When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 106 What You Need Is Not a Character Design, But a Godhood
The final whistle blew, and the scoreboard at Philips Stadium showed 2-0.

Hiddink stood on the sidelines with his hands in his pockets, rain streaming down his face.

Park Ji-sung and Lee Young-pyo jogged over and gave each other a high five; both of their jerseys were soaked and stuck to their bodies.

In the locker room, Robben was wiping the rain off his blond hair with a towel, while Kezman laughed and joked with Bouma.

The TV suddenly cut to a breaking news report: "Monaco 9-3 Deportivo La Coruña."

The locker room fell silent instantly.

Hiddink stared at the screen for a few seconds, then turned and wrote the latest points on the whiteboard: Monaco 12 points, PSV Eindhoven 6 points, Deportivo La Coruña 4 points.

His marker dotted the name "Monaco": "We're going there in twenty days."

Van Bommel frowned and asked, "Will they field their starting lineup?"

Hiddink shook his head: "Deschamps will definitely rotate players, but..."

He pointed to the screen showing Roy celebrating, "A striker in this form can score even as a substitute."

Oye suddenly clapped his hands: "Who cares who plays, we're going to win."

The qualification situation in Group C of the Champions League has entered its final sprint.

摩纳哥以四战全胜的完美战绩提前锁定小组头名，他们先后3-1客胜埃因霍温、5-0横扫雅典AEK、1-0小胜拉科鲁尼亚，以及这场震惊欧洲的9-3血洗拉科，四场比赛狂轰18球仅失4球，展现出了恐怖的统治力。

埃因霍温目前积6分排名第二，虽然首轮1-3不敌摩纳哥，但随后0-2负于拉科后及时调整，先后客场1-0、主场2-0战胜雅典AEK，重新掌握出线主动权。

拉科鲁尼亚积4分排名第三，他们虽然2-0战胜过埃因霍温，但1-1战平雅典AEK和0-1负于摩纳哥的表现不够稳定，特别是那场3-9的惨败让他们的净胜球跌至-7。

The situation is clear: PSV Eindhoven can secure their place in the round of 16 by defeating Monaco, who have already qualified, away in the fifth round; if they draw with Monaco and get 7 points, they need to remain unbeaten in their home game against Deportivo La Coruña in the sixth round; and if they lose to Monaco, they must defeat Deportivo La Coruña in the final round to secure qualification.

Deportivo La Coruña must defeat AEK Athens at home in the fifth round, while hoping that PSV Eindhoven loses to Monaco, so that they can take the initiative in their direct confrontation with PSV Eindhoven in the sixth round.

Since Deportivo La Coruña had previously defeated PSV Eindhoven 2-0 at home, if both teams finish with 7 points, Deportivo La Coruña will advance to the next round based on their head-to-head record against PSV Eindhoven.

However, considering Deportivo's poor defensive performance and their need to launch a major offensive, their prospects for advancing remain bleak.

The final suspense in this group will likely be revealed in the last round when PSV Eindhoven faces Deportivo La Coruña in a direct confrontation. Meanwhile, Monaco, who have already qualified, will play AEK Athens away in the sixth round, and the result of this match will not affect the final rankings of other teams.

My phone kept vibrating in the locker, the buzzing sound mingling with the laughter of my teammates.

He reached for his phone, and Zidane's message popped up first: "Just play like that against the Germans too."

The French team will travel to Germany in 10 days for a friendly match. However, the two teams have never been very friendly.

Vieri's text message carried the characteristic Italian bluntness: "Arsenal will qualify second, so beat them badly."

Following the Inter Milan debacle against Arsenal, the British media, as usual, found many excuses, and a fierce war of words broke out between the media of the two countries.

Makelele's text message was the shortest: "Good running data."

He then added, "How badly did you guys beat Deportivo?"

Thuram sent a long string of French words mixed with slang.

Kaka's message came last, carrying the characteristic enthusiasm of Brazilians: "God must be wearing a Monaco jersey tonight!"

Monaco president Campora suddenly pushed open the door and entered, his eyes gleaming with an unusual light, as if he had discovered a rare treasure.

"Roy, come with me."

Without saying a word, he put his arm around Roy's shoulder.

"Press Conference"

Roy turned to Deschamps with a pleading look, but before he could finish speaking, Campora's laughter drowned out his words: "Send anyone!"

Roy was led through a dimly lit corridor into Campora's private suite.

Bahrain's Crown Prince Salman leaned against an Arabic-style cushion inlaid with mother-of-pearl, with six attendants in snow-white robes standing silently behind him like statues.

The three princes, dressed in custom-made suits, stood properly. Suddenly, the youngest one's eyes lit up, and he secretly made Roy's signature celebratory gesture towards the air.

"Ah, so this is your eagle?!"

The Crown Prince spoke with an elegant Cambridge accent, and the diamond cufflinks on his sleeves gleamed under the lights as he rose.

The eldest son shyly handed over a framed Monaco jersey with the number 10—the very jersey for tonight's match.

“My little falcons are all your fans,” the Crown Prince said with a smile, stroking his youngest son’s curly hair. “Especially this 9-3 score, it’s made them so excited they won’t go to sleep.”

The youngest prince suddenly pulled out a red gift box from behind him. When he opened it, the Ferrari key was lying inside—it was the Enzo he had always dreamed of, a legendary prancing horse with only 399 units produced worldwide.

