When playing football, you should call it GOAT.

Chapter 135 Florentino's Waterloo

A strange tension filled the air as the players from both teams lined up in the Bernabéu tunnel.

The Real Madrid players' eyes involuntarily swept towards the row of red jerseys.

Casillas noticed that Monaco goalkeeper Roma was tapping his thigh repeatedly with his fingers.

Carlos's fierce gaze met Maicon's—this young Brazilian dared to glare back without flinching, a provocative smirk playing on his lips.

When Raul looked at Morientes, both of them quickly looked away.

The most eye-catching one is Roy.

The young man, who had been wearing a polite smile during the pre-match training session, now had only a cold calm on his face.

Zidane couldn't help but glance at him a few more times; that look reminded him of himself before the 1998 World Cup final.

Twelve-year-old Daniel Carvajal held Roy's hand tightly.

This Real Madrid youth academy student, who had been wondering if Roy would come back, is now too afraid to even breathe.

The little boy's palms were sweaty, but Roy's hands remained motionless like iron clamps.

The Monaco players stood ramrod straight, each one staring intently at the Real Madrid star opposite them.

There was no fear in their eyes, only a naked desire, like a group of mercenaries who had already smelled blood.

When the referee blew the whistle to let the team enter the field, the entire Monaco team suddenly took a step forward in unison, the sound of their studs hitting the ground echoing in the tunnel.

Casillas clearly saw that Rome's fingers finally stopped tapping, and the gloves that had been tapping his thighs suddenly slammed together with a loud "smack".

The moment the two teams stepped out of the passage, blinding lights and deafening noise hit them simultaneously.

Eighty thousand white figures danced wildly in the Bernabéu stands, their cheers crashing against the eardrums like a tsunami.

The raw, green smell of grass mixed with the scent of sweat hit my nostrils.

The referee's blue uniform was particularly eye-catching.

Roy glanced at the countless distorted, screaming faces in the stands and suddenly grinned.

He felt his blood boiling, as if a fire was burning from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

Under the lights of the Bernabéu, the 80,000 seats revealed the face of the world.

On the top-floor, cheap stands, Madrid's workers and prostitutes huddled together, drinking cheap beer and grumbling.

Lawyers and teachers in suits sat in the middle tier of the stands, occasionally stealing glances at the VIP area.

In the VIP section, King Juan Carlos I of Spain and Prime Minister Aznar sat side by side, while Adidas CEO Herbert Hainer sat in the adjacent box.

Real Madrid legend Alfredo Di Stéfano sat in his reserved seat, while Zinedine Zidane's first coach, Jean Varo, an elderly Frenchman who had come all the way from Marseille in an old jacket, was seated in a corner of the stands.

Inside the private box, Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz held champagne glasses, while Saudi Prince Alwaleed's bodyguards stood in the back row.

In the stands, Trezeguet and Thuram, wearing baseball caps with the brims pulled low, sat among the crowd.

Reporters caught a glimpse of the French stars, but no one was interested in interviewing Serie A players tonight; all the cameras were focused on Ronaldo and Roy on the pitch.

In the players' family area, Douchen Klose was squeezed in the middle by a group of screaming models.

Du Chen turned his head and saw Figo's wife Helen and Raul's wife Mammon sitting together.

Further away sat Morientes' wife, Victoria, the only football star's wife she knew, but there were too many people between them, making it difficult to even wave.

Beckham's wife, Victoria, sat in the most prominent position.

Every time the camera pans across her, she immediately flashes her signature smile and expertly blows a kiss to the lens.

The models around her were shouting excitedly at Roy on stage, even more so than she, his official girlfriend, could only manage a weak shout to cheer along.

Different people, different positions, all eyes were fixed on the same patch of grass.

In the center of the field, Giuly and Raul stood on either side of the referee.

The coin bounces up and falls.

Real Madrid kicks off first.

The whistle blew, and Raul gently passed the ball to Ronaldo, as the Bernabéu erupted in deafening cheers.

White and red shirts instantly intertwined on the green field, forming flowing blocks of color.

Ronaldo passed back to Beckham, and the Englishman quickly passed the ball to Figo on the wing.

The moment the Portuguese player touched the ball, Monaco's Bernardi charged at him like a truck.

Figo stumbled and poked the ball to Zidane. As the French maestro looked up, he caught a glimpse of red out of the corner of his eye.

Roy has already been associated with Beckham.

The Englishman had just turned to receive the ball when he instinctively pushed it away with his hand, but Roy used the momentum to bump him with his arm and then pulled him away.

The two engaged in a clandestine battle in the camera's blind spot. Beckham frowned and rubbed his ribs, while Roy nonchalantly continued his charge toward Zidane, who had the ball.

The Frenchman deftly pulled the ball back and turned, and Squillaci's flying tackle only grazed the hem of his jersey.

"Zidane! A brilliant pass!"

The stands erupted in cheers.

With a flick of his ankle, the ball pierced through Monaco's defense and found Carlos making a run into the box.

The Brazilian unleashed a powerful left-footed shot, and Abidal desperately stretched out his leg to block it, sending the ball crashing into the advertising board with a "bang."

Inside the private room, Florentino took a sip of red wine, a slight smile playing on his lips.

The big screen showed: 38 seconds into the match, Real Madrid launched their first threatening attack.

The Monaco players looked at each other, panting heavily. They knew that tonight's test had only just begun.

