Mansfield, a small town in Nottinghamshire, has a population of fewer than 70,000. The stagnant population hasn't changed much from the past. The town remains the same: the same streets, shops, atmosphere, and people.
"I never thought I'd see you in Mansfield again," Lucy greeted me with a cheerful smile as I waited in the coffee shop. "If I'd known, I would have made more of an effort to meet up sooner."
Her childhood self seemed to overlay her current appearance—that same unusually confident and bold smile she always wore as a child.
I paused to calculate. I'm thirty-three now, and she's twenty-nine. Exactly thirteen years.
We'd exchanged occasional, casual greetings over the phone during that time, but seeing her face-to-face felt like a lifetime ago.
Including the time before I returned to the past, it had been more than twice as long since I last saw her face.
Words failed me. I had bought a ticket as if possessed and rushed here in a single breath, but I hadn't prepared anything to say.
"What's wrong? Is it because my face has changed so much? Have I become too ugly?" she joked, uncharacteristically. I shook my head vigorously, barely managing to find the words.
"I'll do it."
"Do what?"
"Take over as Mansfield manager."
Her eyes widened. The crew already aboard the Mansfield were clamoring to escape the sinking ship—why would any captain want to board it?
An expression of disbelief flickered across Lucy's face, gradually giving way to radiant joy.
Yes, this is the face I came here to see.
If I choose Bochum, I will succeed. I'll avoid relegation, become the permanent manager, win consecutive Europa League titles, and then receive offers from top-tier clubs.
This is inevitable. I'll move between big clubs, lifting trophies wherever I go, placing championship cups in front of my display case, and basking in the glory of being hailed as the greatest manager.
That was the future I had witnessed. The radiant history of my success lay before my eyes.
Yet, despite all that, I came here.
To see that face again.
"I heard you don't have anyone to take over as manager?"
"That's right. The situation is... Eric, I know it's shameless, but since I truly believe this is my last chance, you were the only one who came to mind."
No one else would take the job.
No sane person would knowingly buy a ticket on a direct train to hell.
No captain in their right mind would board a sinking ship.
But I'm different.
I can reroute the train to hell, plug the holes in a collapsing ship, and cross the ocean.
Yes, I can do it.
That's why I'm here. I chose this moment, not Bochum, again.
What I wanted wasn't a glittering career, but Mansfield, where Lucy is.
"There's a condition," Lucy said, straightening her posture. Her expression instantly shifted to that of a businesswoman. It was both surprising and natural. Her family had been renowned local entrepreneurs for generations, and Lucy clearly had a knack for business.
She had realized this wasn't a personal meeting, but a formal negotiation for the manager's contract. Lucy took a moment to compose herself, then spoke in a slightly subdued tone.
"Conditions? Of course, naturally. But the club's situation is at its worst right now... We might not even be able to offer you a salary as high as when you were coaching here."
"No, that's not my condition."
I cut her off. Hmm, scratch what I thought earlier. For a businesswoman, she wears her emotions on her sleeve.
Her anxious expression, wondering what conditions I might impose, instantly relieved all my tension.
Lucy was righ. Lucy who used to visit the youth training grounds, declare she wanted a player friend, and demand we be friends right then and there.
"You can't die."
"What...?"
Lucy tilted her head, confused by my words.
I elaborated:
"This is my condition. You have to stay in Mansfield."
"Of course I'll be in Mansfield."
"Keep going."
"Keep going?"
"If you're not in Mansfield for any reason, I won't stay there either."
"..."
She couldn't answer, her lips twitching nervously. I stood up.
"And we're going to the hospital first."
"No, what are you even talking about? What kind of condition is that? And why the hospital all of a sudden?"
"That's my second condition. If you agree to this, I'll take the manager position."
"Wait a minute, what kind of manager contract is this? Is this how things are done in Germany? What about the salary and all that...?"
"I told you, my only condition is that you're there. Oh, and the hospital visit too."
A look of incomprehension crossed her face. Lucy awkwardly stood up at my insistence and muttered as she headed toward the hospital:
"What's wrong? You weren't like this before. Did you suffer a lot in Germany? Are you homesick? Is it nostalgia? What is it, exactly?"
Her circuit-blown demeanor made me chuckle involuntarily.
I paused mid-stride.
"And Lucy..."
"Hmm?"
"I missed you."
With that, I turned my back and continued toward the hospital.
Behind me, I heard her muttering:
"What on earth happened to you in Germany? Why did you come back a completely different person?"
I had to change.
Only then would I not regret my current choice.