In those days, the Ferrari Enzo was extremely difficult to purchase. One had to be a Ferrari VIP customer, own at least two classic Ferrari models, or have purchased more than five new cars in total, which required approval from the Ferrari review committee and was personally approved by President Montezemolo.

Roy was just starting out and it was unlikely that he would own multiple Ferraris. Moreover, football players are considered high-risk customers (injuries or career setbacks could lead to resale, which would affect the brand value of the car). Traditional Italian car manufacturers are conservative towards the "new money" class and prefer to choose industrialists or hereditary nobles.

"I heard your order inquiry was politely declined?"

The Crown Prince blinked, and an attendant immediately handed him the documents. "It's yours now. The formalities are complete, and it's parked in the special exhibition hall in Monaco Port."

As Roy's fingertips touched the cold key, he noticed the signature of Ferrari president Luca di Montezemolo on the document—this Italian, who had rejected countless wealthy men, clearly could not refuse a prince's private request.

Campora cleared his throat at the opportune moment: "Of course, this is perfectly in accordance with UEFA's gift regulations."

Roy took the heavy car key and gently stroked the Prancing Horse logo with his fingertips.

He bowed slightly and said in a perfectly measured tone, "This generous gift is truly overwhelming, Your Highness."

The Crown Prince simply nodded casually, a nonchalant smile playing on his lips, as if the million-euro Enzo was nothing more than a toy car he could give away at will.

His gaze didn't linger on the keys for even a second longer; instead, he turned to his children and whispered a few words of advice in Arabic.

The youngest prince excitedly tugged at Larroy's sleeve, looked up at him, and asked, "Will you drive it and take us for a ride?"

His tone was as innocent as if he were asking if he could ride a carousel.

Roy looked down into the boy's sparkling eyes and suddenly realized—in this private room, money, luxury cars, and even the football itself were nothing more than playthings that the powerful and wealthy could casually manipulate. What they enjoyed was not possession, but the ease with which they gave.

Campora stood to the side, her expression no different from that of her followers—respectful and obedient, yet her eyes held a subtle, almost imperceptible, calculating glint.

A perfectly timed smile played on his lips, neither obsequious nor impolite, as if he were already accustomed to this kind of occasion, accustomed to standing in the shadow of power and wealth, waiting for his own opportunity.

In a crucial Champions League Group B match, Arsenal will host Ukrainian powerhouse Dynamo Kyiv at home.

After 90 minutes of intense play, Arsenal secured a narrow 1-0 victory thanks to their tenacious defense, taking all three points.

Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger appeared relieved at the post-match press conference.

Speaking about Ashley Cole's winning header in the final moments, he admitted, "That goal was a huge relief. The competition in our group is very fierce, and every team still has a chance to advance."

Wenger acknowledged the importance of the match: "We all know that a draw or a loss would have eliminated us. But I have full confidence in the players, and they gave their all today. Sometimes striving for perfection can actually hinder our performance. We were able to win this must-win game today thanks to Cole's goal."

Regarding Cole's unexpected goal, Wenger commented: "This goal was indeed somewhat unexpected, but Cole has always been a fighter. As a full-back, his movement in the penalty area was very intelligent, showing a striker's instinct."

Speaking about the risky tactic of fielding four forwards in the final stages of the match, Wenger explained: "At this stage, it's like playing poker; you have to be willing to bet. Our opponents gave us a lot of trouble; their speed and discipline were excellent. Actually, we shouldn't have lost to them two weeks ago; our performance today was much better than the outside assessment."

"Getting these three points has rekindled our hopes, and the atmosphere in the locker room has become much more relaxed. But the games ahead will still be tough."

When the reporter mentioned Deschamps' Monaco's 9-3 victory over Deportivo La Coruña, Wenger leaned forward slightly, a hint of satisfaction flashing in his eyes.

“Deschamps has done a great job,” Wenger said calmly. “Roy has shown amazing talent, which is rare for his age. He is now one of the best strikers in Europe.”

Wenger paused for a moment, then cautiously added: "As for whether he can become the best in the world, that will take time to prove. He is still young and needs to stay focused and continue to improve. But there is no doubt that he has all the potential to become a top player."

"The important thing is to be down-to-earth. Talent is just the starting point; professional attitude and continuous improvement are the key. I believe Deschamps will help him continue to grow."

国际米兰被莫斯科火车头1-1逼平，目前只以7分领跑小组。莫斯科火车头积5分排在第三位。雷科巴状态复苏，最近4天打进2球，扎切罗尼上任后球队3场不败。

Arsenal still theoretically have a chance to compete for the top spot in the group.

"We will still do our best to finish first in the group and advance. The most important thing now is to play our own game well."

Henry was interviewed while standing in the mixed zone.

When the reporter mentioned Monaco's 9-3 victory over Deportivo La Coruña, Henry's smile froze for a moment.

"Roy?" Henry smirked. "That kid's great; he can help us a lot with the national team."

Before the reporter could press further, Henry adopted his senior national team leader demeanor, patting the other person on the shoulder: "Seriously, if he doesn't get the Golden Boy award this year..."

He shook his head and laughed, "Then this award is meaningless."

He learned this phrase from Roy.

Not long ago, facing reporters' microphones, Roy's eyes were firm and sincere: "Henry? He certainly deserves the Ballon d'Or. Look at his stats, look at his performance on the pitch—the title of Best Striker of the Year says it all. I know some people will say, 'But Arsenal didn't win the Premier League title this year.' But titles are never the only criterion for judging a player, are they?"