Real Madrid's corner kick was headed away by Abidal, and the ball flew towards the midfield.

Roy received the ball near the center circle, and Guti immediately pounced on him.

"Roy has the ball! Guti is marking him closely!" the commentator shouted.

Roy quickly changed direction three times in a row, flicking his right foot and pulling with his left.

Guti always stretched out his foot a beat too late, leaving several marks on the grass from his spikes.

A gasp of surprise rang out from the stands.

Salgado came from the flank to provide support.

Just as the two were about to double-team, Roy suddenly flicked the ball gently with his toe.

"Beautiful! A lobbed pass over the defender!"

The ball flew over Guti's head, and Roy accelerated to overtake from the outside.

Guti reached out to pull him, but only touched the hem of his clothes.

Roy dribbled forward, and when facing Rothen, he pushed the ball with the instep of his foot, completing a one-two pass between the two.

Helguera received the ball again at the edge of the penalty area, lowering his center of gravity and preparing for battle.

"Roy! Danger!"

He made two consecutive feints, then suddenly cut across.

At this moment, Morientes shook off Mejia and raised his hand to ask for the ball.

Roy flicked his ankle and delivered a precise diagonal pass.

"Cassie!" Cheers erupted from the stands.

Casillas charged out like a cheetah, diving to his side to collect the ball.

Morientes clapped his hands in frustration, while the Real Madrid goalkeeper roared at the defense: "Concentrate!"

Roy and Morientes exchanged a few quick words as they passed each other, both of them smiling simultaneously.

Morientes patted him on the back, while Roy clapped for the pitch, a gesture that turned some Real Madrid fans' boos into hesitant applause.

Guti stood five meters away, his face grim as he tugged at the hem of his ripped jersey.

Golden Wolf's gaze swept over Roy, and finally he spat fiercely onto the grass.

Inside the private room, Florentino put down his wine glass and leaned forward slightly.

2 minutes.

Beckham observed for a moment on the right side of the backfield, then suddenly took a shot.

The ball traced a smooth, quick arc and landed precisely in Figo's running path.

Monaco's left-back Evra rushed to intercept, but Figo gently flicked the ball with the outside of his right foot, changing its direction and sending it rolling towards the byline.

Figo caught up quickly and, just before the ball went out of bounds, suddenly cut back with the instep of his left foot!

Evra lost his balance and staggered as he reached out to grab someone, but grasped nothing.

The Portuguese player seized the opportunity to cut to the side and swept the ball towards the center of the penalty area with his golden right foot, which was no less impressive than Beckham's.

Raul made a ghostly run into the penalty area, and just as he was about to unleash a right-footed shot, Abidal leaped from behind to block it.

As he flew sideways, he subtly tugged at Raul's jersey with his left hand, a subtle distraction that made the Spanish striker's power slightly insufficient.

Raul instantly changed his shot into a dunk.

Inside the penalty area, Pedretti was using his entire back to firmly block Ronaldo.

The Brazilian star made three sudden changes of direction, but was still entangled by the French defensive midfielder with all his might.

Just before Raul passed the ball, Squillaci suddenly emerged from the blind side and made a precise sliding tackle to completely block Raul's attempt to pass to Ronaldo.

Ronaldo spread his hands in protest to the referee, but the referee indicated that it was a beautiful defensive play.

Deschamps clapped enthusiastically on the sidelines, and the Monaco substitutes erupted in cheers.

Meanwhile, on the Real Madrid coaching bench, Queiroz was gesturing to the fourth official to "pull someone up."

A sigh of regret rose from the stands, mixed with amazement at the defensive play.

Monaco goalkeeper Roma slapped his glove hard and gave Abidal a thumbs up.

Deschamps on the sidelines was furious, yelling in French, "Protect the second ball! Don't let them cross easily!"

His shouts even drowned out the gasps from the Bernabéu.

5 minutes.

Monaco launched a quick counter-attack, with Roy receiving the ball on the left wing, and Salgado immediately moving forward to block him.

Roy quickly swept his right foot across the ball, followed by a beautiful stepover feint with his left foot.

The Spanish full-back was tricked and lost his balance.

Just as Salgado hesitated, Roy suddenly used the inside of his right foot to cut the ball cleanly and decisively inside!
"Roy! Danger!" the Spanish commentator suddenly raised his voice. "This young man is too agile!"

After cutting inside, Roy didn't try to score, but calmly passed the ball across to Rothen in the middle.

The French attacking midfielder feigned a long-range shot, but at the moment of contact with the ball, he flicked his ankle and cleverly passed the ball to Morientes at the edge of the penalty area.

The former Real Madrid striker shielded the ball with his back to goal and calmly passed it back to Helguera despite being closely marked.

Roy got the ball again, and his feet moved as if performing a graceful dance.

First, he made a sudden stop and change of direction to shake off the defending Mejia, and then gently flicked the ball with the outside of his right foot, instantly opening up a shooting angle.

A gasp rippled through the Bernabéu stands, and the fans unconsciously held their breath.

"Shot!!!" The commentator almost cracked his voice.

Roy suddenly unleashed a powerful half-high ball in a very tight space, heading straight for the near corner!
Casillas leaped out like a cheetah, blocking the ball with one hand!

"An incredible save! Saint Casillas!"

The commentator shouted excitedly, and the entire Bernabéu stadium gasped.

Roy reacted quickly, immediately rushing towards the landing point to try and get a follow-up shot.

But Mejia, disregarding his image, made a diving header and headed the ball out of bounds with the back of his head.

When the Spanish center-back got up, his hair was disheveled, his face was flushed, and he was panting heavily.

Roy flashed his signature fanged smile and waved his hand in a gesture of regret.

Roy turned to face Casillas, raised his right eyebrow slightly, and smiled with a youthful air.

This moment was precisely captured by the broadcast cameras on the sidelines.

In London pubs, Parisian cafes, and Tokyo electronics stores, countless screens simultaneously displayed close-ups of the spirited 19-year-old striker.

Fine beads of sweat had formed on Roy's forehead, and a few strands of his black hair were slightly damp.

Monaco's red and white jerseys stood out brightly under the Bernabéu lights, rising and falling gently with his breath.

Those smiling eyes stared directly into the camera, as if proclaiming to the world through the screen: the real show has just begun.

In an apartment on the outskirts of Lille, Roy's first coach slapped his knee hard; in a hotel suite in Milan, several Serie A scouts leaned forward in unison.

The live viewership data in the lower right corner of the broadcast screen shows that the number of viewers worldwide is currently surpassing 1.2 million.

China.

At 3 a.m., four boys climbed over the school wall and sneaked into an illegal internet cafe outside the school.

The satellite signal that the boss was secretly connecting to using a large dish antenna was intermittent, and Roy's face on the screen appeared and disappeared amidst the static.

"Pay more and try a different approach!"

The third brother kicked the creaking computer case.

Suddenly the image became clear, and Roy was raising his wet eyebrows, his Monaco jersey standing out starkly against the blue-glowing screen.

The fourth guy dropped his half-eaten spicy snack on the ground: "Holy crap, this guy..."

In the 9th minute, Zidane received the ball near the center circle, and Bernardi immediately pounced fiercely.

The French master lightly tapped the ball with his left foot, feinted to the right, and suddenly pulled the ball back with his right heel, executing an elegant 360-degree turn. Bernardi was so fooled that he stumbled and missed his target!

A cheer of "Olé!" erupted from the stands.

Zidane looked up to observe, and with the outside of his right foot, he delivered a low, through ball that passed precisely between Abidal and Squillaci.

Ronaldo accelerated like lightning, getting to the ball before Maicon could track back!
"Ronaldo!"

The Bernabéu was in an uproar.

Ronaldo burst into the penalty area, his signature rabbit teeth biting his lower lip, his massive body like a tank at full throttle.

His right leg muscles were taut, and although the swing was small, it was full of explosive power.

Just as Ronaldo swung his leg, Squillaci suddenly sidestepped and squeezed in half a body length.

This subtle interference made the Brazilian's shooting motion slightly constrained.

"boom!"

The ball was still powerful and heavy, but the angle was a bit more accurate.

Rome's pupils constricted, and his heart raced.

He lowered his center of gravity and sprang to the side like a startled feline. The ball slammed into the center of his glove with a dull thud the moment his fists came together.

On the sidelines, Deschamps nervously tugged at his tie, drawing gasps from the Monaco bench.

Roy sprinted back from thirty meters away to defend, only arriving breathlessly at the edge of the penalty area.

The French television commentator's voice almost cracked: "A powerful shot! Roma proves themselves again—oh! Pedroti cleared it!"

After Roma parried the ball, it bounced right to the feet of the recovering Pedretti.

The French defensive midfielder launched a long ball forward without hesitation, but was knocked off balance by Carlos from the side as he passed the ball.

Rothen and Beckham arrived at the same time, their shoulders collided with a dull thud, and they both lost their balance and fell onto the grass.

The ball slipped through their tangled legs, and Guti and Giuly immediately lunged for the second point of contact.

Guti's sliding tackle sent grass clippings flying, but Giuly got there half a step ahead and poked the ball with his toe, then pulled it back and turned.

Guti's studs grazed the Frenchman's heel, causing Giuly to stagger, but before falling, he used the outside of his foot to sweep the ball to Roy in the middle.
Roy suddenly started moving! Salgado reached out to grab his jersey, but only managed to pull off a handful of air.

Monaco's winger flashed across the sideline like a red lightning bolt, and the gasps of surprise from the stands followed.

At this point, seven Real Madrid players had tracked back into the penalty area, while Morientes was making a high-speed run down the middle.
Roy dribbled towards the penalty area, where he was immediately surrounded by Carlos, Helguera, and Mejia.

Just as he was about to crash into the wall of people, he suddenly stopped!

Three Real Madrid defenders lost their footing and stumbled together like dominoes.

In a flash, Roy deftly pushed with the instep of his right foot.

The ball passed by Carlos's feet and found Morientes making a precise run.

Morientes made no adjustments and fired a low shot directly into the bottom right corner of the goal.

Casillas dove to the ground and blocked the ball with his knee, then scrambled to catch it in his arms.

A gasp rippled through the Bernabéu stands.

Casillas got up and hurriedly kicked the ball out, but it flew directly out of bounds.

On the sidelines, Queiroz kept stroking his chin; his suit jacket had already been taken off and thrown on the bench.

This marks the third time Roy has breached Real Madrid's defense, with Monaco players charging repeatedly like tireless hunting dogs.