"Moreover, with Henry's ability and Arsenal's current form, I believe the Premier League title this season will soon belong to them."

That night, the Stade Louis II witnessed a rewriting of Champions League history.

Monaco's 9-3 thrashing of Deportivo La Coruña shattered two long-standing records like a hammer blow – the most goals in a single game (previously 7) and the most goals in total (previously 9).

Coincidentally, both records originally came from the same match: Paris Saint-Germain's 7-2 victory over Rosenborg in 2000, in which a young Anelka scored two goals.

Before that, there had only been 5 matches in Champions League history with 8 goals in a single game.

A six-goal margin allowed Monaco to equal the record for the largest margin of defeat in the Champions League.

这个纪录要追溯到欧冠联赛元年，1992年埃因霍温6-0血洗立陶宛球队维尔纽斯；八年后，利兹联同样以6-0羞辱了土耳其的贝西克塔斯。

In the list of teams with a goal difference of 5 or more, Barcelona leads with 3 such victories, followed by Real Madrid and Monaco with 2 each. Other teams that have achieved this feat include Manchester United, Chelsea, Porto, Spartak Moscow, Grasshoppers, Rangers, Rosenborg, Valencia, and Juventus. Barcelona and Chelsea, in particular, achieved these dominant away wins.

Croatian striker Pulso has etched his name into the annals of Champions League history.

他成为第三个单场独进四球的球员，前两位都是响当当的人物：1992年范巴斯滕代表米兰4-0哥德堡时包办全部进球（含1个点球），2000年小因扎吉在拉齐奥5-1马赛的比赛中同样上演大四喜。

Even more astonishingly, all four of Pulso's goals were scored in the first half, setting a new record for individual goals in the first half of the Champions League.

When the final whistle blew, the score of 9-3 on the scoreboard was like a lightning bolt, forever etched in the annals of Champions League history.

The high score in the match shocked many media outlets afterward.

UEFA's official website, UEFA.com, concluded after the match that Deportivo's underestimation of Monaco's attacking capabilities led to their heavy defeat. Even after Deportivo's narrow 1-0 loss to Monaco at home on October 21st, Irureta remained confident they could achieve something at the Stade Louis II. Since the start of the season, Monaco has yet to lose a home game in either Ligue 1 or the Champions League, boasting an impressive 11-game unbeaten run in Ligue 1, tied with Arsenal as one of only two unbeaten teams this season. While the leagues differ in intensity, this demonstrates their dominance.

In the last seven years of European league matches, Monaco has only lost once at the Stade Louis II.

The Spanish newspaper AS headlined it "Monaco's 'San Sebastián Night'".

Borrowing the image of the Catholic martyr who was "pierced by a thousand arrows" by the Roman Emperor Diocletian during the persecution of Christianity in the third century, the imagery is used to allude to the goal-scoring frenzy that Deportivo La Coruña is experiencing.

Marca's headline in red reads "A historic disgrace." Pesadilla! Caos! Humillación! Sonrojo! Nightmare, chaos, shame, humiliation. All the most despicable words were used to describe the utterly crushed defeat of Deportivo La Coruña.

The Times ran the headline "Monaco's Red Hurricane," accompanied by a close-up of Pulso's roar as he celebrated his goal.

A Guardian columnist lamented: "This is not a competition, but a public execution."

The front page of L'Équipe was entirely red, with the headline: "A Bloody Night of Revelry at the Stade Louis II".

France Football: "Monaco turns football into a 9-square game."

Mundo Deportivo: "Barcelona's coaching staff urgently reviewed match footage."

Bild: "The Laco Line resembles the bombed Maginot Line."

Kicker: "Monaco's terrifying efficiency of 9 goals from 14 shots."

The Italian sports newspaper "La Gazzetta dello Sport" focused on the fact that "Inzaghi's record was equaled after only three years."

Tuttosport warns: "What will happen when Juventus faces them?"

The locker room still smelled faintly of champagne. Rothen, shirtless, patted each of his teammates on the shoulder: "We have to go to 'Jimmy'z' tonight to celebrate, no one is allowed to miss it!"

The diamond stud in his left ear dazzled under the light.

Evra was the first to jump up and respond, throwing his wet jersey to the ground.

Alfakiri and Squillaci also joined in with smiles.

“I won’t go,” Juli said, packing her backpack. “I promised to put the child to sleep.”

Rothen's smile froze on his face, and the corners of his mouth slowly drooped down.

"Here we go again," he muttered under his breath, his eyes full of disappointment.

In a corner, Pulso was on the phone in Croatian: "Are Mom and Dad waiting for me outside the stadium? Okay, coming right away."

Explain in French after hanging up.

Before he could finish speaking, Luo Teng flicked his buttocks with a towel.

Roy was getting dressed in casual clothes and about to get up when Rothen suddenly grabbed his wrist: "Hey, won't our hat-trick master spoil the fun?"

His arms were sweaty.

Rothen exclaimed, "Roy is all alone at home now. What's he going to do at home? Read a book? My God!"

He made an exaggerated facepalm gesture, "The last time I wanted to ask him out to pick up girls, guess what he was watching? 'Akhri Poteh!'"

Roy had just put on his jacket when he heard this and immediately laughed in anger. He grabbed a water bottle from the locker room and threw it at Rothen: "That's Harry Potter, you idiot, don't you know what a bestseller is?!"

Rothen nimbly dodged the water bottle, not forgetting to wink at the others: "Whatever!"