The Spanish commentator's voice was filled with shock: "Only ten minutes! Monaco's counterattack is like a raging storm, Roy is dancing the tango at the Bernabéu! These young Frenchmen are clearly running more than Real Madrid players, and every counterattack is as precise as a scalpel."

In the VIP box, former chairman Sanz's face was gloomy: "Look at these young people, what a stupid decision we made to let Roy go back then."

His assistant echoed in a low voice: "The defense is practically non-existent now."

Not far away, Florentino whispered to Di Stefano: "You're right, this kid has Real Madrid blood."

Stefano nodded: "The way he shone at the Bernabéu reminded me of Gento when he was young."

Florentino fumbled for the ring: "This summer, we'll have him wear a white jersey."

The competition has entered a heated phase.

In the 14th minute, Pedroti suddenly intercepted Guti's cross, and the French defensive midfielder made a clean and decisive tackle.

He delivered a through ball with his left foot that pierced the defense, and Giuly shot like an arrow to the byline before crossing with his right foot in a perfect arc.

Morientes outjumped Mejia to head the ball, but Casillas tipped it over the crossbar with one hand!
The Spanish commentator exclaimed, "That save was worth a fortune!"

Just four minutes later, Real Madrid made frequent mistakes in their own half.

Casillas was forced to launch a long ball, and Ronaldo, despite being surrounded by two players, still managed to head it to the landing point. Raul volleyed the ball before it even hit the ground.

The ball whistled over the crossbar.

When Roy received the pass from his teammate near the center line, he leaned forward slightly, like a cheetah poised to pounce.

He first gently pushed the ball with the inside of his right foot, pretending to move towards the center, then suddenly changed direction with a quick step.

Salgado, who was defending him, was tricked and staggered a step in the opposite direction.

In that split second, Roy had already accelerated.

His black hair fluttered in the night wind, and his sneakers ripped through the grass.

Helguera hurriedly covered, but Roy used the outside of his left foot to flick the ball to the right, and his whole body shot through the gap between the two defenders like a bullet!

"Roy! Roy has broken through!"

The French commentator almost jumped out of his seat, exclaiming, "Look at this sprint! Salgado has been completely left behind!"

Guti came flying in from the side and behind, tearing Roy's sock with his studs, but he still managed to maintain his balance despite staggering.

The referee blew his whistle, and a yellow card was issued!
Deschamps on the sidelines pumped his fist excitedly, while Queiroz tugged at his tie, his face ashen.

The broadcast cameras captured a close-up of Roy panting as he adjusted his socks, the sweat on his forehead glistening under the Bernabéu lights.

"Lightning! Pure lightning!"

The French commentator shouted hoarsely, "Roy's sprint tore through the Bernabéu night sky! 2.3 seconds and 20 meters! And that's not even his limit! Real Madrid's defense was like a slow-motion replay in front of him! Look at that flowing black hair, look at that determined gaze, this young Monaco player is writing the wildest football poem with his feet!"

Guti, facing a yellow card, scratched his signature blond hair in frustration, muttering under his breath.

The players from both sides quickly surrounded each other, and the tension escalated as they shoved each other.

Roy walked past Guti, casually tossing out a remark:
“If Claude (Makelele) hadn’t left, you wouldn’t have had a chance to play at all.”

Guti instantly exploded, his face flushed red, and he rushed forward to attack, but Beckham quickly grabbed him.

The Englishman tried to stand up for his teammate, coldly telling Roy, "You'd better watch your mouth."

Roy chuckled, his eyes filled with disdain:

"What did you get after leaving Manchester United? Number seven or right winger, which one truly belongs to you? Why don't you go back to Victoria's arms and have a good cry—oh, and by the way, don't dream about me, dream about 'Waaah, Ferguson scolded me again!'"

Beckham's expression changed drastically, and he clenched his fists, but the referee and his teammates had already rushed over to separate the two sides.

The Monaco players were trying to suppress their laughter, while the Real Madrid players were furious.

Roy's sharp tongue completely ignited the hatred in this duel!
Zidane strode forward, put his arm around Roy's shoulder, and said in a low voice, "That's enough, stop talking."

Roy glanced at him and said casually, "Fine, I'll give you face, Zidane."

Before long, the cheers at the Bernabéu suddenly rose.

Monaco center-back Squillaci brought down Raul with a flying tackle during a challenge, and the referee immediately showed him a yellow card!
The Spanish television commentator exclaimed, "The powder keg has completely exploded! Squillaci has paid the price for Roy's provocation!"

In the 22nd minute, Figo made a series of changes of pace on the right wing and suddenly broke through Evra. Just as he was about to cross the ball, Squillaci leaped up like a tiger and headed the ball out of the penalty area with a powerful header.

A collective sigh of regret erupted from the Bernabéu stands.

Monaco's counterattack was swift and fierce.

Rothen received the ball in midfield and, almost without making any adjustments, delivered a surgical through ball that precisely pierced Real Madrid's defense. Roy, like a ghost, suddenly accelerated, getting ahead of everyone in the penalty area, and fired a low right-footed shot into the far corner.

Helguera made a diving sliding tackle, deflecting the ball out of play with his toe at the last second! The entire Bernabéu gasped.

The broadcast camera panned across the VIP box, where Bosque was frowning, his fingers tapping incessantly on the armrest of his seat.