He deliberately imitated a British accent in his English, saying, "Anyway, that's all the stuff the British write—"

He counted on his fingers, "First page: rain; second page: tea; third page: knitting; fourth page—bang! Someone's dead!" Then, he exaggeratedly mimicked a British detective adjusting his monocle, "And then three hundred pages are all about 'Dear Watson, the murderer's scones were poisoned.'"

He paused for a moment, then turned to look at Roy, "What's the name of that bear who always wears pajamas?"

“Paddington Bear!” Roy replied with a straight face.

“Yes! It’s that stowaway who’s always loitering around the train station! If you ask me, the British always use the same three tricks in their writing—” he suddenly lowered his voice and said mysteriously, “either they use some mystical magic, or they solve a case over afternoon tea on a rainy day, or they make up some animal stories to fool children.”

Evra immediately chimed in: "It's still better than their football! I've read Beckham's biography—"

He also pinched his nose and imitated a British accent: "'I drank eight cups of tea after training today! My new mohawk is so shiny! That old man with the red nose is so fierce, he smashed a teacup in the locker room again, but I am the pride of England!' Suddenly, he twisted his waist and did a classic Spice Girls dance move, 'Oui oui! I love Victoria's Spice Girls dance!'"

A burst of laughter erupted in the locker room.

Roy chuckled in exasperation: "Fine, let's go to the nightclub! But you're paying."

"make a deal!"

Late at night, Jimmy'z Monte-Carlo nightclub in Monaco was brightly lit.

The heavy glass door opened and closed repeatedly, and deafening music poured out with each opening.

"Nightclub Prince" Luo Teng was very familiar with the place.

“Today’s DJ is David Guetta,” he shouted into Roy’s ear. “That lunatic just came from the asylum… no, the Crazy Horse show!”

"Love Don't Let Me Go" is resonating throughout the space through the top-notch sound system, with the bass making the dance floor floor tremble slightly.

"Gentlemen, this way please."

The manager, dressed in a custom Armani suit, strode forward, his eyes lighting up when he saw Roy. "We've reserved the best box for Monaco's heroes."

The girls by the dance floor whispered among themselves, their eyes frequently glancing at the group of new guests.

The bartender behind the bar skillfully swirled the shaker, the ice cubes striking the metal glass with a crisp sound.

On the DJ booth, renowned French DJ David-Guetta, wearing headphones, rapidly glides his fingers across the mixer.

The crowd in the dance floor swayed to the music, and occasionally champagne foam would splash onto the floor, which was quickly wiped clean by the waiters.

Roy loosened the collar of his jacket, the subtle patterns on the fabric faintly visible under the nightclub lights.

Rothen's blond hair was tinged a purplish-red by the neon lights. He leaned closer and said with a smile, "Guess what Ludo said? 'To put the kids to sleep'?!"

He suddenly adopted a high-pitched voice, imitating Giuly's son's baby voice: "'Daddy beat Deportivo 9-3 today! Daddy is a hero!'"

Roy followed Rothen up to the second floor.

Inside the VIP box, leather sofas are arranged in a semicircle, and chilled champagne and fresh fruit are placed on the coffee table. Through the glass railing, the entire nightclub can be seen.

Downstairs on the dance floor, my teammates were already having a great time.

Evra and Bernardi were seen appearing and disappearing at the edge of the dance floor.

Squillaci was leaning against the bar when a woman in a black leather skirt pressed against him, the hem of her skirt riding up slightly with her movements.

As the music played, her body writhed like a snake, her silver-nailed fingers climbing up Squillaci's chest.

Roy shook his drink. "'The sheriff' is about to be captured by the female bandit!"

Rothen raised an exaggerated eyebrow: "Which Squillaci are you referring to?"

The two looked at each other and burst into laughter, their laughter drowned out by the suddenly louder music.

At the bar, Squillaci's right hand had already slid down to the woman's waist, the fabric of her black leather skirt wrinkling between his fingers.

The woman suddenly threw her head back and laughed, her long neck drawing a graceful arc under the light, her red lips almost touching Squillaci's chin.

Alfakiri and Givet were surrounded by several girls in sparkly short skirts around a round table in the corner, on which sat half a dozen cocktails with small umbrellas attached.

Rothen placed the wine glass on the table, the bottom of the glass making a crisp sound as it tapped on the marble surface.

He leaned closer to Roy and lowered his voice, saying, "Listen, you're the hottest rising star in Europe right now, making 40,000 euros a week. Countless girls are lining up to get to know you."

Roy looked down and swirled the glass.

Rothen continued, "Your girlfriend is becoming famous so fast; now fashion shows in Milan, Paris, and New York are all vying for her."

He paused deliberately, "On the night you were alone in your empty room."

Roy grabbed a piece of ice and threw it at Rothen: "Go to hell!"

"Ouch!" Rothen jumped up dramatically, laughing as he splashed ice water at Roy's face. "Getting angry? Looks like I was right!"

"Want me to teach you how to get revenge dating? I guarantee it'll be more exciting than your goal highlight reel."

"I've already come up with a character design for you."

He held up three fingers, bending one as he mentioned something: "First, he always hinted in post-game interviews that he was single; second, he was photographed always drinking only mineral water at nightclubs; third, he deliberately made his teammates call him 'Saint Roy' in the locker room."

He turned Roy's shoulder, a shrewd glint in his eyes: "Brother, you've got to be the most sought-after bachelor in Europe."

The dance floor lights swept across Roy's face, and Rothen patted him on the shoulder: "In that case, your 'girlfriend' isn't a model."

He drawled out the words, “Instead, you can look into the distance—you know what that means? Every hot girl here tonight could be your date.”

Roy's gaze swept across the nightclub, taking in the scene around the dance floor.

On the high stool in the lower right corner, a blonde girl in a silver sequined mini-skirt crossed her legs, the pointed toes of her strappy high heels lightly touching the ground. She was stirring her cocktail with a straw, her eyes glancing this way from time to time, the corners of her mouth, painted with berry-colored lipstick, slightly upturned.

Not far away, two dark-haired girls leaned against the bar. One wore a black lace camisole, her chest barely concealed, while the other wore a tight red dress that barely covered her thighs. They pretended to chat, but every time Roy's gaze swept over them, the girl in the red dress would deliberately flick her hair, revealing a diamond stud earring dangling from her earlobe.

At the edge of the dance floor, a Latina girl with a high ponytail swayed gently to the music. Her bright green miniskirt stood out under the neon lights, and the chain belt around her waist jingled with each movement. She held a half-empty glass of tequila, but her gaze remained fixed on Roy, even deliberately turning to let her skirt billow, revealing a glimpse of her tanned thigh. Further away, a brown-haired woman in a deep-V red velvet dress leaned against a pillar, a slender cigarette between her fingers. She barely moved, but each time smoke escaped her red lips, her gaze would pierce through the swirling smoke, fixed intently on Roy's direction.

The entire nightclub seemed to have become a silent hunting ground, and each of these girls was conveying the same signal through their eyes, postures, and even the rhythm of their breathing—they were waiting for an opportunity.

Rothen grinned, raising his glass: "A bachelor is the least likely to be single."

Roy finally couldn't hold back any longer and sneered, "Damn, Putain, you know dialectics?"

Rothen drew out his words, his eyes sweeping meaningfully across the nightclub, "Only bachelors have no shortage of companions, otherwise you'll end up like Ludo."

He paused deliberately, letting Roy imagine it for himself.

Giuly is probably holed up in his apartment right now, putting his kids to sleep while watching his goal highlights on TV and grinning like an idiot.

“Think about it yourself,” Rothen said, taking a sip of his drink and narrowing his eyes meaningfully. “I don’t think you’re that kind of person.”

His gaze swept over the eager girls by the dance floor, then returned to Roy's face. "You're that kind of person."

He lowered his voice, "You'd rather have all the girls in Europe lose sleep over you than be tied down by one person, right?"

In the distance, Squillaci was being dragged by the tie towards the VIP area by the red-haired woman, while Evra, with women on either side of him, was smiling like a victor.

Rothen raised his glass, a playful smile on his lips: "So... a toast to liberty?"

Roy glanced at him sideways, gently pinched the stem of the glass with his fingers, flicked his wrist, and lazily pushed it forward. The two glasses clinked together, the crisp sound particularly clear amidst the noisy music.

"To freedom."

Roy's voice was somewhat nonchalant, but his gaze swept past the rim of his glass to the eager figures on the dance floor downstairs.

The girls who get into Jimmy'z all look like they stepped out of a fashion magazine; those priceless luxury goods are just their entry tickets into this circle.

They were all waiting, waiting for a nouveau riche like Roy to lead them across that invisible class barrier.

Roy took a sip of his drink and felt a bit bored—these girls were beautiful, but they all said the same things over and over again, and even the curve of their smiles seemed to be cut from the same mold.

"Jerome, this is truly a rare guest!"

The woman's red lips were almost touching Rothen's ear, but her eager gaze went past him, fixed intently on Roy. The diamond ring on her left hand sparkled under the light, while her right hand had already naturally rested on Rothen's thigh.

Rothen laughed and put his arm around her waist: "Baby, I'm not the star of the show tonight."

The woman chuckled softly at his words, her fingers, painted with scarlet nail polish, seemingly unintentionally brushing against Rothen's shirt collar, but her eyes never left Roy's face.

She leaned forward slightly, the cleavage beneath her deep V-neckline faintly visible, her left leg elegantly crossed over her right, her strappy high heels swaying gently in mid-air.

The woman leaned close to Rothen's ear and whispered, "Our Monaco's devil."

The toe of her shoe hooked onto Rothen's calf. "Looks like you need to make some new friends?"

Rothen casually tossed her hair, his eyes fixed on Roy: "Ignore him—"

He pursed his lips, "This kid is both hungry and picky about food."

Just then, there was a gentle knock on the door of the private room. The manager strode in, bowed slightly, and handed a silver tray to Roy.

On the tray lay an invitation with gold foil edging, bearing the Renault team's diamond logo.

“Mr. Roy,” the manager said in a low voice, “a guest has invited you to come over for a chat.”

Roy picked up the invitation and opened it. At the bottom was a flamboyant signature—Flavio Briatore, owner of the Renault F1 team.

The invitation simply read: "Celebration champagne is ready on deck, the Force Blue awaits tonight's brightest star."

Almost simultaneously, Roy's phone screen, which was on the coffee table, lit up.

He picked it up casually, and a text message was displayed on the screen: "Want to grab a drink after winning the game? - Kimi".

Roy's lips curled into a slight smile.

Do McLaren drivers hang out with the Renault boss every day?
Kimi Räikkönen, the Finnish Iceman, although he competes abroad most of the time, has settled down in Monaco, just like most F1 drivers.