Meanwhile, in front of televisions around the world, Ferguson put down his teacup, Mourinho quickly jotted something down in his notebook, and Ancelotti stroked his chin thoughtfully.

These tactical masters all noticed a striking fact: despite Real Madrid's 62% possession, Monaco's 4-3-3 formation displayed amazing dynamism and flexibility.

The midfield triangle of Rothen, Bernardi, and Pedretti was like a sophisticated meat grinder, cutting Real Madrid's passing lanes to pieces with their tireless running and precise positioning.

What's even more frightening is that Roy and Giuly frequently drop back to receive passes, making this midfield system more flexible and versatile.

Guti and Beckham made frequent mistakes under pressure, forcing even Zidane to drop back to the backfield to receive the ball.

Figo was isolated on the wing, and Raul received almost no decent support in the attacking third.

Deschamps stood ramrod straight, hands in his trench coat pockets, his gaze fixed intently on the field.

A faint smile played on his lips, but his taut jawline betrayed his inner tension.

Whenever Monaco executed a beautiful play, he would nod almost imperceptibly.

In contrast, Queiroz paced back and forth on the sidelines, constantly adjusting his already disheveled tie.

He glanced at the scoreboard every now and then, then turned to the bench and said something, fine beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Deschamps' calm demeanor makes him look more like the manager of a top club like Real Madrid.

The young coach's tactical arrangements were nothing short of perfect.

He is using the energy and discipline of a group of young players to make Real Madrid's superstars look ridiculous.

Vicente del Bosque kept shaking his head on the sidelines. He knew better than anyone that this Monaco team was displaying the most terrifying weapon of modern football: a perfect combination of strict tactical discipline and youth.

In the 25th minute, Zidane dropped back to the center circle to receive the ball. He skillfully dribbled past Pedroti and then delivered a precise 40-meter long pass to Carlos on the left wing.

The Brazilian made a high-speed run and crossed the ball, but Raul was a little slow to get going, and Roma caught the ball securely.

Monaco's offensive is intensifying.

In the 27th minute, Roy cut inside from the left and suddenly passed the ball across. Morientes cleverly backheeled the ball with his back to goal, and Giuly unleashed a powerful shot from the right side of the penalty area.

Casillas makes another incredible save!
Scattered applause broke out at the Bernabéu, prompting the French commentator to exclaim, "This Monaco team, with an average age of 23, is unleashing a youth storm at the Bernabéu!"

Zidane glanced at Roy with sharp eyes, and the midfield maestro's fighting spirit was completely ignited.

He began to frequently drop back to the center circle to receive the ball, first using his signature Marseille turn to easily get rid of Pedretti's entanglement, and then playing a series of exquisite one-two passes with Figo and Raul.

Beckham was also tirelessly running and linking up play, sometimes cutting inside to receive Zidane's passes, and sometimes drifting to the wings to create space for Figo.

Faced with Real Madrid's strong counterattack from midfield, Monaco quickly adjusted their tactics.

Roy and Giuly acted like two battlefield commanders, weaving a tight defensive net in Monaco's midfield and backfield.

They worked together seamlessly, using precise positioning and tactical awareness to dismantle Real Madrid's attacking system.

Roy proactively dropped back into the midfield, forming tight defensive triangles with Rothen, Bernardi, and Pedretti.

His sense of position is exceptional; he always manages to appear in the most crucial areas.

In the 35th minute, Beckham attempted a through ball to Zidane, but Roy astutely anticipated the passing route and swiftly moved forward to block the pass, giving his teammates time to mark Zidane.

Beckham was forced to pass the ball back.

Two minutes later, Figo dribbled inside looking for a passing opportunity, but Roy once again made timely cover, blocking the passing lane with his body and forcing the Portuguese player to pass back.

Juli played an equally important role on the right flank.

He constantly adjusted his position, sometimes pressuring Carlos, sometimes tucking in to help defend, perfectly executing Deschamps' tactical plan.

When Real Madrid attempts to launch an attack down the flanks, Giuly is always there to disrupt them immediately, forcing them to slow down.

His seamless collaboration with Roy completely disrupted Real Madrid's attacking rhythm.

Under their command, Monaco's defense began to consciously shrink the central space.

Squillaci and Abidal maintained a tight formation, while Evra and Maicon tucked in to protect their ribs when necessary.

This three-dimensional defensive system forced Real Madrid to only look for opportunities by passing the ball around on the perimeter, making it difficult for them to execute their signature exquisite passing combinations.

Deschamps, watching from the sidelines, nodded in satisfaction.

On the other side, Queiroz waved his arms anxiously, signaling his players to speed up the passing pace.

In the stands of the Bernabéu, the fans' discussions rose and fell, and everyone felt the subtle changes in the situation on the field.

The young Monaco players are using their tactical discipline and execution to leave Real Madrid's superstars helpless.

A deafening chorus of boos erupted from the Bernabéu stadium as Real Madrid fans attempted to disrupt Monaco's attacking play with their noise.

But Roy and his teammates remained unmoved, calmly launching a counterattack in midfield.

Figo received the ball with difficulty on the right wing, and Pedroti marked him closely. The Portuguese superstar managed to cut the ball and change direction, but Evra, who was waiting for an opportunity, made a clean and decisive sliding tackle to steal the ball!
Monaco's counterattack unfolded like lightning!