This decadent city-state is only so big, and as Roy's fame has risen, he has already made many acquaintances with sports stars at various parties and private cocktail parties.

He glanced at Rothen, who was already flirting with a model, and followed the manager out.

Walk through the noisy nightclub and take a private elevator directly to the top floor.

Pushing open the fire door, the night wind rushed in, and the airflow from the helicopter rotor ruffled his hair.

“Five-minute flight,” the pilot shouted, helping Roy fasten his seatbelt.

The helicopter took off, and the neon lights of Monaco gradually shrank below. In less than the time it takes to drink a glass of champagne, a dazzling light appeared on the dark sea—it was a yacht that was at least 63 meters long, with a blue glow on its deck pool and figures moving about.

The blue and white luxury yacht gleamed coldly in the moonlight, its three decks brightly lit. A champagne tower shimmered by the bar, where waiters moved about carrying silver trays.

"Welcome to the Palace at Sea." The manager bowed and stepped back.

As Roy stepped onto the teak deck, the sea breeze carried a mixture of champagne, cigars, and fine perfumes.

As Roy stepped onto the gangway, Raikkonen was leaning against the yacht's railing, puffing on a cigarette.

The Finn raised his glass to him with the hand holding the cigarette, the ice cubes clinking in the whiskey.

“You’re late enough,” Raikkonen’s voice was deeper than the engine’s roar. “Briatoli has already opened his third bottle of champagne.”

He flicked his cigarette ash, the sparks tracing tiny arcs in the sea breeze.

Roy took the glass from the waiter and lightly clinked it against Raikkonen's: "Call me late when your new engine can finish the race."

He glanced at his watch deliberately, "On what lap was the last time you withdrew from the race?"

Raikkonen's lips twitched almost imperceptibly; it was the biggest smile he could muster.

He exhaled a smoke ring: "At least my car won't spontaneously combust in the repair shop."

"You're playing with Briatore, and your team doesn't care?" Roy asked in a low voice.

Raikkonen gave a knowing smile: "McLaren's contract doesn't say I can't drink with the Renault boss."

He swirled his glass. "Besides, everything that happens here will become a Monte Carlo legend the next day. The convoy? They'd love to have more of those 'legends'."

The heated pool on the lower deck rippled, and seven or eight young women in their early twenties were playing in the water. A blonde girl wearing an almost transparent white bikini, the wet fabric clinging to her full curves, was being supported by an F1 driver as she floated on the surface, laughing hysterically.

Two brown-haired girls next to them splashed water at each other and played around. Their strappy bikinis came undone during the play, revealing large areas of their honey-colored skin.

In a corner of the pool, an Italian football star was teaching an Eastern European model how to swim on her back, his arm around her slender waist. The girl's long legs splashed across the water, creating sparkling sprays.

Whenever they swam near the pool, their wet hair would sway and create a fragrant breeze, prompting the men on the shore to raise their glasses in greeting.

Flavio Briatore, the host of the party, stood in the center. The Italian wore a silk shirt with the collar open, revealing his tanned chest. He had one arm around the slender waist of German supermodel Heidi Klum, and held a glass of champagne in the other, surveying his territory.

Briatore is both the owner of the Renault team and a notorious party animal. He started out selling clothes and later made his fortune in F1 and real estate, amassing a fortune of hundreds of millions. By day, he yells at the engineers at the team, and by night, he gambles away fortunes at casinos in Monte Carlo, his favorite game being blackjack, always saying, "Adventure is my salary."

Inside the yacht, a semi-open-air bar features interplay of light and shadow, and the sounds of people can be heard.

Montoya was standing behind the bar, performing acrobatic tricks with a cocktail shaker, drawing gasps from several models around him—this Colombian driver always knew how to be the center of attention.

In the corner, Fernando Alonso was looking down at his phone, the blue light of the screen reflecting on his serious face as the phone beeped.

Tennis player Amélie Mauresmo's face immediately darkened when she saw Roy enter.

She also remembers that embarrassing match at the French Open this summer—Roy not only publicly cheered for Serena Williams, but also led the applause after her crushing defeat.

When pressed by the media afterward, this arrogant young football star refused to say a single polite word.

Young tennis star Richard Gasquet was also present, looking somewhat reserved; he hadn't yet learned how to navigate the world of fame and fortune.

At 15 years and 10 months old, he became the youngest player in ATP Tour history to win his first title at the 2002 Monte Carlo Masters.

"Our football golden boy has finally arrived!"

Briatore's voice pierced through the sea breeze and music on the yacht deck.

He opened his arms to Roy, the aroma of cologne and cigar filling the air.

The lights on the three decks flickered behind him, illuminating his tanned chest.

"I witnessed your performance from the stands – Monaco's 9-3 thrashing of Deportivo La Coruña, one of the craziest nights in Champions League history!"

He exaggeratedly gestured to describe the goal-scoring action, saying, "That lob shot that chipped over the goalkeeper at the start of the game was simply an insult to the Spanish!"

He grabbed Roy's shoulder, the three gemstone rings on his fingers digging painfully into him: "Real Madrid wants you to play alongside Raul and Ronaldo. Is Ferguson saving the number 7 for you?"

He suddenly lowered his voice, "But I know what you're thinking—the way Deschamps looked at you on the sidelines today was like he was looking at his own son."

Briatore winked mysteriously: "Let me introduce you to a friend. People in your football circle should have a lot to talk about."

He turned and called out towards the pool, "Mino! Come meet our rising star!"

Mino Raiola's wrinkled linen blazer was casually open, and his tie hung loosely around his neck.

He was biting into a slice of Margherita pizza, the cheese stretching out in long strands.

Seeing Roy approach, he immediately put down the pizza, carefully wiped each finger with a silk handkerchief, then crossed his hands in front of him and bowed slightly.

“Mr. Roy,” his voice was softer than usual, with obvious respect, “I finally have the opportunity to express my admiration in person.”

He extended his freshly wiped right hand, moving it a few seconds slower than usual, as if waiting for a response.

When Roy extended his hand to shake, Raiola deliberately adjusted the strength of his handshake—neither too enthusiastic to appear obsequious, nor too casual to appear disrespectful.

A light press of his thumb on the back of Roy's hand was a subtle gesture that conveyed both respect and hinted at a potential for close collaboration.

"Please forgive my rudeness," he said, gesturing to the pizza on the plate beside him, a perfectly timed apologetic smile playing on his lips. "I just finished discussing transfer matters with several club presidents and haven't had a chance yet."

Before he finished speaking, he had already subtly signaled the waiter to remove the fast food.

“I finally met Monaco’s new prince today,” Raiola said in a hoarse but loud voice. “I’ve seen your stats, and you’re much better than Ibrahimovic was at 19.”

He took a bite of the pizza, the cheese stretching into long strands. "But that kid's at Ajax now, I make him practice his left foot three times a week."

The yacht's searchlight swept across Raiola's sweaty forehead, which he nonchalantly wiped with the back of his hand. "Moggi asked me last week, 'Mino, when is that French kid coming to the Stadio delle Alpi?'"

He patted his round belly and laughed, "I told him to get the checkbook ready first!"

Briatore leaned back on the leather sofa and smiled, like a director admiring his own masterpiece.

The ripples in the pool reflected blue light onto his face, creating flickering patterns.

Raiola leaned closer to Roy, his garlic scent mingling with his cologne: "Listen, kid, Deschamps is a good coach, but no matter how big Monaco's swimming pool is, it can't compare to the Bernabéu's pitch."

He blinked. "Or the Alps of Turin."

Roy smiled slightly, his gaze sweeping over the top agent.

He is indeed considering changing his current agent, but not now, and certainly not at someone else's yacht party.

Value? Of course I have it.

But cooperation is a two-way street—you have to prove yourself worthy of that value first.

Sincerity cannot be proven by a few glasses of champagne.

Want to talk? Sure.

But you have to follow my rules.

In other words: You have to respect me.

Roy smiled easily, tapping his fingertips lightly on the rim of his glass. "I suppose I'm here for a party, Mr. Mino. No football tonight."

Raiola suddenly fell silent, her shrewd eyes narrowing slightly as she lingered on Roy for a few seconds.

As one of the most astute agents in football, he understands better than anyone how to assess a player's value—this young man in front of him not only displays amazing goal-scoring statistics, but more importantly, he possesses an innate composure.

He single-handedly brought Nedved from Sparta Prague to Juventus, and is now doing everything he can to propel the Czech ironman to the Ballon d'Or throne.

This gesture made him look less like he was contemplating a business opportunity and more like he was admiring a perfect work of art.

At 19, Roy was practically a perfect product tailor-made for the modern football business empire—a terrifying average goal-scoring rate, striking mixed-race features, a composed demeanor when facing the media, and just the right amount of off-field buzz. All of this perfectly tapped into every profit-making point in the football industry.

He recalled the information he had spent three sleepless nights studying: Lille's youth training, Clairefontaine's "French lineage," La Fabrica's "pure lineage," the precise timing of his arrival at Monaco at 18, and even the timing of the scandal's exposure shortly before the transfer window opened—that Dutch girl who suddenly became popular was just a newcomer to the modeling world before Roy's scandal broke.

Raiola recalled the Dutch girl named Douchen Klos from the investigation report.

Just over six months ago, she was a newcomer at a small agency in Amsterdam, but now she has graced the cover of Vogue Paris, become ELLE's New Model of the Year, and was named "Most Anticipated New Face" in GQ's annual selection.

It's too perfect, too perfect to be a coincidence.

“A brilliant choice,” Raiola thought to himself. “A story of an ordinary girl’s rise to fame is more likely to generate a media frenzy than dating a top supermodel like Gisele Bündchen.”

“Interesting,” Raiola muttered in Italian. He had been in the industry for ten years and had seen too many so-called “geniuses.”

But behind someone like Roy, who steps so precisely at every crucial juncture in his career, there must be a cunning old fox who is well-versed in football politics.

This level of image management is something that ordinary agents cannot plan.

He was almost certain that behind Roy stood a seasoned veteran who knew the rules of the media game—a manipulator who knew how to turn football talent into commercial value.

Alan Milaccio is indeed a veteran agent in French football, holding a trump card like Zinedine Zidane in his hands.

But Raiola knows this industry too well—Migliaccio excels at traditional transfer negotiations, not this kind of precise, top-down image marketing.

“You know,” Raiola finally spoke, his voice a few decibels lower than usual, “some players are born knowing how to play this game with ease.”

He swirled his wine glass meaningfully. "However."

Raiola placed his wine glass on the teak railing, the sea breeze ruffling his thinning hair.

He turned around, looked directly into Roy's eyes, and spoke in a low but clear voice:
“Listen, kid. A genius like you doesn’t need a middleman to negotiate contracts for you, but a ‘godmaker’ who can turn you into a legend.”