Evra quickly passed the ball to Rothen, who then played a pass to Bernardi.

Monaco players tore apart Real Madrid's defense with seven consecutive precise one-touch passes.

Rothen, Giuly, and Pedretti's triangular passing combination flowed smoothly, and the ball eventually came to Roy's feet on the left wing.

"Roy gets the ball! Facing Beckham!" The commentator's voice suddenly rose.

Beckham's blond hair was soaked with sweat and clung to his forehead.

He lowered his center of gravity, his deep blue eyes gleaming with focused attention, but the corners of his mouth twitched involuntarily.

This subtle expression betrayed his inner tension.

moment!

Roy gently nudged the ball with his right foot, then suddenly changed direction with the outside of his foot!

"A beautiful change of direction!" the commentator exclaimed.

Beckham's pupils suddenly contracted, his hastily extended left foot missed its target, and he froze on the spot as if nailed to a wall.

As he staggered and turned to chase after him, his face was filled with disbelief, and his lips moved silently as if to say, "This is impossible."

Roy's face remained calm and focused throughout.

His eyes weren't even on the ball at his feet, but fixed on Morientes' run ahead.

In the instant he shook off Beckham, the corners of his mouth merely turned up slightly, revealing a fleeting, confident smile.

In the stands, Victoria Beckham gripped her Chanel handbag tightly, her nails almost digging into the leather.

Her gaze was fixed on her disheveled husband on the field.

Without hesitation, Roy gently pushed the ball with the inside of his right foot, and it found Morientes in the middle with pinpoint accuracy.

The pass was clean and crisp, just like the unchanging calm expression on his face.

There was neither smugness after toying with Beckham nor fear of the boos from the Bernabéu.

He simply focused on executing the tactics, like a sophisticated offensive machine.

Morientes understood immediately and flicked the ball with his toe before Helguera could pounce.

The ball arced beautifully and flew towards Real Madrid's penalty area!
"Roy is sprinting! My God, he's so fast!"

The commentator almost screamed, "Salgado and Mejia are desperately chasing back!"

Roy shot into the penalty area like an arrow, and despite being sandwiched by two defenders, he got half a body length ahead!

At the critical moment, Roy leaped into the air, and just before falling to the ground, he straightened his right leg and used all his strength to strike the ball!
Casillas's view was completely blocked by the chaotic defense.

By the time he finally saw the ball's trajectory, it was already hurtling towards him.

The Real Madrid goalkeeper instinctively dived to the side, his glove barely glancing at the ball, but he couldn't stop the powerful shot!
"boom!"

The ball slammed against the underside of the crossbar and then bounced wildly into the net!
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!"

The commentator went absolutely wild, "Roy! Roy! Unbelievable goal! He unleashed a powerful shot while sprinting at full speed! Casillas had no chance! Monaco are in the lead at the Bernabéu!"

The ball slammed into the net like a cannonball, and the entire Bernabéu fell silent instantly.

Deschamps jumped up excitedly on the sidelines, his mind blank, and he could only instinctively wave his fists.

Roy got up from the ground and sprinted toward the corner flag, his jersey fluttering in the night wind, followed by a group of ecstatic Monaco teammates.

"Look at this goal! Look at this young man!"

The commentator was still excitedly shouting, "From the interception to the goal, Monaco dealt Real Madrid a blow with a textbook counter-attack! Roy, this 19-year-old, put on a perfect individual show at the Bernabéu!"

Roy dashed toward the corner flag like lightning, then abruptly stopped in front of 80,000 onlookers.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, making his signature "Gates of Hell" salute, his arrogant gaze sweeping over every inch of the Bernabéu stands.

This provocative celebration plunged the entire stadium into a deathly silence.

The broadcast cameras cruelly captured the diverse reactions of this moment: Zidane and Ronaldo walked side by side across the midfield, exchanging glances with barely moving lips; Raul stood in the center circle, his fingers unconsciously stroking the captain's armband; Casillas silently tilted his head back and chugged water, his Adam's apple bobbing violently, as if trying to swallow his frustration.

In the VIP section, Florentino slowly removed his gold-rimmed glasses and gently wiped the lenses with a silk handkerchief.

He maintained a polite smile, but behind his glasses, his hawk-like eyes gleamed with a dangerous light.

The fans in the stands who were holding signs that read "Go home, Roy" stood frozen in place, their banners slowly drooping.

This young man, once considered "one of their own," declared in the most straightforward way: this is not a football temple, but a battlefield he wants to conquer.

Roy turned and hugged Morientes tightly, shouting in his ear, "Moro! Keep scoring! Let these people see that letting you go was their biggest mistake!"

Monaco's teammates cheered and rushed over, surrounding the two.

Rothen laughed and ruffled Morientes's hair, then shouted in Spanish, "Let them regret it!"

Morientes looked up at the audience, where his wife was sobbing uncontrollably, wiping away tears with a handkerchief.

At this point, the Bernabéu Stadium DJ reluctantly announced over the loudspeaker: "Gol del Mónaco número 10 Roy minuto 38. Asistencia, número 18 Fernando Morientes."

(Monaco goal scorer: No. 10, Roy, 38th minute. Assisted by No. 18, Fernando Morientes.)
As soon as the announcement ended, an even louder chorus of boos erupted from the stands.

The broadcast cameras quickly captured Morientes' complex expression.

He was stunned for a moment, then a bitter smile appeared on his lips.

This striker, who once scored countless goals for Real Madrid, is now being read out on the Bernabéu scoreboard as the assist provider for the opposing team.

In the VIP box, Florentino adjusted his tie expressionlessly, but his staff instinctively took a half-step back.

The score of "0-1" on the electronic scoreboard stood out starkly against the night sky of the Bernabéu, while the familiar name "Morientes 18" became the most heartbreaking footnote at that moment.

From the 38th minute to the first half stoppage time, the game completely erupted!

When Roy received the ball on the left wing, Salgado immediately closed in, and Guti also sandwiched him from the side.

Roy poked the ball with his right foot, sending it rolling half a meter. Suddenly, his thigh muscles tensed, and he slammed his right leg into the ground, kicking up several pieces of turf from the cleats.

"Shh!"

He darted out in one step.

Salgado stretched out his leg to intercept, but collided with Roy's solid left leg.

The leg remained motionless like a tree trunk, which instead sent Salgado staggering.

Guti's hand had barely touched Roy's clothes when she was pulled forward.

Roy had already sprinted two meters away, and the hem of his jersey slipped through Guti's fingers.

The spectators on the sidelines could clearly see that when he sprinted, the muscles under his shorts were sharply defined, stretching and contracting rapidly like engine pistons.

"Whizzing--"

His dribbling pace is frighteningly fast; once the ball is pushed away, he can catch up again in the blink of an eye.

Salgado tried desperately to catch up, but found that the distance between them was getting further and further apart.

Roy's sprint was like a whirlwind.

After breaking into the penalty area, Roy didn't even look up, and directly used the instep of his foot to push a low cross across the ground.

Giuly quickly moved forward and flicked the ball with the outside of his foot along its path.

The pass had a strange spin, perfectly bypassing Helguera's outstretched leg.

Morientes met the ball at the edge of the penalty area and shot!

"boom!"

The ball slammed against the edge of the penalty area, then bounced up like a skipping stone. Casillas managed to get a hand to it.
But the rebound was too strong, and the ball still flew into the net! 2-0!

The Bernabéu stands were deathly silent.

The banker in the custom-tailored suit loosened his tie, the businessman with the gold watch stared blankly with his mouth agape, and even the most fervent football fan forgot to wave his scarf.

The broadcast camera slowly panned across the audience: a middle-aged man in the front row held his head in his hands, while a little boy next to him covered his mouth.

The commentator's voice trembled noticeably: "This is unbelievable! This small team from the Principality of Monaco is actually leading Real Madrid by two goals at the Bernabéu, the holy temple of football!"

You could even hear his rapid breathing coming through the microphone. "Real Madrid fans must be doubting their eyes right now!"

Morientes stood still, his fists clenched so tightly they turned white.

Roy rushed over and hugged him tightly, yelling in his ear, "See that, Morrow! They're kicking themselves now!"

The Monaco bench erupted in chaos.

Deschamps first took a deep breath, put his hands in his pockets to try to remain calm, and then completely exploded the next second.

He ripped off his tie and roared at the crowd with all his might.

The fourth official on the sidelines frantically tried to stop Monaco's coaching staff, but couldn't stop the group of people celebrating wildly.

Deschamps' tie was askew, and one of the buttons on his suit jacket had popped open, but he didn't care about any of that.

This underdog team is creating miracles at the Bernabéu!
In the stands, Trezeguet and Thuram stared in disbelief at the field.

Trezeguet rubbed his eyes: "My God, Monaco actually thrashed Real Madrid at the Bernabéu?"

Thuram shook his head with a wry smile: "We didn't even feel this good when we beat Real Madrid last year."

"It's all because Claude isn't here."

Some people's true value is only revealed after they leave.

Guti and Beckham were exhausted on the field, and their efforts deserve respect, but their defensive contributions were not even as good as goalkeeper Casillas.

In some positions, hard work alone can never bridge the gap in talent.

Makelele was like that invisible string; once he left, the whole harp went out of tune.

The whole of France was in an uproar.

At Paris Saint-Germain's training ground, players gathered around a television in the locker room, and someone whistled.

In Lyon's fan bar, fans who had originally supported their arch-rivals were now raising their glasses: "To French football!"

On the streets of Marseille, taxi drivers turned their radios up to the maximum volume, attracting the attention of passersby.

The editorial office of L'Équipe was in chaos, with the editor-in-chief slamming his fist on the table and shouting, "Get to work on a new article!"

At a seaside restaurant in Nice, the waiter forgot to take the order and stared at the hanging television with the other guests.

In every corner of Monaco, from the waiters wiping crystal glasses in the Monte Carlo Casino to the gardeners trimming shrubs outside the Stade Louis II, and the shop assistants tidying up the windows of luxury stores.

The palace guards listened to the distant radio, standing ramrod straight, but their faces were full of smiles.

This paradise for the wealthy, usually filled with yachts and supercars, now has everyone's hearts set on the green pitch of the Bernabéu.

A luxury hotel lobby manager secretly uses a walkie-talkie to inquire about the score, while private bank financial advisors turn on sports channels for their clients in VIP rooms.
In front of the large screen there, doormen in their uniforms and baristas in their aprons stood side by side, looking up at Madrid, thousands of miles away.

In the media section of the Bernabéu, journalists' pens flew across their notebooks.