He held up three short, stubby fingers, bending one down with each word he spoke:
"First, a career choice is not about choosing a club, but about choosing a place in history."

“Go to Real Madrid? Sure. But you have to make sure you’re the star player, not someone’s supporting role. Just like when Zidane transferred from Juventus, nobody saw him as ‘the next so-and-so’.”

"Secondly, business is not about accepting endorsements, but about building an empire."

“Adidas, L’Oréal and the like are just the beginning. Real players should be like Beckham, turning their names into trademarks. Your ‘ROI10’ shouldn’t just be printed on your jersey, but should appear on billboards, magazine covers, and even Hollywood movies.”

"Third, public opinion is not public relations, but a means of rewriting history."

"The Ballon d'Or? The judges' ballot boxes aren't filled with data, they're filled with personal connections. Just like how I made Nedved a favorite this year, not because he's the best player in Serie A, but because I showed the world his 'iron man spirit'."

Raiola suddenly leaned closer:

"You want to be the best player? Then you have to accept that from today onward, every transfer, every shot, and even every smile you make must serve this goal."

He took a step back and spread his hands: "Of course, the price is that you can no longer 'just play football'. Your life will be broken down into numbers, and you'll even have to consider the exposure when choosing who to date."

The sea breeze carried away the last sentence.

Raiola knew that the concept of a "super agent" did not exist in the football world in 2003.

But he had already foreseen the future—when commerce completely invades football, geniuses like Roy will either become rule-makers or become pawns of others.

These words will either make Roy scoff, or they will plant a seed of ambition in his heart.

Regardless of the reaction, he has already won—because when players start thinking about “legend” rather than just “contracts,” they are bound to need a strategist like him.

Roy raised his eyebrows slightly.

Raiola caught this subtle reaction, and a confident smile appeared on his lips.

"Do you know what I said to Zlatan in Ajax?"

He suddenly changed the subject, slapping his thick hand on the teak railing, "Back then, that Swedish kid only knew how to play football using taekwondo moves."

He mimicked Ibrahimovic's accent: "'Mino, I'm going to be number one in the world!'"

The yacht's searchlight swept across Raiola's shiny face: "I told him—forget 'number one in the world,' you want to be 'God.'"

He pulled a photo of Ibrahimovic in the Ajax dressing room from his pocket. In the picture, the tall, thin Swede was striking a regal pose in front of the mirror.

"See this tattoo?" He pointed to the faintly visible lion totem on Ibrahimovic's back, with an image of the Hindu deity Deva on the lion's face. "It wasn't just a random tattoo. Every time he takes off his shirt to celebrate, the cameras capture it—now the entire Dutch media calls him 'the Norse god.'"

Roy scoffed, but he was an Eastern European.

Raiola lowered his voice, mimicking Ibrahimovic's distinctive deep tone: "'Only God can judge me,' that's what I taught him to say in the locker room, when at least six reporters happened to be there."

“Last month I told him, ‘Zlatan, next time a reporter asks about your goal, just say it was a miracle.’”

Raiola suddenly lowered his voice, "And the result? The next day, the Telegraph's front page headline was 'Ajax has a football god!'"

He took a big gulp of whiskey, the ice clinking in the glass: "Now, defenders from small Dutch teams tremble in their knees when facing him, not because they're afraid of his skills, but because they're afraid they're really fighting against a 'god'."

The stubby finger suddenly pointed at Roy's chest: "And you, you're more perfect than him. What you need isn't a persona."

"It is divinity."

Roy suddenly spoke, his voice so soft it was almost drowned out by the sound of the waves.

But Raiola heard it, and his pupils suddenly contracted; he had guessed right.

"Exactly!"

The Italian was so excited his tie was askew. "Zidane became a legend with the World Cup and Champions League, Figo was crowned with the Ballon d'Or. But you have better conditions—mixed-race features can appeal to the European and American markets, Asian heritage naturally creates a sense of familiarity with Asia, I've heard you also understand their traditional culture, and your French background can tap into the African market, plus..."

He glanced meaningfully toward the swimming pool, "Those meticulously planned 'miracles'."

The sound of a champagne bottle being popped came from afar. Raiola took the opportunity to lean close to Roy's ear and said, "Imagine that next year in the Champions League final, after you score a goal, you say to the camera, 'This isn't a shot, it's an oracle.'"

He took two steps back to observe Roy's reaction. "I bet the Vatican newspapers will be talking about you the next day."

Roy gently smoothed the wrinkles on his sleeve and looked up at Raiola: "Mino, my team is already doing what you've mentioned. And—"

He smiled slightly. "I guess you think we did a good job too."

He picked up his glass and took a sip, letting Raiola process the weight of his words.

“So the question is simple,” Roy said calmly, “what can you bring that my team can’t provide?”

The sea breeze suddenly became strong, causing the flags on the yacht to flutter loudly.

Raiola's smile froze for a moment—he realized that the young man in front of him was not an ordinary player who could be swayed by money.

This isn't about commission rates; it's about asking: what value do you offer that others can't provide?
The Italian loosened his tie and suddenly laughed: "Interesting."

He put down his wine glass, placed his hands on the railing, and said, "It seems we need to find a different way to talk."

The sea breeze tousled his hair.

Being able to talk means there's an opportunity.

Roy said softly, "Maybe we should try another time."

(Sorry, there were errors in the information, and the plot was almost entirely rewritten.)
(End of this chapter)