A senior reporter from AS quickly typed out the words "Florentino's Waterloo".

The editor of Marca next to him was on the phone in a low voice: "Yes, emphasize that letting Morientes go was the second fatal mistake."

In the corridor of the VIP box, former chairman Sanz "happened" to pass by the television station's interview area.

He straightened his tie, which bore the Real Madrid crest, and sighed at the camera: "Some decisions, in the end, come at a price."

The words were dripping with venom.

Calderon pushed open the box door and stood in front of Florentino: "Perez, the two players who scored the goals on the other side—Roy is a youth academy player we gave up, and Morientes is a striker we loaned out."

He sneered, "How ironic."

Stefano, Butragueño, Valdano, Mijatović, and others remained silent.

Florentino didn't even look up: "The game isn't over yet."

His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of the seat.

Calderon stood at the door of the private box and sneered: "Make amends? Only now you think about making amends? Morientes was loaned out, and Roy was let go for only 300,000! And now? Roy's value is about to skyrocket to 50 million!"

He pointed sharply to the scoreboard on the sidelines: "If we get eliminated tonight, we'll lose tens of millions in Champions League prize money alone. Not to mention..."

"How much is Real Madrid's reputation worth? I've already thought of tomorrow's headline for Marca: 'The Galacticos are sunk by the players they abandoned!'"

Just as the VIP box door closed, cheers from Real Madrid fans erupted in the stadium.

Real Madrid's counterattack came faster than anyone expected.

In the second minute of stoppage time, Figo received the ball on the right wing, his eyes blazing with fury.

Just as Pedretti was about to pounce, Figo easily beat him with a croquet ball.

As Evra lunged forward, the Portuguese player suddenly stopped, his boots ripped through the turf, and then unleashed a powerful shot!
The ball flew like a cannonball, grazing the underside of the crossbar and into the goal! 2-1!

Real Madrid fans finally regained their voices, and the Bernabéu instantly shook.

Figo didn't celebrate. He rushed into the net, picked up the ball, and ran towards the center circle, shouting something to his teammates as he ran.

Zidane and Raul huddled together, the Frenchman gesturing and Raul nodding repeatedly.

On the sidelines, Queiroz finally stood up from his seat; the back of his suit was completely soaked.

The atmosphere in the private room immediately relaxed.

"see it?"

Florentino leaned forward slightly. "Real Madrid is never short of counter-attacking power."

Calderon retorted, "Can one goal really make up for a decision-making error? Roy is still on the field; he could score another one at any moment."

"Look at that kid, he runs like he's powered by a motor. Just now, Salgado and Helguera couldn't stop him even when they were double-teaming him."

Roy once again charged forward with the ball, and Real Madrid's defenders retreated as if facing a formidable enemy.

Calderon sneered: "A player who was released for 300,000 is now worth more than half of Zidane."

On the sidelines, Queiroz wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Florentino watched this scene unfold: "In the summer transfer window, we will re-sign the players we should."

"Who should we sign? Roy already has a €4000 million release clause in Monaco!"

Calderon raised his voice.

As the halftime whistle blew, Florentino finally turned around and said, "Then let's spend 4000 million. Real Madrid never cares about the cost, as long as it's worth it."

The Real Madrid players walked around in twos and threes. Beckham kept tidying his wet blond hair with his hands, while Zidane's face was so gloomy it looked like it could drip water.

Raul glanced in Morientes' direction several times, his lips moved slightly, but he ultimately said nothing.

The Monaco players walked arm in arm toward the tunnel, their faces flushed with excitement.

Their footsteps were particularly clear in the players' tunnel, while the boos from the Bernabéu still echoed behind them.

The air conditioning in the Bernabéu box was blasting, but Miliacho's forehead was beaded with sweat.

The European marketing director of Coca-Cola had just finished their third glass of champagne together, and Roy's endorsement contract was basically finalized.

This kid's performance tonight made the negotiations go exceptionally smoothly.

"We can finalize the contract details tomorrow."

The director patted Migliorgio on the shoulder excitedly, "But there's a small problem."

He pointed to Roy, who was warming up, and asked, "Will he stay at Monaco next season?"

Miliacho's smile froze on his face.

Two cell phones lay in his briefcase: one with Mendes' missed calls, and the other with a half-finished text message in the drafts folder.

Regarding Zidane's post-match statement, it is recommended to emphasize...

When the waiter came over to refill the champagne, he noticed that the top agent was repeatedly wiping his glasses with a tissue.

On the left-hand page of Miriam's notebook, Roy's endorsement terms were meticulously listed:

Key points of Coca-Cola's negotiations.

Duration: 3 years (extendable to 5 years)
Total price: 500 million euros (minimum 300 million euros)
Additional terms requested by the other party:
It must include promotion in the Asian market (emphasis: China and Japan).
Restrictions on the use of portrait rights (avoid being photographed with alcohol or gambling brands)
Annual image assessment (to prevent negative news from affecting endorsements)

On the right, however, Zidane's crisis plan was written in a hasty handwriting.

Key points of the statement:

Team responsibility: "This loss is the shared responsibility of the whole team; we need to conduct a comprehensive review."

Injury report: "Zidane has been battling a groin injury, which has affected his performance."

National team-related topics are off-limits: "At this stage, we are only focusing on club competitions; the topic of the French national team is left for the Football Association to discuss."

(End of this chapter)